You and I who read and write books have very little effect upon language. We may think about it, write about it, and read about it, but it goes on without us, or in spite of us.

Man can be defined, if one wishes, as a languag-ized mammal.

Language is a living thing. It must survive in men's minds and on their tongues if it survives at all.

Amoebas, once they have themselves well pulled in two, go their ways-they practice divorce, but no remarriage.

Civilization could not exist until there was written language, because without written language no generation could bequeath to succeeding generations anything but its simpler findings.

An amoeba is a formless thing which takes many shapes. It moves by thrusting out an arm, and flowing into the arm. It multiplies by pulling itself in two, without permanently diminishing the original. So with words. A meaning may develop on the periphery of the body of meanings associated with a word, and shortly this tentacle-meaning has grown to such proportions that it dwarfs all other meanings.

Babies and language are the essential ingredients of civilization, and speakers of language no more know where it came from than babies know where they come from.