Who knew paper and ink could be so vicious — Kathryn Stockett, The Help
Who knew paper and ink could be so vicious — Kathryn Stockett, The Help
Who knew paper and ink could be so vicious — Kathryn Stockett, The Help
Who knew paper and ink could be so vicious — Kathryn Stockett, The Help
Who knew paper and ink could be so vicious — Kathryn Stockett, The Help
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Who knew paper and ink could be so vicious

— Kathryn Stockett, The Help
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More “Letters” Quotes

Intelligence reports and local folklore together perpetuated tales of his bloody adventures across the rim worlds and ba — Christina Engela, Dead Beckoning
I'm accustomed to reading Georgian and Victorian letters and sometimes you simply know in your gut that a blithe sentenc — Sara Sheridan
I haven’t written you a poem in years it seems.How can it be my faultwhen the words to describe you have not yet been cr — Kamand Kojouri
Every line, every word was -- in the hackneyed metaphor which their dear writer, were she here, would forbid -- a dagger — Jane Austen, Sense And Sensibility
A poetess is not as selfishas you assume.After months of agonising over her marriage of words—the bride—and spaces—the g — Kamand Kojouri
Take off my clothes and there becomes a man. Take off my skin and there becomes my bones. Break all my bones and there b — Carew Papritz, The Legacy Letters: his Wife, his Children, his Final Gift
I am very pleased you like my stories. They are studies in prose, put for Romance's sake into fanciful form: meant partl — Oscar Wilde
Sometimes you just need the comforts of home, the familiarity of your own family bed and only the pampering a mother can — Emily Williams, Letters to Eloise
If you sent speaking pages, they would be like a brother to me. — Radegund of Poitiers
Remember that we always love and think of you. Always. Mother. — Diane Samuels, Kindertransport: A Drama
Our parents are the coolest parents ever. No other generation went on from writing letters to their own parents to sendi — Sharad Vivek Sagar
[Letter to William Ward, 11 July 1878]Dear Boy, Why don’t you write to me? I don’t know what has become of you.As for me — Oscar Wilde