Words - so innocent and powerless as they are, as standing in a dictionary, how potent for good and evil they become in the hands of one who knows how to combine them.
Words bounce. Words, if you let them, will do what they want to do and what they have to do.
All words are pegs to hang ideas on.
Words are but the vague shadows of the volumes we mean. Little audible links, they are, chaining together great inaudible feelings and purposes.
M is for magic. All the letters are, if you put them together properly. You can make magic with them, and dreams, and, I hope, even a few surprises...
Surely it is an odd way to spend your life - sitting alone in a room with a pen in your hand, hour after hour, day after day, year after year, struggling to put words on pieces of paper in order to give birth to what does not exist, except in your head. Why on earth would anyone want to do such a thing? The only answer I have ever been able to come up with is: because you have to, because you have no choice.
A word is not the same with one writer as it is with another. One tears it from his guts. The other pulls it out of his overcoat pocket.
Don't you wish you had a job like mine? All you have to do is think up a certain number of words! Plus, you can repeat words! And they don't even have to be true!
No doubt I shall go on writing, stumbling across tundras of unmeaning, planting words like bloody flags in my wake....
All I'm writing is just what I feel, that's all. I just keep it almost naked. And probably the words are so bland.
To write as if your life depended on it; to write across the chalkboard, putting up there in public the words you have dredged; sieved up in dreams, from behind screen memories, out of silence-- words you have dreaded and needed in order to know you exist.
Strong words outlast the paper they are written upon.
I never met a word I didn't love
A new word. Bright with possibilities. A flawless pearl to turn over and over in my hand, then put away for safekeeping.
I'll use the blood from my spilling heart to write the words that were never able to slip out of my mouth, so you can see how much you've broken me into a perpetual state of melancholy.
I am telling you what I know—words have music and if you are a musician you will write to hear them.
…words have been all my life, all my life--this need is like the Spider's need who carries before her a huge Burden of Silk which she must spin out--the silk is her life, her home, her safety--her food and drink too--and if it is attacked or pulled down, why, what can she do but make more, spin afresh, design anew….
And what is wrong with playing with words? Words love to be played with, just like children or kittens do!
Read to escape reality . . . Write to embrace it.
Words and a book and a belief that the world is words...
