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Writing my life in pen quote

Writing my life in pen quote community, it is

then things got even stranger.
Mr. Brunner, who’d been out in front of the museum a minute before, wheeled his chair into the doorway of the gallery, holding a pen in his hand.
“What ho, Percy!” he shouted, and tossed the pen through the air.
Mrs. Dodds lunged at me.
With a yelp, I dodged and felt talons slash the air next to my ear. I snatched the ballpoint pen out of the air, but when it hit my hand, it wasn’t a pen anymore. It was a sword-Mr. Brunner’s bronze sword, which he always used on tourement day.
Mrs. Dodds spun toward me with a murderous look in her eyes.
My knees were jelly. My hands were shaking so bad I almost dropped the sword.
She snarled, “Die, honey!”
And she flew straight at me.
Absolute terror ran through my body. I did the only thing that came naturally:I swung the sword.
The metal blade hit her shoulder and passed through her body as if she were made made of water. Hisss!
Mrs. Dodds was a sand castle in a power fan. She exploded into yellow powder, vaporized on the spot, leaving nothing but the smell of sulfur and a dying screech and a chill of evil in the air, as if those two glowing red eyes were still watching me.

Anyone who thinks the pen is mightier than the sword has not been stabbed with both.

I mostly want to remind her of the recipes of healing, and give her my own made-on-the spot remedy for the easing of her pain. I tell her, “Get a pen. Stop crying so you can write this down and start working on it tonight.” My remedy is long. But the last item on the list says: “When you wake up and find yourself living someplace where there is nobody you love and trust, no community, it is time to leave town – to pack up and go (you can even go tonight).

Writing my life in pen quote testing of performing

And where you need to go is any place where there are arms that can hold you, that will not let you go.

And speaking of this wonderful machine:
[840] I’m puzzled by the difference between
Two methods of composing: A. the kind Which goes on solely in the poet’s mind,
A testing of performing words, while he
Is soaping a third time one leg, and B ,
The other kind, much more decorous, when
He’s in his study writing with a pen. In method B the hand supports the thought,
The abstract battle is concretely fought.
The pen stops in mid-air, then swoops to bar
[850] A canceled sunset or restore a star,
And thus it physically guides the phrase
Toward faint daylight through the inky maze.
But method A is agony! The brain
Is soon enclosed in a steel cap of pain.
A muse in overalls directs the drill Which grinds and which no effort of the will
Can interrupt, while the automaton
Is taking off what he has just put on Or walking briskly to the corner store [860] To buy the paper he has read before.


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