Making a film means, first of all, to tell a story. That story can be an improbable one, but it should never be banal. It must be dramatic and human. What is drama, after all, but life with the dull bits cut out?

What a glut of books! Who can read them? As already, we shall have a vast chaos and confusion of books; we are oppressed with them, our eyes ache with reading, our fingers with turning.

The gift of a common tongue is a priceless inheritance and it may well some day become the foundation of a common citizenship.

The chief merit of language is clearness, and we know that nothing detracts so much from this as do unfamiliar terms.

Under all speech that is good for anything, there lies a silence that is better. Silence is deep as eternity; speech is shallow as time.

I sometimes think of what future historians will say of us. A single sentence will suffice for modern man: he fornicated and read the papers.

Language is a part of our organism and no less complicated than it.

Slang is a language that rolls up its sleeves, spits on its hands, and goes to work.

Newspapers always excite curiosity. No one ever lays one down without a feeling of disappointment.

Do not the most moving moments of our lives find us all without words?

Methinks the human method of expression by sound of tongue is very elementary and ought to be substituted for some ingenious invention which should be able to give vent to at least six coherent sentences at once.

It is a luxury to be understood.

Language is the house of being. In its home human beings dwell. Those who think and those who create with words are the guardians of this home.