Our religion is itself profoundly sad – a religion of universal anguish, and one which, because of its very catholicity, grants full liberty to the individual and asks no better than to be celebrated in each man’s own language – so long as he knows anguish and is a painter.
A language presupposes that all the individual users possess the organs.
Should such an ignorant people lead the world? How did it come to this in the first place? 82 percent of us don’t even have a passport! Just a handful can speak a language other than English.
Sunday is a likely day to write a poem. Because poetry is a piece of language flying around: you’ll find notebooks, something on your phone. It’s about finding them and getting them off that crumpled piece of paper and onto my computer.
I still have a feeling that I haven’t written the best that I can write. I think all poets must feel this: that there is constantly something new to be discovered in the language. It’s like a thrilling encounter, and you can find things.
Great art speaks a language which every intelligent person can understand. The people who call themselves modernists today speak a different language.
Neither Aristotelian nor Russellian rules give the exact logic of any expression of ordinary language; for ordinary language has no exact logic.
When one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language.
My idea here is that, inasmuch as certain cognitive tasks and principles are tied to nature’s laws, these tasks and principles are indifferent to language, culture, gender, or the particular mode of information that is provided.
The poetical language of an age should be the current language heightened.