When I look on you a moment, then I can speak no more, but my tongue falls silent, and at once a delicate flame courses beneath my skin, and with my eyes I see nothing, and my ears hum, and a wet sweat bathes me and a trembling seizes me all over.
There are many times where even I, at certain points in the evening, after a few drinks, can't pronounce my own surname.
However great one's gift of language may be, there is always something that one cannot tell.
When I undertake to tell the best, I find I cannot. My tongue is ineffectual on its pivots, My breath will not be obedient to its organs, I become a dumb man.
Madam, you have bereft me of all words, Only my blood speaks to you in my veins.
It's hard for me to put my feelings into words.
Language is filled with words for deprivation images so familiar it is hard to crack language open into that other country the country of being.
