his

zm. onun, onunki

The writer who can't do his job looks to his editor to do it for him, though he won't dream of sharing his royalties with that editor.
Alfred A. Knopf

The writer's language is to some degree the product of his own action; he is both the historian and the agent of his own language.
Paul de Man

The writing career is not a romantic one. The writer's life may be colorful, but his work itself is rather drab.
Mary Roberts Rinehart

The young man pulled his chair up and pushed his wet feet out towards the blaze.

The young man took from his waistcoat a crumpled envelope, and turning to the table he shook out upon it five little dried orange pips.

The youth gets together his materials to build a bridge to the moon, or, perchance, a palace or temple on the earth, and, at length, the middle-aged man concludes to build a woodshed with them.
Henry David Thoreau

The £4 a week was a lure which must draw him, and what was it to them, who were playing for thousands? They put in the advertisement, one rogue has the temporary office, the other rogue incites the man to apply for it, and together they manage to secure his absence every morning in the week.

Their lives have been largely defined by failure and you would think the prospect of marriage, which is supposed to be bountiful and hopeful, it's just really another kind of tangential thing in his life.
Thomas Haden Church

Thelonious Sphere Monk: there's not a more perfect name to fit his compositions than that name.
Matthew Shipp

Then all of a sudden, Quentin Tarantino comes along and puts a song from 40 years ago in one of his films and they've suddenly discovered you. That was a real gift that Quentin gave me.
Nancy Sinatra

Then creeping up to me and making a trumpet of his hand, he whispered into my ear again so gently that it was all that I could do to distinguish the words:

Then handing the bundle to each of his Sons in turn he told them to try to break it.

Then he asked his way civilly enough, and I told him where the gate of the empty house was.

Then he broke into a low laugh and put his lips to my ear.

Then he broke off and asked if I could love him in time, and when I shook my head his hands trembled, and then with some hesitation he asked me if I cared already for any one else.

Then he fumbled in his bag, and taking out a matchbox and a piece of candle, proceeded to make a light.

Then he gave a quick turn of his head, as of one who listens, and leaping to his feet, he cried out to me, It is not yet too late! Quick! Quick! Bring the brandy!

Then he held the door partly open, steadying it with his knees, whilst he fitted a key to the lock.

Then he lay his head on the handle of the door to open it completely.

Then he lit his pipe, and leaning back in his chair he watched the blue smoke-rings as they chased each other up to the ceiling.

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