The Word (n.) is that which, when taken up by the thinker, takes him by surprise and teaches him what to think.
Word (n.) has a meaning — saying so is enough to refute both empiricism, for which nobody speaks, and intellectualism, for which somebody thinks but nobody speaks.
Word (n.) I know is not a stored image but something behind me, like the city's horizon around my house — I can represent it only by saying it, as the artist can represent his work only by making it.
Word (n.) repeated too often turns alien and absurd: emptied of meaning, it degrades even in its sound, like a lifeless body.
A Word (n.) grips the body before it means: flashed too quickly to read, "warm" brings a halo of warmth and "hard" a stiffening of back and neck.
Word (n.) slowly accumulates a meaning that can never be fixed absolutely, because it is the sentence that gives each word its sense.
Word (n.) "sleet" is not an idea I recognize but a use of my voice I once caught on to, as one imitates a gesture; its meaning is my wonder at hard, then crumbling, then melting pellets falling ready-made from the sky.