"Words," he said, "is oh such a twitch-tickling problem to me all my life."

But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.

I used to stutter badly when I was a child. And it’s something — if you know anybody who stuttered, it’s a very debilitating thing. If I told you that I used to talk — t- — t- — t- — to talk like that, people will smile. But if I told you I had a clubfoot when I was kid that was fixed, no one would laugh about it.

I had come this far without the elegance of speech. ... I could not speak coherently. I stuttered in my mind. I could not express my perception of the sacred. I could speak everyday language: Please pass the salt. I would like . . . When are we going . . . I'll meet you there. I wanted the intricate and metaphorical language of my ancestors to pass through my language, my life.

Sometimes the things that come out of my mouth are mortifying.

What, I believe, produces in me the deep feeling, in which I live, of incongruity with others, is that most think with sensitivity, while I feel with thought.

I heard, fear-stricken and amazed, My speech tongue-tied, my hair upraised.

Through want of heart fear seizes on my tongue.

Why — why — ” stammered the youth struggling with his balking tongue.

I always find it more difficult to say the things I mean than the things I don't.

In me the need to talk is a primary impulse, and I can't help saying right off what comes to my tongue.

I have almost invariably found that the very feeling which has seemed to me most private, most personal, and hence most incomprehensible by others, has turned out to be an expression for which there is a resonance in many other people. It has led me to believe that what is most personal and unique in each one of us is probably the very element which would, if it were shared or expressed, speak most deeply to others.

In matters where I have no cognizance
I hold my tongue.

There is no doubt that I have lots of words inside me; but at moments, like rush-hour traffic at the mouth of a tunnel, they jam.