A Quote by Kurt Vonnegut

When I write, I feel like an armless, legless man with a crayon in his mouth. — © Kurt Vonnegut
When I write, I feel like an armless, legless man with a crayon in his mouth.
But like the legless man, I'm unaccountably fascinated by those who can dance.
I thought that I had no time for faith nor time to pray, then I saw an armless man saying his Rosary with his feet.
A man's face as a rule says more, and more interesting things, than his mouth, for it is a compendium of everything his mouth will ever say, in that it is the monogram of all this man's thoughts and aspirations.
A critic is a legless man who teaches running.
Desari reached up to trace his lips. ‘You have a perfect mouth, Julian. An amazingly perfect mouth.’ He arched an eyebrow at her. ‘Just my mouth is amazing?’ ‘You are such a man.’ Her eyes laughed at him. ‘You need constant reassurance that you are magnificent.’ He nodded. ‘Magnificent. I like that. I could live with magnificent. Good choice of words, lifemate.
To write tragedy, a man must feel tragedy. To feel tragedy, a man must be aware of the world in which he lives. Not only with his mind, but with his blood and sinews.
An artist spends himself like the crayon in his hand, till he is all gone.
His mouth made him feel like he was gonna win. Not his hands, I had my hand. He had his lips.
When the wise man opens his mouth, the beauties of his soul present themselves to the view, like the statues in a temple.
I think that if anything can be proved by natural theology, it is that slavery is morally wrong. God gave man a mouth to receive bread, hands to feed it, and his hand has a right to carry bread to his mouth without controversy.
About five years old, I was drawing self-portraits with the brown crayon instead of the peach crayon and, you know, the black curly hair. That's how I was portraying myself.
A man with a mouth like a mastiff, a brow like a mountain, and eyes like burning antracite - that was Dan'l Webster in his prime.
I know in London a Welsh hairdresser who has striven so vehemently to abolish his accent that he sounds like a man speaking with the Elgin marbles in his mouth.
He stepped toward her, and her heart just ached from it. His face was so handsome, and so dear, and so perfectly wonderfully familiar. She knew the slope of his cheeks, and the exact shade of his eys, brownish near the iris, melting into green at the edge. And his mouth-she knew that mouth, the look of it, the feel of it. She knew his smile, and she knew his frown, and she knew- she knew far to much.
Yes, you should talk," he said. "Sometimes a sad man can talk the sadness right out through his mouth. Sometimes a killin' man can talk the murder right out of his mouth.
The bass is just the crayon that I picked out of the box. I'd probably be writing similar stuff if I played guitar or trumpet. The pictures I want to draw I do with this crayon I chose, which is the bass.
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