Quotes About Communication

Now he felt the despair his father had felt as the familiar world slipped from around him, the valleys gashed and ugly, the woods disappearing. Daddy was right, he thought, the hills were dying, and I was so stupid to believe the hills were eternal, that a father could stay forever young. If only I had talked to him. If only he had let me get close to him.

He winced at her efforts to mollify him. Why didn't she say she was disgusted with his behaviour, with his long absence, his infrequent superficial letters? And if she did say it - would he defend himself? Would he give reasons, try to explain how meaningless every endeavour seemed to him? No. For then she would start crying again, he would tell her to stop being silly, she would ask for details, and he would tell her to mind her own business.

Deeply moved, she poured the tea while they were finishing up. They came into the kitchen to replace the cleaning things, and she handed two cups to Om. Noticing the red rose borders, he started to point out her error, The pink one's for us, then stopped. Her face told him she was aware of it. What? she asked, taking the pink cup for herself, Is something wrong? Nothing, his voice caught . He turned away, hoping she did not see the film of water glaze his eyes.

He wanted his noises to touch the others; friendly noises could melt hostility.

But that was always the case – people hardly ever saw their children as they really were.

Sometimes, I love to fight with you… Because, we end up loving each other more.

Holding on to a relationship is like holding sand in your hand! The more tightly you try to grip it, the more quickly it vanishes and more freely you hold it, the longer it stays! So, Relationship = How you hold it?

Writing is the destruction of every voice, of every point of origin.

I can't get to know you means I shall never know what you really think of me. I cannot decipher you because I do not know how you decipher me.

Language is neither reactionary nor progressive; it is quite simply fascist; for fascism does not prevent speech, it compels speech.

Don't bleach language, savour it instead. Stroke it gently or even groom it, but don't "purify" it.

To try to write love is to confront the muck of language: that region of hysteria where language is both too much and too little, excessive and impoverished.

Freud to his fiancée: The only thing that makes me suffer is being in a situation where it is impossible for me to prove my love to you Gide: Everything in her behaviour seemed to say: Since he no longer loves me, nothing matters to me. Now, I still loved her, and in fact I had never loved her so much; but it was no longer possible for me to prove it to her. That was much the worst thing of all

The other's body was divided: on one side, the body proper--skin, eyes--tender, warm; and on the other side, the voice--abrupt, reserved, subject to fits of remoteness, a voice which did not give what the body gave. Or further: on one side, the soft, warm, downy. adorable body. and on the other, the ringing, well-formed. worldly voice--always the voice.

I have a disease; I see language.

There is nothing in discourse that is not to be found in a sentence.

Man does not exist prior to language, either as a species or as an individual. We never encounter a state where man is separated from language, which he then elaborates in order to 'express' what is happening to him: it is language which teaches the definition of man, not the contrary.

Je t'aime est sans nuances. Il supprime les explications, les aménagements, les degrés, les scrupules.

Le langage est une peau: je frotte mon langage contre l'autre.

The (i)studium(i) is ultimately always coded, the (i)punctum is not)...

Is the scene always visual? It can be aural, the frame can be linguistic: I can fall in love with a sentence spoken to me: and not only because it says something which manages to touch my desire, but because of its syntactical turn (framing), which will inhabit me like a memory.

We are all potential Dominicis, not as murderers but as accused, deprived of language, or worse, rigged out in that of our accusers, humiliated and condemned by it. To rob a man of his language in the very name of language: this is the first step in all legal murder.

M? interesez de limbaj pentru c? m? r?ne?te sau m? seduce.

photography is an ellipse of language and a condensation of an 'ineffable' society...