A wise man once said nothing.

I know, by instinct, his reserve springs from an aversion to showy displays of feeling—to manifestations of mutual kindliness. He'll love and hate equally under cover, and esteem it a species of impertinence to be loved or hated again.

Well, say I promise I won't speak: but that does not bind me not to laugh at him!

Looking back, you realize that everything would have explained itself if you had only stopped interrupting.

If animals could talk, the world would lose its best listeners.

As a gardener, I wonder if flowers really can't speak or just exercise unfailing good judgment in the matter.

Listening is more important than talking. If that were not true, God would not have given us two ears and only one mouth.

There are a great many people who do not understand things so there is no use in telling them.

Am i talking too much? People are always telling me I do. Would you rather I didn't talk? If you say so I'll stop. I can stop when I make up my mind to it, although it's difficult.

Mr. Meredith couldn't tell her, but they plunged into a discussion of German militarism that lasted long after Rosemary had found the book. Rosemary said nothing, but sat in a little rocker behind Ellen and stroked an important black cat meditatively.

Have you ever noticed how many different silences there are, Gilbert? The silence of the woods . . . of the shore . . . of the meadows . . . of the night . . . of the summer afternoon. All different because all the undertones that thread them are different. I'm sure if I were totally blind and insensitive to heat and cold I could easily tell just where I was by the quality of the silence about me.

all these terrible emotions always do sound foolish when we put them into our inadequate words. They are not meant to be spoken—only felt and endured.