The Word (n.) is, in each instance, an animal. Every one of them is alive with a will of its own.
Word (n.) are boundlessly overestimated by our civilization; the useless dreamers prove, by their very inability to speak, that life teaches more than words.
A Word (n.) keeps a magical power that mysteriously inhabits the concept; knowing that a flatus vocis brings nothing into being has not uprooted this superstition — perhaps because it has some justification.
A Word (n.) has become our god — the Christian epoch's highest achievement turned into our age's congenital vice: cut off from the divine Person, belief in the word becomes credulity and the word an infernal slogan capable of any deception.
Word (n.) are what philosophers and theologians discuss when they discuss good and evil — we so easily substitute words for the whole of reality.
A Word (n.) has two treasures: in the written word Christ is still in swaddling clothes in his cradle, but in the word become fact he is incarnate in creatures, where we may touch him with our hands.