I have found among my papers a sheet. . . in which I call architecture frozen music.
I animated everything traditionally, on paper. I love how the texture of paper looks (it also matches textures of papier-mâché) and I love the tactile process.
When I was in the gulag I would sometimes even write on stone walls. I used to write on scraps of paper, then I memorised the contents and destroyed the scraps.
If the first lady is concerned about this Internet cycle, what would she have done during the heyday when there was 12, 13 editions of a paper in one day? What would she have done with that news cycle?
Most papers in computer science describe how their author learned what someone else already knew.
One Ad is worth more to a paper than forty Editorials.
The longer I live and the more I read, the more certain I become that the real poems about spring aren't written on paper. They are written in the back pasture and the near meadow, and they are issued in a new revised edition every April.
Sometimes things are nothing on paper, but a genius director turns it into something amazing.
I have a paper cut from writing my suicide note. It's a start.
I buy about $1,500 worth of papers every month. Not that I trust them. I'm looking for the crack in the fabric.
I still like paper books. Like, book is a flammable object. After you read it, you could use it to get warm. Or it could become a pile of napkins.
Every morning between 9 and 12 I go to my room and sit before a piece of paper. Many times, I just sit for three hours with no ideas coming to me. But I know one thing. If an idea does come between 9 and 12 I am there ready for it.
Right up to the middle of this century all perceptions of the world around us were delivered via the bookshelf or the paper route.
I don't know how much money I've got. I did ask the accountant how much it came to. I wrote it down on a bit of paper. But I've lost the bit of paper.
The trifling economy of paper, as a cheaper medium, or its convenience for transmission, weighs nothing in opposition to the advantages of the precious metals it is liable to be abused, has been, is, and forever will be abused, in every country in which it is permitted.
My job is to bring to life the character, not to put the words on the paper.
There is a door. It opens. Then it is closed. But a slip of light stays, like a scrap of unreadable paper left on the floor, or the one red leaf the snow releases in March
For years I have read the morning paper and harrumphed. There's a lot to harrumph about now.
Every time I read the paper those old feelings come on. We are waist deep in the Big Muddy and the big fool says to push on.
Have I got a mother-in-law. She's so neat she puts paper under the cuckoo clock.