...All my best words are deserters and do not answer the trumpet call, and the remainder are cripples.

I am weak, I say with no presumptions. I have no merit, I note it, that is all. There are times that I feel so weak there most be a mistake, and as I don't know what I mean with this, I am not going to say anything else

No words came out of me. Words can also be the feeblest emissaries for our feelings.

This thy wit hath no wit.

Alas, words were but empty things, devoid of power and all too easily broken, discarded, and forgotten.

If you have nothing better to do than praise me for it, then my speech was a failure.

Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness.

I want you to be weak. As weak as I am.

...in the absence of will power, the most complete collection of virtues and talents is wholly worthless.

At grief so deep the tongue must wag in vain; the language of our sense and memory lacks the vocabulary of such pain.

Even speech was for them was a debased form of silence; how much more futile is poetry which is a debased form of speech.

And empty words are evil.

Fading, fading: strength beyond hope and despair climbing the third stair. Lord, I am not worthy Lord, I am not worthy but speak the word only.

In one letter that he had written to her then he had said: Why is it that words like these seem to me so dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?