O my LORD, I am not eloquent, neither heretofore, nor since thou hast spoken unto thy servant: but I am slow of speech, and of a slow tongue.

The answer . . . he said slowly.

As a protective mechanism, I developed a terse, cynical mode of speech that rebuffed those who sought to get too close to me. Conversation was my way of avoiding expression; my words were reserved for those times when I sat down alone to write. My face was always a deadpan or a mask of general friendliness; no word or event could jar me into a gesture of enthusiasm or despair.

My basic rule is to speak slowly and simply so that my audience has an opportunity to follow and think about what I am saying.

Be slow of tongue and quick of eye.

How did you get on? he asked slowly, as though gripping each word with his teeth very carefully to prevent it from trembling before letting it out.

I want to represent queerness and mujerness in the conversation. I worry that my poor Spanish may be off-putting to some cohorts. I just talk so damn slow in any language. I also want to represent slow talkers—and mimes.

My brain was slower than my mouth.

1987: "I could have knocked him out in the third round but I wanted to do it slowly, so he would remember this night for a long time."

Do not speak fast, for that shows folly.

During the pause while I was changing my string, the frenzied audience would often break into a slow handclap, inspiring Giorgio to dream up the nickname of “Slow hand” Clapton.

I’m like, "Oh, I make slow music." I guess that’s okay. Maybe it's a good thing to sound like yourself.

I would really like to slow down the speed of reading with continual punctuation marks. For I would like to be read slowly. (As I myself read.)

The man of perfect virtue is cautious and slow in his speech. When a man feels the difficulty of doing, can he be other than cautious and slow in speaking?