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

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.

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.

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

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

Words pay no debts.

No one gossips about other people’s secret virtues.

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

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

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

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