Quotes About Communication

The real me lives in words, not in what words mean.

And there you are. And I liked you a lot today. A lot. And I want to talk to you. Selfishly.

I am, to be sure, afraid that if you knew me that you wouldn't love me. But this must be faced…I fear it in any relationship. Thus I am perhaps afraid to reveal facts about things…or to say too much for fear if I make too much noise you'll drift away, pull down the shade of your ivory tower…and after that. Afraid, I guess, that I'll loose you…I keep losing people.

Clover['s] eyes are full of language.

My poems only come when I have almost lost the ability to utter a word. To speak, in a way, of the unspeakable.

And I say to myself that the trouble with life is that people are strangers.

He said loudly 'I am not dying' and I said 'for me you are.

I do have that bad habit, so female, of taking people at their word.

I don't know if I can go on spilling myself out to people—those strange strangers.

I think language is beautiful. I even think insanity is beautiful (surely the root of language), except that it is painful.

My business is words. Words are like labels, or coins, or better, like swarming bees. I confess I am only broken by the sources of things; as if words were counted like dead bees in the attic, unbuckled from their yellow eyes and their dry wings. I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.

Language is verbalizing the non-verbal. (That's what makes it so complicated.) Holding hands is better than saying "I love you.

It was pretty rocky last month but I didn't want to depress you with my depressions. I lack contentment. No. I lack a mother.

I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said … but did not.

Turn wounds into words

I like you; your eyes are full of language." [Letter to Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]

Do you like me?" No answer. Silence bounced, fell off his tongue and sat between us and clogged my throat. It slaughtered my trust. It tore cigarettes out of my mouth. We exchanged blind words, and I did not cry, I did not beg, but blackness filled my ears, blackness lunged in my heart, and something that had been good, a sort of kindly oxygen, turned into a gas oven.

Good communication is as stimulating as black coffee, and just as hard.

Men kick friendship around like a football, but it doesn't seem to crack. Women treat it like glass and it goes to pieces.

I did know Ted Hughes and I partly wrote the book to explain to myself and others the complexities of a marriage that was for six years wonderfully productive of poetry and then ended in tragedy.

She tried to allow herself only one biting remark an hour, and she had already overstepped her allowance.

I hate to tell you, dragon, but that's an integral part of the whole usiness," he whispered. "If you're afraid to touch me then we're not going to get very far." She lifted her head to look at him. "I thought I could lie back and let you ravish me," she said with complete honesty. He shook his head, the smile hovering around his lips, his eyes intent. "This is a cooperative effort, my love. You have to do your part.

Too often, I think, children are required to write before they have anything to say. Teach them to think and read and talk with self-repression, and they will write because they cannot help it.

She was eager to stoop to his level.