Inside us there is something that has no name, that something is what we are.
Life is not to be told, call it as loud as you like, it will not tell itself.
Language can only deal meaningfully with a special, restricted segment of reality. The rest, and it is presumably the much larger part, is silence.
...much of what was said did not matter, and that much of what mattered could not be said.
Will holding a secret in your heart make it any less true? If you never tell, never speak of it, will it become only a dream, less than a dream, a nightmare half-remembered? Oh, if only the gods would be so good. (Catelyn)
What a wee little part of a person's life are his acts and his words! His real life is led in his head, and is known to none but himself.
The real drama of life is never centerstage. It's always in the wings.
Anybody's life is probably a mess of secrets and lies when you boil it right down.
Man can live his truth, his deepest truth, but cannot speak it.
Perhaps the facts most astounding and most real are never communicated by man to man. The true harvest of my daily life is somewhat as intangible and indescribable as the tints of morning or evening. It is a little star-dust caught, a segment of the rainbow which I have clutched.
It is always hard to hear the buried truth from another person.
Just because you didn't speak the facts out loud didn't erase their existence. Silence was just a quieter way to lie.
There's a place beyond words where experience first occurs to which I always want to return. I suspect that whenever I articulate my thoughts or translate my impulses into words, I am betraying the real thoughts and impulses which remain hidden.
