A Name (n.) is a whole sentence squeezed small: it says, 'here is a being worth searching for.'
Name (n.) should be awarded like honors: strict justice demands the noblest names — reason, knowledge — for the noblest things.
A Name (n.) that resembled its thing in every respect would double the world, and no one could tell which was the thing and which the name.
A Name (n.) is empty to anyone who does not know the thing: whoever doesn't know what knowledge is cannot understand 'knowledge of shoes' either.
A Name (n.) is all a primary element has: no account of it can be given, and nothing is possible for it but the bare name.
A Name (n.) is a tool, like a weaver's shuttle: the shuttle parts warp from woof, and a name parts being along its natural joints so we can teach one another.
A Name (n.) can be built from different syllables in Athens and abroad, just as smiths forge the same drill from different iron; what must match is the form, not the material.
A Name (n.) is like a doctor's medicine: added colors and perfumes make two look different, but the expert looks only to their power, untroubled by a letter added, swapped or dropped.
A Name (n.) is a portrait in sound: leave a feature out or add one and it is still a likeness, only a poor one — so there are good names and bad names, and good and bad makers of them.
A Name (n.) imitates with the voice, but not as a mimic does: whoever bleats like a sheep or crows like a cock has named nothing. Sound, shape and color belong to music and painting; a name imitates a thing's very being.