Quotes About Expression

Those people who say that words have no power know nothing of the nature of words

Call me cynical if you like. But it all sounds a bit too convenient. The Authorized Version of events leaves out a number of details, which Creationists seem content to ignore. I personally have my doubts – not least about the giant cow – although even now you have to beware of how you express these sentiments.

Nem tudod elhallgattatni a kutyát? A fiú szánakozva nézett rá. -Nem igazán. - felelte. - Vlad hisz a szólásszabadságban.

Azok, akik szerint a szavaknak nincs hatalmuk, nincsenek tisztában a szavak természetével. A jól irányzott szavak véget vethetnek egy uralkodó rendszernek, vallást alapíthatnak vagy háborút indíthatnak. A szavak a hazugságok pásztorai, sorainkból a legjobbakat máglyára küldhetik.

Because art is like love. It goes feral if you keep it to yourself. Art is made to be given away, otherwise, it just rots.

She handed me one of the finished mendiants . A fat black cherry made for the nose; a candied lemon slice for the mouth. She had made all her chocolates into little faces. Features added in gold leaf; almonds, raisins, poppy seeds. All of the chocolates different, all of them marked with her signature: Love me. Feed me. Free me - And all of the chocolates were smiling.

I've always recognized that look – that look of sanctified contempt adopted by the righteous.

Assim, apanhados pela mãe, éramos dois e contrários, ela encobrindo com a palavra o que eu publicava pelo silêncio.

words are like nets - we hope they'll cover what we mean, but we know they can't possibly hold that much joy, or grief, or wonder.

Words are like eggs dropped from great heights; you can no more call them back than ignore the mess they leave when they fall.

You don't have to say I love you to say I love you, you said with a shrug. All you have to do is say my name and I know. ...Can't you hear it? you said. When you love someone, you say their name different. Like it's safe inside your mouth.

If she spoke, she would tell him the truth: she was not okay at all, but horribly empty, now that she knew what it was like to be filled.

The music we listen to may not define who we are. But it's a damn good start.

I adore the way he looks at me sometimes, as if love is a quantity he cannot measure scientifically, because it multiplies too quickly.

you're not a bad person because you want to be yourself.

This was the reason there was music, he realized. There were some feelings that didn't have words big enough to describe them.

Was there a language of loss? Did everyone who suffered speak a different dialect?

When you showed someone how you felt, it was fesh and honest. Whe you told someone how you felt, there might be nothing behind the words but habit or expectation.

The weapons an author has at her disposal are flawed. There are words that feel shapeless and overused. Love, for example. I could write the word love a thousand times and it would mean a thousand different things to different readers.

sometimes words are not big enough to contain all the feelings you are trying to pour into them.

It was always easier for me to show love than to say it. The word reminded me of pralines: small, precious, almost unbearable sweet. I would light up in his presence; I felt like a sun in the constellation of his embrace. But trying to put what I felt for him into words diminished it somehow, like pinning a butterfly under glass, or videotaping a comet.

I don't understand why people never say what they mean. It's like the immigrants who come to a country and learn the language but are completely baffled by idioms. (Seriously, how could anyone who isn't a native English speaker 'get the picture,' so to speak, and not assume it has something to do with a photo or a painting?)

We are all drowning slowly in the tide of our opinions, oblivious that we are taking on water every time we open our mouths.

Words got in the way. The things we felt the hardest--like what it was like to have a boy touch you as if you were made of light, or what it meant to be the only person in the room who wasn't noticed--weren't sentences; they were knots in the wood of our bodies, places where our blood flowed backward. If you asked me, not that anyone ever did, the only words worth saying were I'm sorry.