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.
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.
The philosopher strives to find the liberating word, and that is the word that finally permits us to grasp what until then had constantly and intangibly weighed on our consciousness.[Der Philosoph trachtet, das erlösende Wort zu finden, das ist das Wort, das uns endlich erlaubt, das zu fassen, was bis jetzt immer, ungreifbar, unser Bewusstsein belastet hat.]
The earliest English attempts at rhyming probably included words whose agreement is so slight that it deserves the name of mere “assonance” rather than that of actual rhyme.