Quotes About Communication

don't start talkin about books or quotin poems at them. these is good folks but they ain't real crazy about readin books. just do what i do and you'll be all right.

Don't let the little fuckers generation gap you.

Damien is a friend. Their boy-girl Lego doesn't click, he would say.

We monitor many frequencies. We listen always. Came a voice, out of the babel of tongues, speaking to us. It played us a mighty dub.

If you're fifteen or so, today, I suspect that you inhabit a sort of endless digital Now, a state of atemporality enabled by our increasingly efficient communal prosthetic memory. I also suspect that you don't know it, because, as anthropologists tell us, one cannot know one's own culture.

Encryption isn't optional, when we address one another," she said.

She's right, Kate's right, I'm right and you're wrong. If you drive her away from here it will be over my dead— chair, has it never occurred to you at on one occasion you might be consummately wrong?

Hitler had had entirely too brilliant a graphics department, and had understood the power of branding all too well.

Language is to the mind more than light is to the eye.

She hung up before he could say goodbye. Stood there with her arm cocked, phone at ear-level, suddenly aware of the iconic nature of her unconscious pose. Some very considerable part of the gestural language of public places, that had once belong to cigarettes, now belonged to phones.

Whenever the media do try to pick it up, it slides like a lone noodle from their chopsticks.

Armitage smiled, a smile that meant as much as the twitch of some insect's antenna.

What Shaylene saw as Burton's primary symptom of traumatic stress, Flynne thought, was his ongoing failure to ask her out.

Listen to your enemies,' " Bigend said, " 'for God is speaking.

She's spoken with Parkaboy twice before, and both times it's been odd, in the way that initial telephone conversations with people you've gotten to know well on the Net, yet have never met, are odd. She

I think I'd tell her about the loneliness of being misunderstood. Or is it the loneliness of being afraid to allow ourselves to be understood?

The waitress was a distracted-looking woman of indeterminate ancestry, acne scars sprinkled across her cheekbones, and she poured his coffee and took his order without actually indicating she understood English. Like the whole operation could be basically phonetic, he thought, and she'd have learned the sound of "two eggs over easy" and the rest. Hear it, translate it into whatever she wrote in, then give it to the cook.

Give me your phone." She handed him her phone, which he passed to Edward. "Password?" "Easy Ice," she said, "lowercase, no space." "That's such a shit password, it's not even a password." "I'm a just normal fucking person, Macon.

Coretti no sabía vestirse. La ropa era un lenguaje y Coretti era un tartamudo de la indumentaria.

Not that he was unconcerned with the pain he saw in Hollis's eyes, or with the fate of her friend, but that there was some language required here that he'd never learned.

Some very considerable part of the gestural language of public places, that had once belonged to cigarettes, now belonged to phones.

He found himself wondering about the mind he shared these sensations with. What did he know about her?

But I ain't likely to write you no poem, if you follow me. Your AI, it just might. But it ain't no way human.

And Willy Jude was amiable enough, but in about as content-free a way as possible.