The rest of the words turned to wood in my hands. I am not immortal.
I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until
I have got something I might have said. . . but did not.
The words were like fragments torn from her heart. With them came the hated vision of the
house she was going back to.
In many matters, profound seriousness can only be expressed in words which are light-hearted,
amusing, and detached.
I am worthless sounds compared to all your perfect words. . .
Sometimes, someone says something really small, and it just fits right into this empty
place in your heart.
Then I beg you: kill me. This talking is a great weariness: your words are distasteful
to me, and I am sure that mine seem so to you. And yet they should not seem so: I should have
honor and praise for what I have done.
I have no idea to this day what those two Italian ladies were singing about. Truth is, I
don't want to know. Some things are better left unsaid. I'd like to think they were singing about
something so beautiful, it can't expressed in words, and it makes your heart ache because of it.
I tell you, those voices soared higher and farther than anybody in a grey place dares to dream.
It was as if some beautiful bird had flapped into our drab little cage and made these walls
dissolve away.
It isn't what they say about you, it's what they whisper.
Half of what I say is meaningless; but I say it so that the other half may reach you.
The voice of life in me cannot reach the ear of life in you; but let us talk that we
may not feel lonely.
Words are timeless. You should utter them or write them with a knowledge of their
timelessness.
The tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills without drawing blood.
However, nothing is just what it seems to be. My objects dream and wear new costumes,
compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands and the sea that bangs in my throat.
My mother hating me for it and loving me for it, but the hate won, didn't it? Yes, the
distaste won, the disgust won, and because of this, I am a hoarder of words. I hold them in,
though they are dung. Oh God, I am a digger. I am not an idler, am I?
I read your letters, putting your words into my life.
Special person, if I were you, I'd pay no attention to admonitions from me, made somewhat
out of your words and somewhat out of mine. A collaboration. I do not believe a word I have said,
except some, except I think of you like a young tree, with pasted-on leaves and know you'll root
and the real green thing will come.
I was only sitting here in my white study, with the awful black words pushing me around.
I have so much I want to say, so many stories, images, proverbs, etc. But the words aren't
good enough, the wrong ones kiss me. Sometimes, I fly like an eagle, but with fly like the wings
of a wren. But I try to take care and be gentle to them. Words and eggs must be handled with
care. Once broken, they are impossible to repair.
When I talk to the window, I say everything is everything.
No, no, don't speak - for some moments in life there are no words.
Words do not express thoughts very well. They always become a little different immediately
after they are expressed, a little distorted, a little foolish.
Not only to say the right thing in the right place, but far more difficult, to leave unsaid
the wrong thing at the tempting moment.
