My language is the common prostitute that I turn into a virgin.
Language is the mother of thought, not its handmaiden.
Language is the only chimera whose illusory power is endless, the inexhaustibility which keeps life from being impoverished. Let men learn to serve language.
Nationalism is the love which ties me to the blockheads of my country, to the insultors of my way of life, and to the desecrators of my language.
I master only the language of others. Mine does with me what it wants.
I have drawn from the well of language many a thought which I do not have and which I could not put into words.
Let language be the divining rod that finds the sources of thought.
Heinrich Heine so loosened the corsets of the German language that today every little salesman can fondle her breasts.
The most incomprehensible talk comes from people who have no other use for language than to make themselves understood.
One can translate an editorial but not a poem. For one can go across the border naked but not without one's skin; for, unlike clothes, one cannot get a new skin.
When I don't make any progress, it is because I have bumped into the wall of language. Then I draw back with a bloody head. And would like to go on.
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