You do not write your life with words, the monster said. You write it with actions.

You do not write your life with words. You write it with actions. What you think is not important. It is only important what you do.

"Words are useless without action. Stop fantasizing and just DO it. Be a "game changer" or get played like an idiot."

What you do is what matters, not what you think or say or plan.

It doesn’t matter what you say you believe - it only matters what you do.

"Perhaps it's not possible to explain," he said. "Certain things in your life matter to you because they're important; your acts are certainly important to you, but for me, not a single thin is important any longer neither my acts nor the acts of any of my fellow men. I go on living though. because I have my will. Because I have tempered my will throughout my life until it's neat and wholesome and now it doesn't matter to me that nothing matters. My will controls the folly of my life."

Action speaks louder than words but not nearly as often.

Your actions are your only belongings.

When deeds speak, words are nothing.

It's not through words but actions that I want to set the luster on my life.

"TELL THE WORLD WHAT YOU INTEND TO DO, BUT FIRST SHOW IT.This is the equivalent of saying "deeds, and not words, are what count most.

<i>The answer is that it does not matter what you <b>think</b>,</i> the monster said, <i>because your mind will contradict itself a hundred times each day.</i>

He questioned Maurice, who, when he grasped the point, was understood to reply that deeds are more important than words.

What a wee little part of a person's life are his acts and his words! His real life is lead in his head, and is known to none but himself. All day long, and every day, the mill of his brain is grinding, and his thoughts, (which are but the mute articulation of his feelings,) not those other things are his history. His acts and his words are merely the visible thin crust of his world, with its scattered snow summits and its vacant wastes of water-and they are so trifling a part of his bulk! a mere skin enveloping it. The mass of him is hidden-it and its volcanic fires that toss and boil, and never rest, night nor day. These are his life, and they are not written, and cannot be written.