As long as there are words, no one ever has the last word.
Words are at their most treacherous when we think we understand them.
Word weariness helps refresh our eyes, our ears, our senses of smell and touch.
The pleasures of language go deeper than adornment, hidden in the hush where we take and lose form within ourselves.
We think and feel both within words and without words. But perhaps what is most difficult to understand is the communication between the ways we think and feel within words and the ways we think and feel without words. For this inner communion which is, above all, practical, it is indeed hard to find words.
Words are to experience as the twittering of birds in the canopy is to the deep woods and the earth beneath it and the sky above it.
The language we speak is often far wiser in its derivation than we have been mindful enough to know. We know not what we say because we are ignorant of the living roads the words we use have traveled to make themselves available to us as the angels of our intents.
Our words are the growing pains of language.
Whenever we speak truthfully within ourselves we find ourselves at the dawn of language.
Language itself is our primary mythology, each word a constellation in the sky of silence.
I interrogate words npt just to find what they mean but to find what I mean.