For it would seem - her case proved it - that we write, not with the fingers, but with the whole person. The nerve which controls the pen winds itself about every fibre of our being, threads the heart, pierces the liver.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

The pen is the tongue of the mind.

To hold a pen is to be at war.

Put your middle finger and your thumb together. And make it snappy.

We are all pencils in the hand of God.

The fingers of the attacker feel what will soon belong to his whole body.

The mind writes with a pen, the heart, with a pencil.

reminding himself to remember forever that the pen’s a long arm from the grave.

One evening I was walking along Hollywood Boulevard, nothing much to do. I stopped and looked in the window of a stationary shop. A mechanized pen was suspended in space in such a way that, as a mechanized roll of paper passed by it, the pen went through the motions of the same penmanship exercises I had learned as a child in the third grade. Centrally placed in the window was an advertisement explaining the mechanical reasons for the perfection of the operation of the suspended mechanical pen. I was fascinated, for everything was going wrong. Then pen was tearing the paper to shreds and splattering in all over the window and on the advertisement, which, nevertheless, remained legible.

What did my fingers do before they held him?

You belong to me and all Paris belongs to me and I belong to this notebook and this pencil.

"One page a day, seven a week, thirty or thirty-one to the month. Fishing in his pocket for a tip, he came up with his pen, a thick black fountain pen. Fountain: it seemed less flowing, less forthcoming than that, in shape more like a bullet or a bomb. ("Novelty")"

She nibbles her pencil... She's human!