Quotes About Communication

Tis dreadful for words and strife to happen between brothers, when they fall into dispute.

Medea. Loathe on. . . . But, Oh, thy voice. It hurts me sore. Jason. Aye, and thine me. Wouldst hear me then no more?

K?sa ve öz konuÅŸarak kendini güzel tan?tt?n, ama ben kad?nlarla konuÅŸmaya utan?r?m.

But I wish to give you a wise piece of advice. When a friend is enraged with a man his friend, having met him face to face, let him fix his eyes on his friend's eyes, this only ought he to consider, the end for which he is come, but to have no recollection of former grievances.

How dreadful a thing, mother, is the enmity of relations, having means of reconciliation seldom to be brought about!

Cualquiera que le diga palabras sabias a un ignorante parecerá que no está en su sano juicio (Las Bacantes, 409 aC)

But I am unadorned with phrase to speak to the multitude, but to speak to my equals and to a few, more expert: but this also has consistency in it; for those, who are of no account among the wise, are more fitted to speak before the rabble.

A fool will think you are an idiot if you talk sense to him.

Speak to me, wood pigeon. I need your voice.

Will looked up at Garrison. Did you get some shots? Garrison held up a Canon with an impressive lens. Got 'em, boss.

It's a totally ridiculous, completely unsexy word. If you use it during sex, trying to be politically correct-- Darling, could you stroke my vagina?-- you kill the act right there. I'm worried about vaginas, what we call them and don't call them.

Now we shall both be alone, and I shall have no way of making you understand.' 'I don't want to make it easier for you,' I said; 'I hope your heart may break; but I do understand.

They are a very decent, generous lot of people out here and they don't expect you to listen. Always remember that, dear boy. It's the secret of social ease in this country. They talk entirely for their own pleasure. Nothing they say is designed to be heard.

Never get mixed up in a Welsh wrangle. It doesn't end in blows like an Irish one, but goes on forever.

Literature is the right use of language irrespective of the subject or reason of utterance.

He delighted in writing, in the joinery and embellishment of his sentences, in the consciousness of high rare virtue when every word had been used in its purest and most precise sense, in the kitten games of syntax and rhetoric. Words could do anything except generate their own meaning.

Now we shall both be alone, and I shall have no way of making you understand.' 'I don't want to make it easier for you,' I said; 'I hope your heart may break; but I do understand.' The avalanche was down, the hillside swept bare behind it; the last echoes died on the white slopes; the new mound glittered and lay still in the silent valley.

The best I can tell you in that way is that I'm much more at ease with fellow-Catholics than I am with heathens or Protestants. One has so many basic assumptions in common that there's so much that doesn't need saying, and when you're talking to even the most amusing and intelligent heathen you suddenly find that something you've said has no meaning at all to them.

It was dead contrary to the common experience of such encounters, when time is found to have built its own defensive lines, camouflaged vulnerable points, and laid a field of mines across all but a few well-trodden paths, so that, more often than not, we can only signal to one another from either side of the tangle of wire. Here she and I, who were never friends before, met on terms of long and unbroken intimacy

Dennis hesitated with his fingers on the handle and was aware of communication with another hand beyond the panels. Thus in a hundred novels had loves stood.

Algernon Stitch was standing in the hall; his bowler hat was on his head; his right hand, grasping a crimson, royally emblazoned dispatch case, emerged from the left sleeve of his overcoat; his other hand burrowed petulantly in his breast pocket. An umbrella under his left arm further inconvenienced him. He spoke indistinctly, for he was holding a folded copy of the morning paper between his teeth. "Can't get it on," he seemed to say.

Rex, in his early forties, had grown heavy and ruddy; he had lost his Canadian accent and acquired instead the hoarse, loud tone that was common to all his friends, as though their voices were perpetually strained to make themselves heard above a crowd, as though, with youth forsaking them, there was no time to wait the opportunity to speak, no time to listen, no time to reply; time for a laugh — a throaty mirthless laugh, the base currency of goodwill.

I don't know what it means, but I didn't mean it.

We schoolmasters must temper discretion with deceit.