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.
Words are such feeble things.
Words are only the outer clothing of ideas.
Words are loaded pistols.
Words are like breath, you say them and they’re gone. But writing traps them.
Words are like arrows, Arianne. Once loosed, you cannot call them back.
Words are a pretty fuzzy substitute for mathematical equations.
Why is it that words like these seem to me so dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?
Where shall the word be found, where will the word resound? Not here, there is not enough silence.
When you hurt people, they begin to love you less. That’s what careless words do. They make people love you a little less.
