Quotes About Words

These things I have spoken to you, that My joy may remain in you, and that your joy may be full. —JOHN 15:11

Blessed is he who keeps the words of the prophecy of this book. (Revelation 22:7)

We'd said we'd keep in touch. But touch is not something you can keep; as soon as it's gone, it's gone. We should have said we'd keep in words, because they are all we can string between us--words on a telephone line, words appearing on a screen.

But isn't this a dance? Isn't all of this a dance? Isn't that what we do with words? Isn't that what we do when we talk, when we spar, when we make plans or leave it to chance? Some of it's choreographed. Some of the steps have been done for ages. And the rest -- the rest is spontaneous. The rest has to be decided on the floor, in the moment, before the music ends.

We are so used to releasing words, we don't know what to do with them if they stay. No matter how many times we let them go, they come back. The words that matter always stay.

And still, for all the jealously, all the doubt, sometimes I will be struck with a kind of awe that we're together. That someone like me could find someone like you --- it renders me wordless. Because surely words would conspire against such luck, would protest the unlikelihood of such a turn of events.

You have to trust the words. They do not create anything more than themselves.

it's the belief, not the words, that mean everything. it's the floating.

ineffable , adj . these words will ultimately end up being the barest of reflections, devoid of the sensations words cannot convoy. Trying to write about love is ultimately like trying to have a dictionary represent life. No matter how many words there are, there will never be enough.

Her mind is an unquiet one, words and thoughts and impulses constantly crashing into each other.

Once you experience enormity, it lingers everywhere you look, and want to be every word you say.

I feel such a tenderness for these vulnerable nighttime conversations, the way words take a different shape in the air when there's no light in the room.

I read it a lot, whenever I find it in a library. Partly because I find new things every time I read it, but also because these books are always there for me. All of them are there for me. My life changes all the time, but books don't change. Your reading of them changes--you can bring new things to them each time. But the words are familiar words. The world is a place you've been before, and it welcomes you back.

Yes, time can be buoyed by wordlessness, but it needs to be anchored in words.

that's it -- hundreds of texts and conversations, thousands upon thousands of words spoken and sent, all boiled down into a single line. is that what relationships become? a reduced version of the hurt, nothing else let in. it was more than that. i know it was more than that.

Deep breaths. I am taking deep breaths. Composure. Which, for me, means composing... Maybe this is my way of creating the illusion of control over something I have no control over. Like, if it's just a story I'm telling or a song I'm singing, then I'll be okay because I'm the guy who's providing the words.

How do you commemorate a year? A paper anniversary, but we are the words written down, not the paper.

We are surrounded by so many books, so many words, so many thoughts... and not a single one can help us. I think, What's the point of all magic, if no one really knows how to use it? But I guess the same could be said about life.

No matter how many words there are, there will never be enough

It daunted me that you were so beautiful, that you were so at ease in social situations, as if every room was heliotropic, with you at the center. And I guess it daunted you that I had so many more friends than you, that I could put my words together like this, on paper, and could sometimes conjure a certain sense out of things. The key is to never recognize these imbalances. To not let the dauntingness daunt us.

It's okay, I say-perhaps the biggest lie of all. But it's one of those things you do. You say something like It's okay not because it is, in fact, okay, but because you're hoping these words will somehow make it okay. Even though they never, ever do.

I want to say more, but don't know what the words are supposed to be. I feel such a tenderness for these vulnerable night time conversations, the way words take a different shape in the air when there's no room in the air.

My life changes all the time, but books don't change. My reading of them changes-- I can bring new things to them each time. But the words are familiar words. The world is a place you've been before, and it welcomes you back.

I thought: But isn't this a dance? Isn't all of this a dance? Isn't that what we do with words? Isn't that what we do when we talk, when we spar, when we make plans or leave it to chance? Some of it's choreographed. Some of the steps have been done for ages. And the rest—the rest is spontaneous. The rest has to be decided on the floor, in the moment, before the music ends.