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

Slang is as old as speech and the congregating together of people in cities. It is the result of crowding and excitement and artificial life.

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?

It is a luxury to be understood.

Speak and speed; the close mouth catches no flies.

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

Words pay no debts.

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

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.

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. 

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.

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