The only authors whom I acknowledge as American are the journalists. They indeed are not great writers, but they speak the language of their countrymen, and make themselves heard by them. 

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.

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

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

Anyone who doesn’t know foreign languages knows nothing of his own.

No one gossips about other people’s secret virtues.

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.

Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.

History does not merely touch on language, but takes place in it.

My language is the common prostitute that I turn into a virgin.

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

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.

Unexemplary words and unfounded doctrines are avoided by the noble person. Why utter them?