Best 1798 quotes in «words quotes» category

  • By Anonym

    It's not entirely absurd to think that somewhere in the past of mankind someone, for the first time, did in his mind the equivalent of putting an adjective to a noun, and saw, not only a relationship, but this special relationship between two things of different kinds....In sum, all the seemingly complicated kinds of modification in English are just ways of thinking and seeing how things go with each other or reflect each other. Modifiers in our language are not aids to understanding relationships; they are the ways to understand relationships. A mistake in this matter either comes from or causes a clouded mind. Usually it's both.

  • By Anonym

    It sometimes seems to me that a pestilence has struck the human race in its most distinctive faculty - that is, the use of words. It is a plague afflicting language, revealing itself as a loss of cognition and immediacy, an automatism that tends to level out all expression into the most generic, anonymous, and abstract formulas, to dilute meaning, to blunt the edge of expressiveness, extinguishing the sparks that shoots out from the collision of words and new circumstances.

  • By Anonym

    It sounds cool to say you are going to fight with a pen not a sword but violence with words is still violence ..

  • By Anonym

    It’s weird how much things can change in only a few minutes. With those three words, “I don’t remember,” our entire futures were changed. Not just for me and Brooklyn, but for the little girl, and Denver, and Jenna and Blaze and – darn, I’m getting ahead of myself again. So much for trying to be dramatic.

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    It takes a little slip to slip. Inappropriate words are inappropriate!

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    It takes a year to learn how to talk -- and a lifetime to learn what to say.

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    It takes courage to say things differently: Caution and cowardice dictate the use of the cliché.

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    It takes just a step to show the other side of you that you never wanted to show. It takes just a word to start the words you never wanted to say. It all begins with something and it all starts somewhere. Mind the starting point and note the beginning.

  • By Anonym

    It was a great opportunity to get oral transmission; you can read and read the text to get some ideas, but you can be misled by written words. It is best if done orally.

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    It was all about words. If words weren't important, they wouldn't try so hard to take them away.

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    It was astonishing how much meaning could be crammed into a single word. How did such words not crumble under their own weight?

  • By Anonym

    It was more than a string of letters put together it was a thick cloak in the cold and a strong defense against an enemy It was more than the naked heart on paper it was a way to undress sadness … and sins and an olive branch for the desperate Writing was her prayer and the words were felt.

  • By Anonym

    It was my first-year Latin teacher in high school who made me who made me discover I'd fallen in love with it (grammar). It took Latin to thrust me into bona fide alliance with words in their true meaning. Learning Latin fed my love for words upon words in continuation and modification, and the beautiful, sober, accretion of a sentence. I could see the achieved sentence finally standing there, as real, intact, and built to stay as the Mississippi State Capitol at the top of my street.

  • By Anonym

    It was in the words he didn't say... that I found all the answers to my questions.

  • By Anonym

    It was language I loved, not meaning. I liked poetry better when I wasn't sure what it meant. Eliot has said that the meaning of the poem is provided to keep the mind busy while the poem gets on with its work -- like the bone thrown to the dog by the robber so he can get on with his work. . . . Is beauty a reminder of something we once knew, with poetry one of its vehicles? Does it give us a brief vision of that 'rarely glimpsed bright face behind/ the apparency of things'? Here, I suppose, we ought to try the impossible task of defining poetry. No one definition will do. But I must admit to a liking for the words of Thomas Fuller, who said: 'Poetry is a dangerous honey. I advise thee only to taste it with the Tip of thy finger and not to live upon it. If thou do'st, it will disorder thy Head and give thee dangerous Vertigos.

  • By Anonym

    It wasn’t story (good or bad) that pulled me in; it was English itself, the way it felt in my braces-caged mouth and rattled around my adolescent head.

  • By Anonym

    It wasn't supposed to. It was just supposed to stop you from hurting yourself.” “It helps—” “No it doesn't. It just pushes it away temporarily. Just like the booze.” “But I need—” “You need to let yourself feel. Feel it, own it. Then move on.” “You make it sound so easy.” Bitterness drips from each syllable. “It’s not. It’s the fucking hardest thing a person can do.” I smooth a damp strand out of her face and away from my mouth. “It’s the hardest fucking thing. It’s why we drink and do drugs and fight. It’s why I play music and build engines.

