Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Verbose. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Verbose Quotes And Sayings by 93 Authors including George W. Bush,David Mitchell,Gwendolyn Brooks,William Shakespeare,Samuel Beckett for you to enjoy and share.
I understand politics and I know there's gonna be a lot of verbage.
Adverbs are cholesterol in the veins of prose. Halve your adverbs and your prose pumps twice as well.
Writing is a delicious agony.
I am very proud, revengeful,
ambitious, with more offences at my beck than I have
thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape,
or time to act them in.
Evoke at painful junctures, when discouragement threatens to raise its head, the image of a vast cretinous mouth, red blubber and slobbering, in solitary confinement, extruding indefatigably, with a noise of wet kisses and washing in a tub, the words that obstruct it.
If I were to try to describe the way in which I write, the only word I would use without qualification is 'slowly.'
Lively, intelligent, and quite immature, [Emily] usually burst out with exactly the comment that summed up the situation beautifully and therefore could never in politeness be said.
It was mortifying to find how strong the habit of idle speech may become in one's self. One need not always be saying something in this noisy world.
I have written some of the clumsiest, most clogged-yet-vagrant, hobbledehoyish, hitch-slipping sentences ever conceived by the human mind.
I'm an intense person.
Smooth and ordered on the outside; roiling and chaotic and desperately secretive underneath, but not noticeably so, never noticeably so.
What one wrote playfully, another reads with tension and passion; what one wrote with tension and passion, another reads playfully.
Writing is a struggle against silence.
As subjects, we all live in suspense, from day to day, from hour to hour; in other words, we are the hero of our own story. We cannot believe that it is finished, that we are 'finished,' even though we may say so; we expect another chapter, another installment, tomorrow or next week.
Language, when it finally comes, has the vigor of a felon pardoned after twenty-one years on hold. Sudden, raw, stripped to its underwear.
I found our speech copious without order, and energetic without rules
A man who keeps a diary pays, Due toll to many tedious days; But life becomes eventful-then, His busy hand forgets the pen. Most books, indeed, are records less Of fulness than of emptiness.
He who writes much will not easily escape a manner, such a recurrence of particular modes as may be easily noted.
don't expect me to be all dear diary this and dear diary that
I confess to wincing every so often at a poorly chosen word, a mangled sentence, an expression of emotion that seems indulgent or overly practiced. I have the urge to cut the book by fifty pages or so, possessed as I am with a keener appreciation for brevity.
I realized that my life of late had consisted of far too much dialogue and not enough exposition. I imagined an angry, bespectacled English teacher slashing his pen through the transcript of my life, wondering how someone could possibly say so much and think so little.
Writing is busy idleness.
I find I journalize too tediously. Let me try to abbreviate.
Diaries are very futile. I must be all dream or all deed. It is quite impossible for me to express any of the beauty I feel to half the degree I feel it; and yet it is a great pleasure to seize an impression and lock it up in words: you feel as if you had it safe forever.
Some weeks there's no writing, and some weeks are full of writing.
Talkativeness has another plague attached to it, even curiosity; for praters wish to hear much that they may have much to say.
For someone like me,
it is a very strange habit to write in a diary.
Not only that I have never written before,
but it strikes me that later neither I,
nor anyone else,
will care for the outpouring
of a thirteen year old schoolgirl.
Writing is a difficult thing.
In the days when I didn't know people were reading and judging me, I wrote serenely, as if eating bliny; now I am afraid when I write.
The habit of writing clearly soon comes to the writer who is a severe critic to himself.
..they wait, impassive, for the hubbub to die down, for silence to fall, before finally beginning their talk with that cold clarity of those who, conscious of the fundamental import of what they have to say, abstain from any embellishment and simply describe, describe, describe...
Talkers never write. They go on talking." There
We must be brief.-- Victor Hugo
quick-witted, an open book in her lap; inside her chest pulses something huge, something full of longing, something unafraid.
There's nothing more painful than writing.
I do not like to write - I like to have written.
Continuous eloquence is tedious.
The urgency of the moment always missed its mark. Words fluttered sideways and struck the object inches too low. Then one gave it up; then the idea sunk back again; then one became like most middle-aged people, cautious, furtive, with wrinkles between the eyes and a look of perpetual apprehension.
Writing is supposed to be difficult, agonizing, a dreadful exercise, a terrible occupation.
When I struggle to be terse, I end by being obscure.
Silence is more eloquent than words.
I'm a chatterbox.
Finished. I can smell it," Elaine said.
"Chocolate. I helped," Tina said.
"She talks clearly for her age. My boys were chatterboxes
Effective stream-of-consciousness narration is the product of verbal precision, not just of literal documentation. It is decidedly not a matter of unedited free-association.
Words are clamor-filled shells. There's many a story in the miniature of a single word!
Writing with ferocity is a gift, provided that ferocity is a monomaniacal devotion to pursuing the truth ...
I regard writing not as an investigation of character but as an exercise in the use of language, and with this I am obsessed.
Words are messy,
but sometimes,
words are all you've got
to show what matters most.
Her words were as sharp as an eyeful of sand. She never raised her voice. It was the kind of voice that never needed to be raised. It cut words to a fine point and launched them decisively (page 88).
Very' is such a strong word...
She was difficult, she knew. She did not make friends. She was brisk and demanding, unsparing and indulgent.
I can be a little acerbic.
One may be elegant or enthusiastic, but seldom both. If
Who often reads, will sometimes wish to write.
A sophisticated rhetorician, inebriated with the exuberance of his own verbosity.
