A word is dead When it is said, Some say. I say it just Begins to live That day.
Trust me, though, the words were on their way, and when they arrived, Liesel would hold them in her hands like the clouds, and she would wring them out like the rain.
I hate them high-flown words. I got a book at home that I could get them all out of if I wanted them; but I don’t.
Words are free, she used to say, and she appropriated them; they were all hers.
I have hated the words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right.
There are certain phrases potent to make my blood boil.
Like many people who cannot read or write he handles words with a clumsy economy and beauty, as if they were farm animals drawing open difficult land.
So often, below the word spoken is the thing known and unspoken.
Words mean more than what is set down on paper. It takes the human voice to infuse them with the shades of deeper meaning.