Thanks to words, we have been able to rise above the brutes, and thanks to words, we have sunk to the level of the demons.

Thanks to words, we have been able to rise above the brutes; and thanks to words, we have often sunk to the level of the demons.

What a gulf between impression and expression! That’s our ironic fate—to have Shakespearean feelings and (unless by some billion-to-one chance we happen to be Shakespeare) to talk about them like automobile salesmen or teen-agers or college professors. We practice alchemy in reverse—touch gold and it turns into lead; touch the pure lyrics of experience, and they turn into the verbal equivalents of tripe and hogwash.

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

In spite of language, in spite of intelligence and intuition and sympathy, one can never really communicate anything to anybody. The essential substance of every thought and feeling remains incommunicable, locked up in the impenetrable strong-room of the individual soul and body. Our life is a sentence of perpetual solitary confinement.

There are things known and there are things unknown, and in between are the doors of perception.