Quotes About Conversation

I'm going to talk to them. See if they'll stand aside." "They won't." "Then it will be a short conversation." Jack and Night Comfort left the

I'm going to talk to them. See if they'll stand aside." "They won't." "Then it will be a short conversation." Jack

I'm going to talk to them. See if they'll stand aside." "They won't." "Then it will be a short conversation.

A girl chatting to Prince Charles at an unemployment training centre confided in HRH about the friendliness of 'raves'. She told him, if he was interested, that everyone puts their arms around each other. To which the prince replied: 'Ah, one does not have to be introduced.' Independent, 1993

Strangers talking over piles of books do not remain strangers for long.

I prefer the society of one faithful person to an association of rapid talkers, who more than anything else seek admiration from one another.

Strangers talking over piles of books do not remain strangers for long. Had I never learned to like books, I would have become the dullest sort of hermit.

And 'tis remarkable that they talk most who have the least to say.

Even among men of science, facts were never allowed to dominate diversion. Dr William Stokes, William Wilde's great friend and mentor (who lived in the square at No. 5), pronounced it as 'the golden rule of conversation, to know nothing accurately'.

Les conversations ordinaires sont des « échos d'échos », regrettait l'ermite Patrul Rinpoché. Il suffit d'allumer la télévision ou de se rendre à une soirée mondaine pour être englouti par un déluge de paroles qui non seulement sont inutiles mais exacerbent la convoitise, le ressentiment, la vanité...

The demand for likability is dangerous. It's a conversation stopper, and we need conversations, in so-called real life and in fiction.

I'm Keith," he said, "and you're . . . clearly mad, but what's your name?

History... is the perpetual conversation carried on between all spoken words and all valid actions, each in turn contesting and confirming the other, and each recreating all the others.

When I am listening, it is not necessary that I have an auditory perception of the articulated sounds but that the conversation pronounces itself within me. It summons me and grips me; it envelops and inhabits me to the point that I cannot tell what comes from me and what from it. Whether speaking or listening, I project myself into the other person, I introduce him into my own self.

the stranger met every remark; not a thoughtful pause, but rather as though he wondered if it were worth while to make any answer.

Dan — Whistling Dan," he said, "I'm seeing you a long, long ways off. Partner, I'm done for." The whole body of Dan stiffened. "Done? Tex, you can't be! Five minutes ago you sat at that there table, smilin' an' talkin'!" "It doesn't take five minutes. Half a second can take a man all the way to hell!

I hate your infernal croaking, but, if you're bound to talk, I suppose that I got to listen. Blaze away and finish up.

Nett ist es, wenn bei einer klassischen München-Berlin-Konversation dann einer aus Köln dazustößt. Der hat dann gar nichts zu lachen.

A conversation goes sometimes into personal things and that's nicer. You look to each other and you have a different picture, you get into a relationship.

Volim da porazgovaram, od razgovora sve postane svjetlije i svježije, kao da se prozori na ku?i otvore... Nisam naro?ito pametan, niti mislim da je to važno, važnije je da je ?ovjek pravedan i da se ne truje ružnim mislima. Mu?no bi bilo živjeti obeshrabren, treba vidjeti i onu stranu koja nije protiv ?ovjeka.

The listener is the midwife in the difficult birth of the word.

People in fact talk most often for their own sake, and with a need to hear the echo of their words.

I love words; it doesn't matter which, it doesn't matter about what. (I am writing down, at random, things that he said one night, while the kasaba slept in the darkness.) Conversation is a link between people, maybe the only one. That's what an old soldier taught me, we were captured together, thrown into a prison together, chained together and bound to the same iron ring on the wall.

As soon as his soft voice began to flow the night would become less empty. He built a bridge of cobwebs between us, a bridge of words. They fluttered above us in an arch; they rose and dropped, like the waters of the river. He was the source; I was the mouth. A secret was woven between us, and the beautiful madness called conversation worked a miracle: two dead logs that lay side by side suddenly revided, and were not completely separated.