The poet, being an imitator like a painter or any other artist, must of necessity imitate one of three objects – things as they were or are, things as they are said or thought to be, or things as they ought to be. The vehicle of expression is language – either current terms or, it may be, rare words or metaphors.
Words will not fail when the matter is well considered.
The development of language is part of the development of the personality, for words are the natural means of expressing thoughts and establishing understanding between people.
I can remember only a few of the strange and curious words now dead but living and spoken by the English people a thousand years ago.
He puts his right hand lightly on the cup, I put my left, leaving the right free to transcribe, and away we go. We get, oh, 500 to 600 words an hour. Better than gasoline.
I have a notebook with me all the time, and I begin scribbling a few words. When things are going well, the walk does not get anywhere; I finally just stop and write.
In countries other than Pakistan – I won’t necessarily call them ‘Western’ – people support me. This is because people there respect others. They don’t do this because I am a Pashtun or a Punjabi, a Pakistani, or an Iranian, they do it because of one’s words and character. This is why I am being respected and supported there.
There is some pleasure even in words, when they bring forgetfulness of present miseries.
Guard your roving thoughts with a jealous care, for speech is but the dealer of thoughts, and every fool can plainly read in your words what is the hour of your thoughts.
No one means all he says, and yet very few say all they mean, for words are slippery and thought is viscous.