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?

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

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

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

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.

Every man is surrounded by a neighborhood of voluntary spies.

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

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.

Every man has a right to utter what he thinks truth, and every other man has a right to knock him down for it. Martyrdom is the test.

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.

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

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

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.