Laying in the dark, she wondered what the day would bring. Some days were trumpet-proud. They heralded like thunder. Some were courteous, careful as a lettered card upon a silver plate.
But some days were shy. They did not name themselves. They waited for a careful girl to find them.
But he found himself rounding syllables like stones in his mouth, silently. He knew he was shy, and thought to be stupid; he was beginning to suspect, thought, that he wasn't stupid. Perhaps not even slow. Merely uneducated. But not, he hoped, uneducable.
I felt afraid. No one would know that, not Mother and not Mike. I'd keep the fear pushed down inside of me, and no one would know it was there. "I'm awfully happy," I wrote. I was. Awfully happy and awfully in love, and tomorrow I was marrying Mike.
When we write about our lives we respond to them. As we respond to them we are rendered more fluid, more centered, more agile on our own behalf. We are tendered conscious.
I work fitfully, in hope rather than in expectation, invent methods which last a week, and fill notebooks with tiny, illegible writing which often defies my own attempts to decipher it.
Sometimes, when you're writing sentence by sentence, you're not really sure what footprints you're going to fall into, or what ghosts might appear.
Good writing does not come from verbiage but from words.
sometimes decided to be truculent and unyielding, like a grouchy toddler -
I have made a silent compact with myself not to change a line of what I write. I am not interested in perfecting my thoughts, nor my actions.
We are angered even by the full acceptance of our humiliating confessions - how much more by hearing in hard distinct syllables from the lips of a near observer, those confused murmurs which we try to call morbid, and strive against as if they were the oncoming of numbness!
A diary is more or less the work of a man of clay whose hands are clumsy and in whose eyes there is no light.
When a reserved person once begins to talk, nothing can stop him; and he does not want to have to listen, until he has quite finished his unfamiliar exertion.
Chatty, defensive, observant. My new favorite witness.
I never spoke - unless addressed
And then, 'twas brief and low
I could not bear to live - aloud
The Racket shamed me so
And if it had not been so far
And any one I knew
Were going - I had often thought
How noteless - I could die -
Sometimes writing has to be forced. In starting out, the shape and timbre and texture of what is to come is an uncertain chimera shimmering from behind a veil. You must not wait, loiter, dilly-dally. You must force your way painfully through.
It takes a long, long time to write what I do write.
She had spent a year not talking even as everyone tried to pry words out of her. Not being able to talk was about fear, about being terrified of what might come out, of what you might expose.
For four days straights, I sit at my typewriter in my bedroom. Twenty of my typed pages, full of slashes and red-circled edits, become thirty-one in thick Strathmore white.
Simple is the only way I can write.
Writing is not some quiet, closet act.
Brevity in writing is very powerful
If he did not speak his tale, it grew dank and musty, it shrank inside him, while with the telling the tale stayed fresh and virtuous.
In labouring to be concise, I become obscure.
Those who have a great deal to complain about are so often silent in their suffering, while those who have little to be dissatisfied with are frequently highly vocal about it.
Pick your words carefully as it has the power to make the sentence beautiful or ugly ...
We have had three appalling weeks, the kind one hardly believes while one is going through it. And afterwards, as now, it seems quite unbelievable - except for the inexplicable weariness. Written down it sounds merely funny.
To be as vehement as he is is to be almost non-committal.
I'm pretty outspoken.
Like Gert is here, but . . . She couldn't find the words to finish.
Writing is always harder than talking.
There's constant drama, and I'm busy, busy, but at the center of the madness is the desire to write, the need to write. That desire, that need, is as palpable and relentless as any junkie's craving, and will possess me all day until I can park myself in a chair and do my work.
Your silence was effortless and windless, like the silence of clouds or plants. All silence is the recognition of a mystery. There was much about you that seemed mysterious. A
in painted quiet and concentration
I actually write a lot, but mostly just daily gibberish. I am a documentation addict: "I just peed. I walked down the hallway. I dropped my pencil. I just aged a minute."
I'm a language-oriented writer who proceeds sentence by sentence.
In the silence I heard Bastet, who had retreated under the bed, carrying on a mumbling, profane monologue. (If you ask how I knew it was profane, I presume you have never owned a cat.)
There was no sign of Jules.
"Bad news," said Elliot. "The man is sick. You're going to have to settle for me."
"Sick?" Vee demanded. "How sick? What kind of excuse is sick?"
"Sick as in it's coming out both ends."
Vee scrunched her nose. "Too much information.
Conciseness in art is essential and a refinement. The concise man makes one think; the verbose bores. Always work towards conciseness.
Talkativeness is a symptom of deep-seated pessimism. Without it there would be no pessimistic literature.
I could isolate, consciously, little. Everything seemed blurred, yellow-clouded, yielding nothing tangible. Her inept acrostics, maudlin evasions, theopathies - every recollection formed ripples of mysterious meaning. Everything seemed yellowly blurred, illusive, lost.
Considering I'm a writer, you leave me strangely bereft of words.
I find so much writing colourless, small in its means, unwilling to take stylistic risks. Often it goes wrong; I am not the one to judge. Sometimes, I hope, it goes right.
I have no courage to write much unless I am written to. I soon begin to think that there are plenty of other correspondents more interesting - so if you all want to hear from me you know the conditions.
Every afternoon, I shut the door of my bedroom to write: Poetry was secret, dangerous, wicked and delicious.
Sentences take shape from the words that are stacked on top of one another in the dusty chambers of my mind, waiting to be used--words that now peel off my lips, trembling as they come to life.