A talent is formed in stillness, a character in the world's torrent.

By thunders of white silence.

Yon foaming flood seems motionless as ice; Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye, Frozen by distance.

A photograph can express silence.

… memories that never ride anything but sound waves.

When we define the Photograph as a motionless image, this does not mean only that the figures it represents do not move; it means that they do not (i)emerge(i), do not (i)leave(i): they are anesthetized and fastened down, like butterflies.

The illimitable, silent, never-resting thing called Time, rolling, rushing on, swift, silent, like an all-embracing ocean-tide, on which we and all the Universe swim like exhalations, like apparitions which are, and then are not: this is forever very literally a miracle; a thing to strike us dumb — for we have no word to speak about it.

I felt very still and empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo.

They weave a slow andante as in sleep,
Scaled yellow, swampy black, plague-spotted white;
With blue and lidless eyes at watch they keep
A treachery of silence; infinite.

We sit and talk,
quietly, with long lapses of silence
and I am aware of the stream
that has no language, coursing
beneath the quiet heaven of
your eyes
which has no speech

No hammers fell, no ponderous axes rung; Like some tall palm the mystic fabric sprung. Majestic silence!

Dirk was, for one of the few times in a life of exuberantly prolific loquacity, wordless.

Only her eyes seem to move. It's like they touch us, not with sight or sense, but like the stream from a hose touches you, the stream at the instant of impact as dissociated from the nozzle as though it had never been there.

The wizard silence of the hours of dew.