Quotes About Words

I would always be embarrassed to read out loud in class because I would transpose words and letters and things.

I don't really care about a song or lyrics; I'm really just interested in the way people emphasize words. That's what makes a strong impact on me.

For 'Mad Men,' we really had to stick to the script, and you want to. It's not like you feel your hand is being forced. The words you get are the words you say.

The music is the main thing and it's just as easy to write acceptable words.

I was an English major in college!

It was better to tell such stories close to the river than in a drawing room. Words accumulate indoors, trapped by walls and ceilings. The weight of what has been said can lie heavily on what might yet be said and suffocate it. By the river the air carries the story on a journey: one sentence drifts away and makes way for the next.

And sometimes then he sat with us for an hour or so, sharing our limbo, listening while I read. Books from any shelf, opened at any page, in which I would start and finish anywhere, mid-sentence sometimes. Wuthering Heights ran into Emma, which gave way to The Eustace Diamonds, which faded into Hard Times, which ceded to The Woman in White. Fragments. It didn't matter. Art, its completeness, its formedness, its finishedness, had no power to console. Words, on the other hand, were a lifeline.

Art, its completeness, its formedness, its finishedness, had no power to console. Words on the other hand, were a lifeline. They left their hushed rhythm behind, a counter to the slow in and out of Emmeline's breathing.

Art, its completeness, its formedness, its finishedness, had no power to console. Words, on the other hand, were a lifeline.

His confidences, this mist, had led us unexpectedly onto a peninsula of intimacy, and I found myself on the brink of telling what I had never told anyone before. The words flew ready-formed into my head, organized themselves instantly into sentences, long strings of sentences, bursting with impatience to fly from my tongue. As if they had spent years planning for this moment.

Silence is not a natural environment for stories. They need words.

No matter how banal the contents, there is always something that touches me. For someone now dead once thought these words significant enough to write them down.

My words flew like birds into a pane of glass.

I see," she said softly, nodding her head as though she really did. "Well, it's your business, of course." She turned her hand in her lap and stared into her damaged palm. "You are at liberty to say nothing, if that is what you want. But silence is not a natural environment for stories. They need words. Without them they grow pale, sicken and die. And then they haunt you." Her eyes swiveled back to me. "Believe me, Margaret. I know.

The rhythm of the train on the tracks suggested words to his overtired brain and he heard them as clearly as if an unseen person had pronounced them: Something is going to happen.

That is just a story, Jonathan." Jonathan considered. "Like Jesus, then." The parson frowned and was lost for words.

Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you.

They sat on the bank. It was better to tell such stories close to the river than in a drawing room. Words accumulate indoors, trapped by walls and ceilings. The weight of what has been said can lie heavily on what might yet be said and suffocate it. By the river the air carries the story on a journey: one sentence drifts away and makes room for the next.

silence is not a natural environment for stories. They need words. Without them they grow pale, sicken and die. And then they haunt you.

Las historias necesitan palabras. Sin ellas palidecen, enferman y mueren. Y luego te persiguen.

He has described in precise, measured words the beautiful desolation he feels at the close of novels where the message is that there is no end to human suffering, only endurance. He has spoken of endings that are muted, but which echo longer in the memory than louder, more explosive denouements. He has explained why it is that ambiguity touches his heart more nearly than the death and marriage style of finish that I prefer.

The words from the letter were trapped in my head, trapped, it seemed, beneath the sloping ceiling of my attic flat, like a bird that has got in down the chimney.

El silencio no es el entorno natural para las historias -me dijo en una ocasión la señorita Winter-. Las historias necesitan palabras. Sin ellas palidecen, enferman y mueren. Y luego te persiguen.

To think a book could have so much paper in it!