  • By Anonym

    It was the look on her face when she said it. And how much she meant it. It suddenly made everything seem like it really was. I felt terrible. Just terrible.

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    It was true—but it was harsh. And it feels like maybe a harsh truth can be as hurtful as a lie.

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    It was the way she looked at me the whole time. That look said more than she ever could and, in turn, scared me more than her words alone ever could.

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    It was words and reading that had made me quiet, and being quiet had made me a mark.

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    I've fixed my feelings into durable words when they could have been spent on tenderness

  • By Anonym

    I've got words residing inside me freely meandering reshaping a wasteland into the prospect of treasured home again

    • words quotes
  • By Anonym

    I've heard you say so many a time That I know just the right words to say, just the right lines to rhyme... Today it's been 7 years since we last met I have learnt to say just the wrong words, just the lines you hate....

  • By Anonym

    I've just come to my room, Livy darling, I guess this was the memorable night of my life. By George, I never was so stirred since I was born. I heard four speeches which I can never forget... one by that splendid old soul, Col. Bob Ingersoll, — oh, it was just the supremest combination of English words that was ever put together since the world began... How handsome he looked, as he stood on that table, in the midst of those 500 shouting men, and poured the molten silver from his lips! What an organ is human speech when it is played by a master! How pale those speeches are in print, but how radiant, how full of color, how blinding they were in the delivery! It was a great night, a memorable night. I doubt if America has seen anything quite equal to it. I am well satisfied I shall not live to see its equal again... Bob Ingersoll’s music will sing through my memory always as the divinest that ever enchanted my ears. And I shall always see him, as he stood that night on a dinner-table, under the flash of lights and banners, in the midst of seven hundred frantic shouters, the most beautiful human creature that ever lived... You should have seen that vast house rise to its feet; you should have heard the hurricane that followed. That's the only test! People might shout, clap their hands, stamp, wave their napkins, but none but the master can make them get up on their feet. {Twain's letter to his wife, Livy, about friend Robert Ingersoll's incredible speech at 'The Grand Banquet', considered to be one of the greatest oratory performances of all time}

  • By Anonym

    I've never subscribed to the "words can never hurt me" point of view. Because if words can't hurt, then neither can they help or heal or inspire. Yes, words can brutalize. They can shame and scar. But people must be free to say them anyway. We protect free speech not because words are harmless, but because they are powerful.

  • By Anonym

    I’ve been writing like a madman for the past hour. I must say it was not easy to write the words, let alone think them.

  • By Anonym

    I've written you sixty-seven love poems. Here’s another one for you. But really, for me. These poems are the candles that I light with the fire you have ignited in me. I place this candle here and another there so even if the stars have argued with the moon and are sulking away in a corner, you can still find your way to me. Sixty-eight poems now. What does the future hold for us? Joy? Disappointment? Gentle caresses? And subtle neglect? I hope the good is more than the bad. Much more. For what is the point of love if by lighting these candles our own flame loses its brightness? I know the good is more than the bad. Much more. I cannot wait to write you sixty-nine.

  • By Anonym

    I wanted to tell the book thief many things, about beauty and brutality. But what couldI tell her about those things that she didn't already know? I wanted to explain that I am constantly overestimating and underestimating the human race - that rarely do I ever simply estimate it. I wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant. None of those things, however, came out of my mouth. All I was able to do was turn to Liesel Meminger and tell her the only truth I truly know. I said it to the book thief and I say it now to you. I am haunted by humans.

  • By Anonym

    I want to be able to do anything with words: handle slashing, flaming descriptions like Wells, and use the paradox with the clarity of Samuel Butler, the breadth of Bernard Shaw and the wit of Oscar Wilde, I want to do the wide sultry heavens of Conrad, the rolled-gold sundowns and crazy-quilt skies of Hitchens and Kipling as well as the pastel dawns and twilights of Chesterton. All that is by way of example. As a matter of fact I am a professed literary thief, hot after the best methods of every writer in my generation.

  • By Anonym

    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 light in the room.

