Definitions HQ

A Word (n.) could ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠freeze a snake: in what academies did Swiss snakes learn Greek, that they stop at 'Osy, Osya' — even written on paper?

A Word (n.) marks ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠only the ideas of the speaker: no one can apply it immediately to anything but the ideas he himself has.

A Word (n.) was ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠figurative before it was proper: we probably spoke of giants before we named men, boats were first called by their sails, and the soul was first a moth.

A Word (n.) wanders ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠off on its own after the Renaissance, without content or resemblance to fill its emptiness, sleeping between the pages of books and covered in dust.

A Word (n.) in ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠its rough-hewn state lies on the mid-way line between science and perception: in words, what we imagine becomes what we know, and what we know becomes what we picture every day.

A Word (n.) however ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠abstract and empty cannot be thought without affirming the possibility of what it represents — harmless with fabulous monsters, fatal with illegitimate abstractions.

Word (n.) are ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not wind, an external whisper, a beating of wings one can hardly hear in the serious matter of history — two centuries of revolutionary and scientific discourse in Europe should have taught us that.

A Word (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠raised above cries only by the proposition hidden in it: the primitive's yell becomes a word only when it stops being pain's side-effect and counts as the statement 'I am choking'.

A Word (n.) from ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠about 1800 on can say what it says only because it first belongs to a grammatical totality that is, in relation to it, primary, fundamental and determining.

A Word (n.) of ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠whatever kind is a dormant name: conjunctions and prepositions are the names of gestures frozen into immobility, declensions are names that have been swallowed.

A Word (n.) once ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠destroyed leaves neither noise nor pure elements but other words, which when pulverized free still others — an idea that is at once the negative of all modern linguistics and the myth in which we now transcribe language's most real powers.

A Word (n.) in ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the Classical experience was neither a mark to be deciphered (as in the Renaissance) nor a more or less faithful instrument (as for positivism), but a colourless network on which beings manifest themselves and representations are ordered.