Language (n.) is a thing acquired by man not in order to reveal his thoughts but in order to conceal them.
Language (n.) is that with time as its element... all other media have space as their element.
Language (n.) is used not only to conceal thoughts, but also to conceal the fact that one has no thoughts.
Language (n.) is the most concrete of all media — which is why epics can be written again and again, but sculpture's classics are few.
Language (n.) becomes the perfect medium just when everything sensuous in it is negated: hear the tongue move, and the man speaks badly; see the letters, and you read badly.
Language (n.) is poor beside the meaningless yet significant clangor of a battle or a banquet — yet how rich it is in the service of the wish, compared with describing reality.
Language (n.) makes short shrift — "she becomes mine / or she doesn't" — and at other times is in such loving agreement with the prolixity of sorrow.
Language (n.) is against the man who deserts the woman he loves: "Is that love, when one deserts her?" retort she and language and the race — what a comfort to have language on one's side, to say "I have loved him!"
Language (n.) exists not, as Talleyrand said, to conceal thought, but to assist and confirm people in refraining from action.
Language (n.) holds the distinction between good and evil, which innocence can utter perfectly well — but the distinction is intelligible only to freedom.
Language (n.) exists to conceal thought — namely, to conceal that one has none.
Language (n.) saves: the word, and nothing else, saves the individual from the empty abstraction of inclosing reserve.
Language (n.) is selfish: it speaks of our affairs and hardly at all of God's, though separation from him is his concern.