A Sign (n.) always indicates first of all where one lives — where one's concern dwells and what one is at.
Sign (n.) are things we have become very slovenly and mechanical in understanding and using.
A Sign (n.) can go unread — man is a sign that points not at what draws away but into the withdrawal itself.
A Sign (n.) is equipment built to be conspicuous, because everything else at hand has the habit of holding itself in and not standing out.
A Sign (n.) is not grasped by staring at it, nor even by looking where it points, but by stepping aside or standing still — by letting it orient us.
A Sign (n.) is a piece of equipment whose job is to point — a turn signal used less by the driver than by everyone who must give way to him.
A Sign (n.) is not a thing that points to another thing; it is a tool that lifts a whole context of tools into view, so that the world announces itself.
A Sign (n.) does not come first: all signs arise from a showing in whose realm they can be signs; showing does not culminate in a system of signs.
A Sign (n.) was for the Greeks something coined by showing for showing; from the Stoics on it became a mere instrument for designating — and designation no longer lets anything appear.
A Sign (n.) such as a knot in a handkerchief can indicate many things, but the wider its range the narrower its usefulness — it may even become inaccessible to its maker, so that another sign is needed.
A Sign (n.) is not unconsciously directing us toward the region where it wants us to look. Instead, the signaling arrow remains visible, openly declaring itself as a sign that wants us to notice one specific direction rather than the others.