Words weren’t dull, words were things that could make your mind hum. If you read them and let yourself feel the magic, you could live without pain, with hope, no matter what happened to you.
Words rose above the intolerably laden dumb oxen plodding through the mud. Words without meaning—wonderful words.
Words do not express thoughts very well. They always become a little different immediately after they are expressed, a little distorted, a little foolish.
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.
Words are things, and a small drop of ink, falling like dew, upon a thought, produces that which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
Words are tears that have been written down. Tears are words that need to be shed. Without them, joy loses all its brilliance and sadness has no end.
Words are such uncertain things, they so often sound well, but mean the opposite of what one thinks they do.