Somos o que pensamos, e dizemos aquilo que pensamos com palavras. Se as palavras são tão mal usadas, deturpadas, mal pronunciadas muitas vezes, que pensamento podem expressar? Isso é frustrante.

Con las palabras todo cuidado es poco, mudan de opinión como las personas”.

Life is like that, full of words that are not worth saying or that were worth saying once but not any more, each word that we utter will take up the space of another more deserving word, not deserving in its own right, but because of the possible consequences of saying it.

Words have their own hierarchy, their own protocol, their own artistic titles, their own plebeian stigmas.

The only difference between life and death is that the living still have time, but the time to say that one word, to make that one gesture, is running out for them. What gesture, what word, I don't know, a man dies from not having said it, from not having made it, this is what he dies of, not from sickness, and that is why, when dead, he finds it so difficult to accept death. (Jose Saramago, The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis, p 122)

[...] it seems you don’t understand that words are the labels we stick on things, not the things themselves, you’ll never know what the things are really like, nor even what their real names are, because the names you gave them are just that, the names you gave them [...]

Como todo, las palabras tienen sus qués, sus cómos, sus porqués. Algunas, solemnes, nos interpelan con aire pomposo, dándose importancia, como si estuvieran destinadas a grandes cosas y, ya se verá más tarde, no son nada más que una brisa leve que no conseguiría mover el aspa de un molino, otras, de las más comunes, de las habituales, de las de todos los días, acabarán teniendo consecuencias que nadie se atrevería a pronosticar, no habían nacido para eso y, sin embargo, sacudieron al mundo.