Words, English words, are full of echoes, of memories, of associations—naturally. They have been out and about, on people’s lips, in their houses, in the streets, in the fields, for so many centuries. And that is one of the chief difficulties in writing them today—that they are so stored with meanings, with memories, that they have contracted so many famous marriages.
Words are only symbols for the relations of things among themselves and to us, and nowhere touch absolute truth.
Words are and remain an empty sound, and the road to perdition has ever been accompanied by lip service to an ideal.
Without words, without writing and without books there would be no history, there could be no concept of humanity.
Theirs, too, is the word-coining genius, as if thought plunged into a sea of words and came up dripping.
The words or the language, as they are written or spoken, do not seem to play any role in my mechanism of thought.