  • By Anonym

    I want to write something that means something to someone...the reminds them of what a second, a moment, really is...or that assures them that we are just as lost as they are. I want to write an emotion they are too fragile to let loose, so that my words can do the expression for them, the feeling for them. I want to write beyond the basics and the cliches...I want to write you, I want to write a long walk on a starry night, I want to write an exhale or an inhale...or suffocation. I want to write as clear as my voice could be heard...that is, if I had anything to say.

  • By Anonym

    I want to say something comforting, but I know that this is one of the moments when words would be like an appendix—superfluous or harmful.

  • By Anonym

    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.

  • By Anonym

    I want you to remember that—it’s our choices that matter in the end. Not wishes, not words, not promises.

  • By Anonym

    Iwapo watu watakwenda nje ya kusudi la Mungu, hata wawe makini kiasi gani na injili, maneno yao hata yawe ya hekima kiasi gani hayatawasaidia chochote.

  • By Anonym

    I was wondering if I could talk to you?” I fiddled with one of the drawstrings of my hoodie [...] “Talk?” He stared up at me with a blank expression. I hated blank expressions, because people only used them when they didn’t want to show what they were really feeling. And I really sucked at trying to figure out what people were feeling. “Yeah,” I said, rather condescendingly. “You know, that thing you do where you open your mouth and words come out?

  • By Anonym

    I wear the words we didn't say. My heart is clothed in them every day.

  • By Anonym

    I was pretty good at picking up new languages when I was little, but it's not like I had superpowers or anything. Kids just have an easier time with words.

  • By Anonym

    I wear the universe backwards. I imagine putting stars in my coffee, and sugar in the sky. I imagine going fishing in clouds, and watching the sun hide behind lakes. I'm too busy dancing with my imagination to even tip toe with reality for a second. They say I'm going mad. They're right.

  • By Anonym

    What are you reading? isn’t a simple question when asked with genuine curiosity; it’s really a way of asking, Who are you now and who are you becoming?

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    I will read long books and the journals of dead writers. I will feel closer to them than I ever felt to people I used to know before I withdrew from the world. It will be sweet and cool this friendship of mine with dead poets, for I won’t have to touch them or answer their questions. They will talk to me and not expect me to answer. And I’ll get sleepy listening to their voices explaining the mysteries to me. I’ll fall asleep with the book still in my fingers, and it will rain.

  • By Anonym

    I wish I could read what she's written there. Instead, I pretend the letters are stars. The words, constellations.

    • words quotes
  • By Anonym

    I wish many things, but I wish I had been able to tell you that I love you, in so many more ways than that word can convey in Alben.

  • By Anonym

    I wonder now, is there is a word for strength leaving your body? Or love? What of its arrival? Or is it only pain that the body names, and then only in it’s leaving? It is true, I know, that there are some things for which there are no words. Only the spaces between the words we know to say all that must be said And I think about how some calls come deep, for years and years before I finally answer. I wonder why this is so. And I wonder what this tells you about me.

  • By Anonym

    I wish I didn’t need words to speak to her. They sometimes hold very different meanings for us both.

  • By Anonym

    I wonder if Linda would still come see me if she wasn't called sister. I wonder if light would still fade if weren't a word night.

  • By Anonym

    Long hours spent in the study of any text will reveal inner, unseen contours, an abstract architecture. This is as true of sacred books as of those poems written in pursuit of courtly or earthly love, or even of language itself. The ancient Mosaic law had accommodated this insight to the disadvantage of the surface layer, of images, while the Roman Catholic Church, akin to the preliterate cultural forms from which it in part arose, allows for the existence of a mystical understanding and experience of these abstractions. The careful scholar cannot but help but become aware of the conflict: when one speaks of the word, or Word, what is one truly speaking of? Who is the architect, man, and---or---a---God? Attempts to apprehend this new reality, these tensions, went initially by the names of philosophy, theology, science. What is it to know deeply? Is knowledge not always a form of power that, taken too far, cannot be turned against itself?

  • By Anonym

    Literature will save me it's the only certainty i am sure of.

  • By Anonym

    Loneliness of heart In the still of the night my heart doth cry out, who can hear it for time is far spent. In the darkness in the shadow of the depth I find isolation and fear...