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

How absurd men are! They never use the liberties they have, they demand those they do not have. They have freedom of thought, they demand freedom of speech.

Only connect! That was the whole of her sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height.

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

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. 

Language is the archives of history.

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

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.

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.

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.

In the case of news, we should always wait for the sacrament of confirmation.

It is difficult for a woman to define her feelings in language which is chiefly made by men to express theirs.

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