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

God never sent a messenger save with the language of his folk, that he might make the message clear for 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.

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

We should have a great many fewer disputes in the world if words were taken for what they are, the signs of our ideas only, and not for things themselves.

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.

Language is the armory of the human mind and at once contains the trophies of its past and the weapons of its future conquests. 

It is impossible to translate the poets. Can you translate music?

Speak and speed; the close mouth catches no flies.

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. 

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

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