Quotes About Language

Days that haunt the poem's single day are like the air revisiting this house of vocables that you and I designed: its windows watch an ocean and a sky to learn what portion of the other's mind the jet-trails presage: letters are stones that fly to settle in a wall of which the line traces an hour, a where, a place of thought. What is more palpable, the thing we saw or the images its recollection brought into the mind to ask us what we are? from "Day

Entre el hacer y el ver, acción o contemplación, escogí el acto de palabras: hacerlas, habitarlas, dar ojos al lenguaje.

man, tree of images, words which are flowers become fruits which are deeds.

Eres tan sólo un sueño, pero en ti sueña el mundo y su mudez habla con tus palabras.

El lenguaje siempre es una pluralidad, y esa te hace pensar a veces que el lenguaje es la expresión más perfecta de la razón y a la vez es la expresión más imperfecta de la razón, ya que toda palabra posee una significación que puede ser anulada por otra palabra. Lo que me propuse es ver cómo el lenguaje desemboca del silencio, de ese silencio significativo.

Credevo (e credo) che una tradizione poetica non si definisca attraverso il concetto politico di nazionalità ma attraverso la lingua e i rapporti che s'intessono tra gli stili e i loro creatori.

El hombre es un ser que se ha creado sí mismo al crear un lenguaje.

You cannot be my friend and use the N- word around me. I feel strongly about it… I always think of the millions of people who heard that as their last word as they were hanging from a tree.

What follows 'I am' is what we're inviting into our life. Meaning when you use phrases like, I am exhausted, or, I am overwhelmed, you are inviting exactly that kind of energy into your life.

Colour is the touch of the eye, Music to the deaf, A word out of darkness.

Over time, I have come to see the work of literature less as narrating the world than seeing the world with words. From the moment he begins to use words like colors in a painting, a writer can begin to see how wondrous and surprising the world is, and he breaks the bones of language to find his own voice. For this he needs paper, a pen, and the optimism of a child looking at the world for the first time.

Painting taught literature to describe.

Ä°nsan hepsini ayn? anda düÅŸünemiyor ama görebiliyordu. Akl?mdaki kelimelerin, akl?mdaki hayallere yetiÅŸememesi gibi bir ÅŸeydi bu. Kelimeler duygular?ma yetiÅŸemiyor ve yetersiz kal?yorlard?.

De hecho, ¿qué es leer sino dibujar en el silencioso cinematógrafo de nuestra mente una de las cosas que el escritor nos describe con letras?

Conrad,Nabokov, Naipaul - these are writers known for having managed to migrate between languages, cultures, countries, continents, even civilizations. Their imaginations were fed by exile, a nourishment drawn not through roots but through rootlessness. My imagination however, requires that I stay in the same street, in the same house, gazing at the same view. Istanbul's fate is my fate. I am attached to this city because it has made me who I am.

I was trying to think of something to say that would sound more meaningful, but when you get down to it, words aren't very useful at baring our souls, they're just something else to hide behind.

so the knowledge of their presence remained, for the time being, strictly within the bounds of people's private thoughts, lying dormant in a corner of their minds like a secret language spoken only at home.

Virgüllerle koÅŸard?m, noktalarla duraklar, ünlemlerde ÅŸaÅŸard?m! Ne kadar ÅŸa??rt?c?yd? kitaplarda, haritalarda dünya!

I'm not indignant, I said indignantly.

Beautiful though it is, I find the language of epic unconvincing, for I cannot accept that the myths we tell about our first lives prepare us for the brighter, more authentic second lives that are meant to begin when we awake. Because—for people like me, at least—that second life is none other than the book in your hand. So pay close attention, dear reader. Let me be straight with you, and in return let me ask for your compassion.

Objasnite nekome tko nikad nije iskusio osje?aj crvenog, objasnite mu kakva je to boja, uvaženi majstore. Da je promiješamo vrhom prsta, osjetili bismo je kao nešto izme?u željeza i bakra. Kapnemo li je na dlan, pekla bi nas. Da je liznemo, bila bi jaka kao zasoljeno meso. Kad bismo je stavili u usta, posve bi nas ispunila. Kad bismo je pomirisali, mirisala bi na konja. Da miriše kao cvijet, nalikovala bi kamilici, ne crvenoj ruži.

For words were so close to the things they described that, on mornings when the mist swept down from the mountains into the ghost villages below, poetry mixed with life and words with the objects they signified.

?itao sam u jednoj enciklopediji da rije? ateist potje?e od gr?kog athos. A ta rije? ne zna?i osobu koja ne vjeruje u Boga, nego usamljenika, osobu koju su bogovi napustili.

Roman sanat? kendimizden bir baÅŸkas? gibi ve baÅŸkalar?ndan kendimiz gibi söz açabilme hüneridir.