Dreams are the eraser dust I blow off my page. They fade into the emptiness, another dark gray day. Dreams are only memories of the plans I had back then. Dreams are eraser dust and now I use a pen.
The pen is mightier than the sword if the sword is very short, and the pen is very sharp.
The pen is a formidable weapon, but a man can kill himself with it a great deal more easily than he can other people.
Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite: “Fool,” said my Muse to me, “look in thy heart, and write!”
In composing, as a general rule, run your pen through every other word you have written; you have no idea what vigor it will give your style.
Pens are most dangerous tools, more sharp by odds – Than swords, and cut more keen than whips or rods.
There’s no wound deeper than a pen can give, It makes men living dead, and dead men live.
None of us can have as many virtues as the fountain-pen, or half its cussedness; but we can try.
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall; For of all sad words of tongue or pen, For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: “It might have been!”
The pen is mightier than the sword, but a well-aimed typewriter packs good punch too.