The world has the habit of making room for the man whose words and actions show that he knows where he is going.
The words or the language, as they are written or spoken, do not seem to play any role in my mechanism of thought.
The words of my book nothing, the drift of it every thing.
The words fell as the axe of a skilful woodman falls at the root of a young tree and brings it down at a single blow.[Ce mot fut comme un coup de hache donné par un habile bûcheron dans le pied d’un jeune arbre qui tombe aussitôt.]
The words are everywhere, inside me, outside me.[Les mots sont partout, dans moi, hors moi.]
The word was — civilization!
The word of man is the most durable material.[Das Wort des Menschen ist das dauerhafteste Material.]
The word morality, if we met it in the Bible, would surprise us as much as the word telephone or motor car.
The word known to all men.
The word is too weak. There is no word in the language strong enough to describe my feelings.
The word is human currency.
The word is a symbol and a delight which sucks up men and scenes, trees, plants, factories, and Pekinese. Then the Thing becomes the Word and back to Thing again, but warped and woven into a fantastic pattern.
