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. 

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

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.

The newspaper is the natural enemy of the book, as the whore is of the decent woman.

The more the pleasures of the body fade away, the greater to me is the pleasure and charm of conversation.

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

Every man is surrounded by a neighborhood of voluntary spies.

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.

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

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.

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

It is a luxury to be understood.