I am always sorry when any language is lost, because languages are the pedigrees of nations.

The words of language, as they are written or spoken, do not seem to play any role in my mechanism of thought. The physical entities which seem to serve as elements in thought are certain signs and more or less clear images.

Language is the mother of thought, not its handmaiden.

The finest language is mostly made up of simple unimposing words.

The language of truth is simple.

Language is a city to the building of which every human being brought a stone.

The genius of democracies is seen not only in the great number of new words introduced but even more in the new ideas they express.

Language, the machine of the poet, is best fitted for his purpose in its rudest state. Nations, like individuals, first perceive, and then abstract. They advance from particular images to general terms. Hence the vocabulary of an enlightened society is philosophical, that of a half-civilized people is poetical.

A special kind of beauty exists which is born in language, of language, and for language.

I like to be beholden to the great metropolitan English speech, the sea which receives tributaries from every region under heaven.