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

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.

Every man is surrounded by a neighborhood of voluntary spies.

I am always sorry when any language is lost, because languages are the pedigrees of nations.

A good newspaper, I suppose, is a nation talking to itself.

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

In the case of news, we should always wait for the sacrament of confirmation.

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.

Information can tell us everything. It has all the answers. But they are answers to questions we have not asked, and which doubtless don’t even arise.

I have often repented speaking, but never of holding my tongue.

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.

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

Man is the one name belonging to every nation upon earth: there is one soul and many tongues, one spirit and various sounds; every country has its own speech, but the subjects of speech are common to all.