Quotes About Language

What is a spell after all but a way of coaxing syllables together so persuasively that some new word is spelled...some imprecision clarified, some name Named...and some change managed.

this girl who seemed, increasingly, to be interested in learning to read everything except how human beings talked to one another.

Whispering can disguise the shape of syllables, but not of mood.

Perhaps he just didn't have the feeling for faith. It seemed to be a kind of language, one whose gnarled syntax needed to be heard from birth, or it remained forever unintelligible. But he wished he had a faith now, some scrap for something: for elphaba was dead, and to act as if the world were no more changed than if some branch of a tree had snapped off- well, it didn't seem right.

As pessoas dizem «meu Deus!» a toda a hora, mas habitualmente querem dizer «ora bolas».

Lot of talky-talk in there, they had to open the windows to let the words out

He spoke in one of the American accents; Lydia couldn't distinguish among them. To her they all sounded dry and tinny. Almost quack-like.

But so often, before words can rise to the mind to imply the ineffable, the ineffable has effed off.

Horrors, said Elphaba. It was her first word, and it was greeted with silence. Even the moon, the lambent bowl among the trees, seemed to pause. Horrors? Elphaba said again, looking around. Though her mouth was serious, her eyes glowed; she had realized her own accomplishment. She was nearly two years old. The big sharp teeth in her mouth could not keep her words locked inside anymore. Horrors, she tried in a whisper. Horrors.

But though her thoughts were rich and complicated, her words were poor, and she merely grunted.

Every act of communication is an act of translation.

So the poor translator must not just go back and forth between two languages, but if he is worthy of his calling must shift between two selves, with all the perils of this induced schizophrenia.

The translator, we should know, is a writer too. As a matter of fact, he could be called the ideal writer because all he has to do is write; plot, theme, characters, and all other essentials have already been provided, so he can just sit down and write his ass off. (p. 8)

There is a reciprocal influence between thought and language. What we think molds the words we use, and the words we use react upon our thoughts.

The choice word, the correct phrase, are instruments that may reach the heart, and awake the soul if they fall upon the ear in melodious cadence; but if the utterance be harsh and discordant they fail to interest, fall upon deaf ears, and are as barren as seed sown on fallow ground.

The words we use are an unmistakable indication of our thought habits, tastes, ideals, and interests in life. In like manner, the habitual language of a people is a barometer of their intellectual, civil, moral, and spiritual ideals. A great and noble people express themselves in great and noble words. Ruskin

Human thought elaborates itself with the progress of intelligence. Speech is the harvest of thought

The words we use are an unmistakable indication of our thought habits, tastes, ideals, and interests in life. In like manner, the habitual language of a people is a barometer of their intellectual, civil, moral, and spiritual ideals.

As I listened to this exchange, suddenly I realized that the word listen was just a rearrangement of the word silent—remarkably apt.

I wasn't sure how to answer. Could I tell him that one Secret of Adulthood is Never start a sentence with the words 'No offense'?

Sometimes words only diminish what I want to convey.

marriage, it's less important to have many pleasant experiences than it is to have fewer unpleasant experiences, because people have a "negativity bias"; our reactions to bad events are faster, stronger, and stickier than our reactions to good events. In fact, in practically every language

one Secret of Adulthood is "Never start a sentence with the words 'No offense'"? "And

The mind splices fragments of sensation and language into story after story. The blood in my veins and every blade of grass is oxygen, sugar, photosynthesis, genetic expression, electrochemistry, and time. I watch clouds crush the last bit of pink sky. Breath slips even as I inhale, even as snow falls out of season and mud thaws, even as lightning ignites a late spring.