Quotes About Communication

When we are feeling at a loss in a poem, metaphor comes to the rescue. Metaphor is instructive, tactical, and interactive; it succeeds when its audience sees it as both strange and true. We need metaphor to make the error that allows us to reach beyond ourselves.

True Tenderness" True tenderness is silent and can't be mistaken for anything else. In vain with earnest desire you cover my shoulders with fur; In vain you try to persuade me of the merits of first love. But I know too well the meaning of your persistent burning glances.

There are Four of Us I have turned aside from everything, from the whole earthly store. The spirit and guardian of this place is an old tree-stump in water. We are brief guests of the earth, as it were, and life is a habit we put on. On paths of air I seem to overhear two friendly voices, talking in turn. Did I say two?...There by the east wall's tangle of raspberry, is a branch of elder, dark and fresh. Why! It's a letter from Marina. November 1962 (in delirium)

In Dream Black and enduring separation I share equally with you. Why weep? Gove me your hand, promise me you will come again. You and I are like high mountains and we can't move closer. Just send me word at midnight sometime through the stars. 1946

Can you describe this?" And I said: "I can." Then something like a smile passed fleetingly over what had once been her face.

Each and every day, I get One letter like a bride. I'm responding to my friend, Writing late at night: "On my way into the dark, I've stopped in white death's den. My dear, don't leave an evil mark On another man." And a brilliant star gleams Between two trees at night, Calmly promising that dreams Will soon be satisfied.

Literature is an act which gives meaning to experience.

But marriage goes in waves. You've got to be patient. People bail and give up on their marriages way too early. They just don't put the work and the effort into it. You've got to suck up your ego a lot of times, because that can be a big downfall.

Accuracy of language is one of the bulwarks of truth.

Still,' he said. 'Ach,' I said. 'Ach nothing,' he said. 'Ach sure,' I said. 'Ach sure what?' he said. 'Ach sure, if that's how you feel.' 'Ach sure, of course that's how I feel.' 'Ach all right then.' 'Ach,' he said. 'Ach,' I said. 'Ach,' he said. 'Ach,' I said. 'Ach.' So that was settled.

I'd rather you came out with your filthy, unfitting language for the rest of your life than for you to turn out one of them cowardly people who can't speak their minds but won't hold their peace and instead mumble behind hands and get their fights out in sneakery and in whispers.

She admonished him, saying 'I think I hate you,' which meant she didn't because 'I think I hate you' is the same as 'probably I hate you', which is the same as 'I don't know if I hate you', which is the same as 'I don't hate you, oh my God, my love, I love you, still love you, always, always have I loved you and never have I stopped loving you'.

Not that she could see, but it was unmistakable not to hear what he looked like.

Some too, would make mention of the actual word 'rumour', as in 'Rumour says', before going on to personify rumour, as if it wasn't they who were launching or perpetuating Rumour themselves.

That was a mistake: to have been emotional, to have been seen and heard to be emotional,

So he made his remarks and felt entitled to make his remarks and I did not speak because I did not know how to respond to this person.

I suspected that if I kept up this curtailing, this cauterizing, all the distrust and systematic removal of myself from society, by age 20 it was more than likely I'd be at the stage of no longer opening my mouth to anyone, anywhere at all.

He had never said her name. Indeed, he couldn't say it. Not because he'd forgotten it. Mot certainly he hadn't forgotten it. It was the dread of the capitulation of it, of the handing over of himself in it, of what it might take from him to pay her the compliment of letting her know he really knew her name.

You promise to stop if I say so?" she asked doubtfully, even while she lay down. "I promise. Though never trust anything a man tells you when he's got his head between your legs.

Verity, you have a choice," he said gently. "We eat, we talk, we pass the evening with an attempt at civility. Or we fuck. It's up to you.

She shook her head. "No, Jonas." " 'No, Jonas' is all you ever say," he responded with a hint of savagery. He knew he was unfair, but he was just so damned miserable. Her smile wavered into a warmth that calmed his anger. "Not always." He shut his eyes as the memory of wild nights overpowered him. Good God, at this rate, he'd be bawling like a motherless calf.

Open your mouth, tesoro." He angled her face higher. "Open your mouth for me." At his raw demand, her eyes flared wide. For a drunken moment, he drowned in glorious brown, rich, autumnal, sensual.

Good God, simply tell the girl how you feel," Silverton advised, clearly exasperated. "You cannot spend your life brooding about her behind marble pillars and potted plants. It's undignified." Nigel

I thought you were in love with another man." The words felt like a blow to a bruise, but they had to be said. Instead of taking offense, she stopped at the end of the table and regarded him with an enigmatic expression. Which was odd. He'd spent years observing Serena. He thought he knew her as well as he knew himself. Tonight proved him wrong.