Not a word passes between us, not because we have nothing to say, but because we don’t have to say anything.
Words create sentences; sentences create paragraphs; sometimes paragraphs quicken and begin to breathe.
Words can be like X-rays, if you use them properly-they’ll go through anything. You read and you’re pierced.
Words are vocal symbols for ideas; ideas, however, are more or less definite mental symbols for frequently returning and concurring sensations, for groups of sensations. It is not sufficient to use the same words in order to understand one another: we must also employ the same words for the same kind of internal experiences, we must in the end have experiences in common.
We can best help you to prevent war not by repeating your words and following your methods but by finding new words and creating new methods.
Until then I had thought each book spoke of the things, human or divine, that lie outside books. Now I realized that not infrequently books speak of books: it is as if they spoke among themselves. In the light of this reflection, the library seemed all the more disturbing to me. It was then the place of a long, centuries-old murmuring, an imperceptible dialogue between one parchment and another, a living thing, a receptacle of powers not to be ruled by a human mind, a treasure of secrets emanated by many minds, surviving the death of those who had produced them or had been their conveyors.