“In the silence, our stage whisper might carry.”

“Kerosene," he said, because the silence had lengthened, "is nothing but perfume to me.”

“They whispered to Caesar that he was mortal, then sold daggers at half-price in the grand March sale.”

“Don't listen," whispered Faber. "He's trying to confuse. He's slippery. Watch out.”

“In writing the short novel Fahrenheit 451 I thought I was describing a world that might evolve in four or five decades. But only a few weeks ago, in Beverly Hills one night, a husband and wife passed me, walking their dog. I stood staring after them, absolutely stunned. The woman held in one hand a small cigarette-package-sized radio, its antenna quivering. From this sprang tiny copper wires which ended in a dainty cone plugged into her right ear. There she was, oblivious to man and dog, listening to far winds and whispers and soap-opera cries, sleep-walking, helped up and down curbs by a husband who might just as well not have been there. This was not fiction.”

“To everything there is a season. Yes. A time to break down, and a time to build up. Yes. A time to keep silence and a time to speak. Yes.”

“What are the best things and the worst things in your life, and when are you going to get around to whispering or shouting them?”