Quotes about Newspapers

I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal simply because he will endure: that when the last ding-dong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking. I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet's, the writer's, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail. WILLIAM FAULKNER, address upon receiving the Nobel Prize for literature, Stockholm, Sweden, December 10, 1950. - Faulkner, Essays, Speeches & Public Letters, p. 120 (1951). This text is from Faulkner's original typescript; it was slightly revised from that which he delivered in Stockholm, and which was published in American newspapers at the time (p. 121).

A small town newspaper reported that a newcomer, who had moved there to escape the traffic and congestion of the city, was run over by the Welcome Wagon.

As Easter time approaches, let me share with you the tender story of an eleven-year-old boy named Philip, a Down's syndrome child who was in a Sunday School class with eight other children. Easter Sunday the teacher brought an empty plastic egg for each child. They were instructed to go out of the church building onto the grounds and put into the egg something that would remind them of the meaning of Easter. All returned joyfully. As each egg was opened there were exclamations of delight at a butterfly, a twig, a flower, a blade of grass. Then the last egg was opened. It was Philip's, and it was empty! Some of the children made fun of Philip. "But, teacher," he said, "teacher, the tomb was empty." A newspaper article announcing Philip's death a few months later noted that at the conclusion of the funeral eight children marched forward and put a large empty egg on the small casket. On it was a banner that said, "The tomb was empty."

In order to carry any amount of weight, it seems that a quotation must be from an author of national or universal importance. Nevertheless, one often finds, hidden away in an obscure paragraph in a newspaper or magazine a gem of wisdom that deserves much greater prominence.

A newspaper subscriber commented: Since reading that report, I've made a conscious effort to recall my blessings nearly every hour. Instead of dreading the drudgery of cleaning house, I express gratitude for my home. I've found so many things to be grateful for, little things like running water and electricity. A few weeks ago, I complained because my knees ached; now I say how grateful I am that I can walk. I think it's important to express our gratitude out loud. The positive focus on gratitude has pushed out of my mind the negative thoughts that were dragging me down.

Never believe in mirrors or newspapers.

The man who reads nothing at all is better educated than the man who reads nothing but newspapers.

Advertisements contain the only truths to be relied on in the newspaper.

The test of an author is not to be found merely in the number of his phrases that pass current in the corner of newspapers . . . but in the number of passages that have really taken root in younger minds.

Except by name, Jean Paul Friedrich Richter is little known out of Germany. The only thing connected with him, we think, that has reached this country is his saying,-imported by Madame de Staël, and thankfully pocketed by most newspaper critics,-"Providence has given to the French the empire of the land; to the English that of the sea; to the Germans that of-the air!" Richter: German humorist & prose writer.

In a 91-part series of sob stories from the laid off and the disgruntled, The NY Times is in the midst of bemoaning 'the downsizing of America' - better known as 'the whining of America.' The cause of all the heartache, in the esteemed newspaper of record's view, appears to be heartless corporate chieftains - as well as capitalism itself. Americans are moving forward, despite shackles. The shackles I am referring to are not NAFTA, not corporations. They are, instead, the barriers imposed by our own government.

You should always believe what you read in the newspapers, for that makes them more interesting.

The newspapers! Sir, they are the most villanous, licentious, abominable, infernal - Not that I ever read them! No, I make it a rule never to look into a newspaper.

Life after Fifty Everything hurts and what doesn't hurt doesn't work. The gleam in your eyes is from the sun hitting your bifocals. You feel like the night before and you haven't been anywhere. You get winded playing chess. Your children begin to look middle aged. You begin to outlive enthusiasm. Your mind makes contracts your body can't meet. You know all the answers, but nobody asks you the questions. You look forward to a dull evening. Your favorite part of the newspaper is 25 Years Ago Today. You sit in a rocking chair and can't get it going. Your knees buckle and your belt won't. You reget all those mistakes resisting temptation. Dialing long distance wears you out. Your back goes out more than you do. A fortune teller offers to read your face. You burn the midnight oil after 9:00 pm. You sink your teeth into a steak and they stay there. You get your exercise acting as a pallbearer for your friends who exercise. You have too much room in the house & not enough room in the medicine cabinet. The best part of my day is over when the alarm goes off.

