Quotes About Expression

I'd rather have a yard filled with genuine garbage than with trashy lawn ornaments.

Cooking a meal that would be consumed in fifteen minutes had no appeal when she could make a painting that might last forever.

Thing is," she continues, "Seymour can be with women. But he"—she searches for the right words—"he'd rather be with men.

Snot locker was the funniest name I'd ever heard for a nose.

Dad said something about freaks of nature, and Mom called Dad a Mr. Know-It-All Smarty-Pants who refused to believe that she was special. Dad said something about Jesus H. Christ on a goddamn crutch not taking that much time to gestate. Mom got upset at Dad's blasphemy, reached her foot over to the driver's side, and stomped on the brake.

Freedom of the press belongs to anyone who owns one

With the Internet, characters like Drudge could pursue—without the constraints and rules imposed by editors and institutions—

I think that is the big danger in keeping a diary: you exaggerate everything.

The aim of language...is to communicate...to impart to others the results one has obtained...As I talk, I reveal the situation...I reveal it to myself and to others in order to change it.

We must act out passion before we can feel it.

I marvel at these young people: drinking their coffee, they tell clear, plausible stories. If they are asked what they did yesterday, they aren't embarrassed: they bring you up to date in a few words. If I were in their place, I'd fall all over myself.

I don't even bother looking for words. It flows in me, more or less quickly. I fix nothing, I let it go. Through the lack of attaching myself to words, my thoughts remain nebulous most of the time. They sketch vague, pleasant shapes and then are swallowed up: I forget them almost immediately.

For the artist, the color, the bouquet, the tinkling of the spoon on the saucer, are things in the highest degree. He stops at the quality of the sound or the form. He returns to it constantly and is enchanted with it.

But no: he was empty, he was confronted by a vast anger, a desperate anger, he saw it and could almost have touched it. But it was inert - if it were to live and find expression and suffer, he must lend it his own body. It was other people's anger. Swine! He clenched his fists, he strode along, but nothing came, the anger remained external to himself.

Je suis seul au milieu de ces voix joyeuses et raisonnables. Tous ces types passent leur temps à s'expliquer, à reconnaître avec bonheur qu'ils sont du même avis. Quelle importance ils attachent, mon Dieu, à penser tous ensemble les mêmes choses.

Her smiles, her mimicries, all the words she uttered were addressed to herself through him.

Poetry creates the myth, the prose writer draws its portrait.

Her eyes stare at me but she seems not to see me; she looks as though she were lost in her suffering.

From time to time I yawn so widely that tears roll down my cheek.

The writer, a free man adressing free men, has only one subject - freedom

You have to talk to make sure you're alive.

The truth is that I can't put down my pen: I think I'm going to have the Nausea and I feel as though I'm delaying it while writing. So I write whatever comes into my mind.

Giacometti knows that space is a cancer on being, and eats everything; to sculpt, for him, is to take the fat off space, he compresses space, so as to drain off its exteriority.

Chitchat debases a language.