“Language, at least, may give up the secrets of life and death, leading us through the maze to the original Word as monster or angel, to the mournful place where we may meet Job and hear his cry, 'How long will you vex my soul and break me in pieces with words?”

“Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will make you go into a corner by myself and cry for hours.”

“Ah, had I not taken my life up and given All that life gives and the years let go,The wind and honey, the balm and leaven, The dreams reared high and the hopes brought low?Come life, come death, not a word be said;Should I lose you living, and vex you dead?I never shall tell you on earth; and in heaven,If I cry to you then, will you hear or know?”

“We may shine, we may shatter,We may be picking up the pieces here on after,We are fragile, we are human,And we are shaped by the light we let through us,We break fast, cause we are glass.We are glass.”

“It’s the Poverty.I lack imagination you say No. I lack language. The language to clarifymy resistance to the literate. Words are a war to me. They threaten my family.To gain the word to describe the loss I risk losing everything. I may create a monster the word’s length and bodyswelling up colorful and thrillinglooming over my mother, characterized.Her voice in the distanceunintelligible illiterate.These are the monster’s words.”

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but your words...they'll destroy my soul.”