We live in an age in which the imagination of the novelist is helpless against what he knows he is going to read in tomorrow's newspaper.

Once a newspaper touches a story, the facts are lost forever, even to the protagonists.

The whole problem with news on television comes down to this: all the words uttered in an hour of news coverage could be printed on a page of a newspaper. And the world cannot be understood in one page.

A powerful agent is the right word. Whenever we come upon one of those intensely right words in a book or newspaper the resulting effect is physical as well as spiritual, and electrically prompt.

Isn't it incredible that the news from all over the world always fit exactly into the newspaper?

Newspapers should have no friends.

The newspapers are full of what we would like to happen to us and what we hope will never happen to us.

"I think we'll have a good potato crop this year," a newspaper editor told his housekeeper one morning. "No such thing," asserted the housekeeper. "I think the crop will be poor." Ignoring her remark, the editor caused to be inserted in the evening paper his estimate of the crop situation. That night when he returned home he found the housekeeper waiting for him with a sheepish grin on her face and a copy of the paper in her hand. "I was wrong," she said apologetically. "It says right here in the paper that the crop will be excellent this fall."

Buck did not read the newspapers, or he would have known that trouble was brewing, not alone for himself, but for every tide-water dog, strong of muscle and with warm, long hair, from Puget Sound to San Diego.

A newspaper consists of just the same number of words, whether there be any news in it or not.

If words were invented to conceal thought, newspapers are a great improvement of a bad invention

Had Grant been a Congressman one would have been on one's guard, for one knew the type. One never expected from a Congressman more than good intentions and public spirit. Newspaper-men as a rule had no great respect for the lower House; Senators had less; and Cabinet officers had none at all. Indeed, one day when Adams was pleading with a Cabinet officer for patience and tact in dealing with Representatives, the Secretary impatiently broke out: "You can't use tact with a Congressman! A Congressman is a hog! You must take a stick and hit him on the snout!" The secretary who made the remark "may well have been Adams's friend, Secretary of the Interior Jacob Dolson Cox," according to note 18 on p. 617.

Before marriage, a man will lay down his life for you; after marriage he won't even lay down his newspaper.

Half of the American people never read a newspaper. Half never voted for President. One hopes it is the same half.

Speaking of the motto of the New York Times, "All the news that's fit to print:" It is hard to think of any group of seven words that have aroused more newspaper controversy.

Tho' lost to sight, to mem'ry dear Thou ever wilt remain; One only hope my heart can cheer,- The hope to meet again. Oh fondly on the past I dwell, And oft recall those hours When, wand'ring down the shady dell, We gathered the wild-flowers. Yes, life then seem'd one pure delight, Tho' now each spot looks drear; Yet tho' thy smile be lost to sight, To mem'ry thou art dear. Oft in the tranquil hour of night, When stars illume the sky, I gaze upon each orb of light, And wish that thou wert by. I think upon that happy time, That time so fondly lov'd, When last we heard the sweet bells chime, As thro' the fields we rov'd. Yes, life then seem'd one pure delight, Tho' now each spot looks drear; Yet tho' thy smile be lost to sight, To mem'ry thou art dear. This song-written and composed by Linley for Mr. Augustus Braham, and sung by him-is given entirely, as so much inquiry has been made for the source of "Though lost to Sight, to Memory dear." It is not known when the song was written,-probably about 1830. Another song, entitled "Though lost to Sight, to Memory dear," was published in London in 1880, purporting to have been "written by Ruthven Jenkyns in 1703." It is said to have been published in the "Magazine for Mariners." No such magazine, however, ever existed, and the composer of the music acknowledged, in a private letter, to have copied the song from an American newspaper. There is no other authority for the origin of this song, and the reputed author, Ruthven Jenkyns, was living, under the name of C--, in California in 1882.