Silence (n.) is dangerous. The rudest word is more benign than silence.
The Silence (n.) of disgust (n.) falls on a writer who bears public witness to a profound transformation while his hearers notice nothing — having overrated men's intellect, he vows himself to silence.
Silence (n.) about truths is worse than speaking them: all truths that are kept silent become poisonous.
Silence (n.) at its finest does not betray itself through silence; the cleverest keepers of it are the bright, transparent ones whose ground is so deep even the clearest water does not reveal it.
Silence (n.) is an objection; those who swallow things grow a bad character and an upset stomach — all who remain silent are dyspeptic.
Silence (n.) can be humble rather than proud: that of a sufferer ashamed to betray how much he suffers — a sick animal retires to its lair, and so does la bête philosophe.