Quotes About Language

Isn't simplification sometimes impoverishment? How to convey the richness of the message with a poverty of symbols. If we oversimplify the form, don't we kill the content?

Even symbols decayed.

Forget language. After all, it bores me. The senses. And this much is true: any communication must transcend the immediacy of solidarity, must be mediated by ideological and economic connections. And there the senses reappear. No use giving in to words.

Mun suullan on vissi joku syöny kissanpaska.

Rokkahaa mie. Antero on etunim. Antiksihaa minnuu on sanottu koko ikän, ja niin mie sanon itekkii.

Kuka täällä ryssää puhuu? – Koskela Suomesta. Syö rautaa ja paskantaa kettinkiä.

Thus spake to him the steeds who

The Glasgow accent was so strong you could have built a bridge with it and known it would outlast the civilization that spawned it

Cats speak a subtle language in which few sounds carry many meanings, depending on how they are sung or purred. "Mnrhnh" means comfortable soft chairs. It also means fish. It means genial companionship... and the absence of dogs.

Las armas hablaban lenguajes distintos, pero pronunciaban la misma palabra: ¡muerte, muerte, muerte!

Rare and powerful harmonies exist, Shaping both scent and contour in a flower. Thus brilliance lies unseen by us until, Beneath the chisel, it blazes in the diamond. And thus do images of fleeting vision, Drifting above like cloud-forms in the sky, Once turned to stone live on from age to age, Held always in a faultless, polished phrase. ("A Sonnet To Form")

Language achieves soul only when it's applied as a tool, used by those who imbue it with what they have had the courage and honesty to perceive and feel.

Teaching English and teaching Writing are two separate things.

The category "Women Poets" is bizarre and irrelevant. It's a subcategory of Poets, but there is not a "Men Poets" category.

Alexandra Fedorovna pronounced Russian words with a heavy accent, and it was noticebale that speaking Russian was hard for her ...[she] pronounced each phrase with difficulty, and with a German accent — just like a foreigner who had learned the Russian language from books, and not from practice.

How do you feel?" Ewa asks. "Betrayed." "By who?" she says. "Whom," I say. "Who?" "I feel betrayed by my femininity.

I joined the Pass Mods. class and studied the cyropaedia and Livy's Wars with a resentful feeling that there was quite enough war in the world without having to read about it in Latin

Music is what our feelings sound like.

Listen to the trees as they sway in the wind. Their leaves are telling secrets. Their bark sings songs of olden days as it grows around the trunks. And their roots give names to all things. Their language has been lost. But not the gestures.

Each letter of the alphabet is a steadfast loyal soldier in a great army of words, sentences, paragraphs, and stories. One letter falls, and the entire language falters.

Then you already know what it's like to think in a different way about the same thing. Because that's all a new language is—a slightly different way of thinking and looking at the same world. It's like putting on multi-colored sunglasses. It enriches your thought processes and blows up your imagination like a balloon. And it gives you the mysterious power to express yourself to others who normally might not be able to understand you.

Huh? Okay." I raise my brows. But the Consul stares back at me with unblinking disdain. "Your second lesson is never to use non-existent words or animalistic sounds worthy of a gurgling infant child in your adult communication.

Because that's all a new language is—a slightly different way of thinking and looking at the same world. It's like putting on multi-colored sunglasses. It enriches your thought processes and blows up your imagination like a balloon. And it gives you the mysterious power to express yourself to others who normally might not be able to understand you.

El llanto es el idioma que de verdad nos pertenece a todos, porque cualquiera que sea la lengua que hablemos, todos lloramos igual. El llanto era el idioma de la humanidad; el del Paraíso seguía siendo un misterio.