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

Words are a pretext. It is the inner bond that draws one person to another, not words.

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

People to whom sin is just a matter of words, to them salvation is just words too.

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

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

The inscription on his gravestone had felt so wholly insufficient the moment she saw it. Just a name and dates, carved by machine. Just the inadequate and impersonal. Loving Father and Husband, like every other headstone there, whether it was true or not. This was the tasteful way to do it, she knew, even though it showed none of the true shape of the man

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