Words, he decided, were inadequate at best, impossible at worst. They meant too many things. Or they meant nothing at all.

For in spite of language, in spite of intelligence and intuition and sympathy, one can never really communicate anything to anybody.

What are the thorns really telling her? It's why she won't let us see them, why she clings to them--or they cling to her--as though she got herself buried in a bramble thicket and she can't get out and we can't get in to free her.

Words are but the vague shadows of the volumes we mean.  Little audible links, they are, chaining together great inaudible feelings and purposes.

If you could say it in words, there would be no reason to paint.

In the English language there are orphans and widows, but there is no word for the parents who lose a child.