Quotes About Words

Draw draft of milk these words are milk the point of this is drink.

The service passed in a blur of words she wasn't sure she got right, and then the cool touch of the ring sliding onto her fingers, and then the warm pressure of Shane's lips on hers.

A blank isn't the same. He remembered holding the book, feeling the history of the leather cover someone had tanned and stretched and cut to fit. The paper that someone had laboriously filled by hand and sewn into the binding. Years, heavy on the pages. Morgan had been reading a copy of it. An original. It felt like the old monk's story was part of his own. But when he read it in the blank, it was just words, and it had no power to carry him away.

They're just words," I tell her. "From small men who are brave on the other side of a keyboard and an Internet handle.

He'd grown so addicted to the feel of those books—the individual differences in the bindings, the leather or fabric covers, the weight of papers, the smell. They were a very different experience than these Blanks, which all felt so . . . sterile, somehow. Words that could be readily dismissed and replaced didn't have the same moral heft to them, to him

I already know the words. I just need to learn the beat. This tone-deaf white girl will try to make music out of recovery.

At last I had it—the Christmas present I'd wanted all along, but hadn't realized. His words.

But whether or not you are here, you are here—because these words are for you, and they wouldn't exist if you weren't here in some way. This notebook is a strange instrument—the player doesn't know the music until it's being played.

I guess I'm nervous to be meeting you," Lily said at long last, eyes still closed. "Likewise," I assured her. "I find I very rarely live up to my words. And since you know me primarily through my words, there are oh so many ways I can disappoint.

Wiis? Wiii? What is the plural?)

I don't think we should ever try to meet again; there's such freedom in that. Instead, let our words continue to meet. (See next postcard.)

I instantly regretted my comeback but that's the thing about unkind words. You can try to undo the damage, but (a) it's hard when you're all coffee-ed up, and (b) you can't take it back, ever.

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 them 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.

The words of prayer are like birds, Ester," he said gently. "They soar.

If my words cut, then let them cut as the physick's knife, to restore health. And let my own imperfections, numerous as grains of sand, not mar my message.

Where words are scarce they are seldom spent in vain, for they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain.

But it was her life rather than her words that gave the plainest counsel.

An ecstasy of ink, every paragraph laboring to outline the shape of the world. The yellow light of a lamp on leaves of paper, the ivory-black impress of words reasoning, line by line.

Las palabras abren puertas sobre el mar.

The secret is not to think, we think in words. And what lies beyond the reality we see is a truth that words can't contain, the secret is to feel.

she ran for the only medicine that reliably cured any bout of unpleasant feelings: a book.

Although words are the world and were the birthing of the world, there are no words to express what I felt at that moment, no words for the dimensions of my joy, for the great buoyancy that overcame my spirit, for the depth of my gratitude, for the brightness of my hope.

Asshole." "Your mother never taught you words like that." "You don't know my mother," she said thickly.

Music-good music, great music-is itself magical, it's mysterious inspiration entwined with the mystery of all things. When we are transported either by Mozart or Glenn Miller, we find ourselves in the presence of the ineffable, for which all words are so in adequate that to attempt to describe it, even with effusive praise and words of perfect beauty, is to engage in blasphemy.