A Name (n.) seems to suit a great master's work because we project the character into the name and treat that as given.
A Name (n.) brings animals when it is called, just like human beings.
A Name (n.) relates to a house not by the strokes painted on the door but by the role those strokes play in the whole practice of the language.
A Name (n.) relates to its object by something as trivial as a scribble on it; primitive philosophy packs all its use into that.
A Name (n.) has no one relation to its object, but as many as there are uses of the sounds or scribbles we call names.
A Name (n.) is the model we wrongly give every word, and then we confuse the bearer of a name with the meaning of the name.
A Name (n.) can seem to fit its bearer like a portrait, as Schubert seems to fit Schubert, though we know no fitting relation holds.
Name (n.) and object are headings to countless different lists of rules, according to criteria of identity.
A Name (n.) is not a picture of the thing named.
A Name (n.) pins the general description of the world, a stencil, to the world so that the world is wholly covered.
A Name (n.) may stand for very various forms; only its syntactical application signals which form is presented.
A Name (n.) compresses its whole complex reference into one.
A Name (n.) is no thing in our language; we know only that names differ in type from relations.
A Name (n.) is like a point, a proposition like an arrow: only the arrow has sense — situations can be described but not named.
A Name (n.) means an object; the object is its meaning.
A Name (n.) is a primitive sign: it cannot be dissected or anatomized by any definition.
A Name (n.) has as its real form what all the symbols that signify the same object have in common; every kind of composition turns out inessential to it.