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Secret Language Quotes

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Secret Language Quotes

“We go up to the convent. […] To the right of the entrance, some letters of a mysterious language are traced on the wall. We are told that Michetti invented this language for his personal use. Why? Prison inmates use a secret language among themselves so as not to be understood by their jailers. Obviously, Michetti considered humanity to be totally composed of jailers. […] To show how difficult it is to read this introductory epigraph, we are told that not even Gabriele d'Annunzio succeeded in interpreting it. […] "Who do you think you are — Dante Alighieri?" According to the most reliable version, the epigraph goes as follows: "Whoever brings evil into this house, may he be buried in shit.” It is a legitimate wish and one that, for all we know, Providence has thus far fulfilled. But why not express it in a clearer way? […] The visit to the convent continues. Rooms and corridors are of a virginal whiteness. In the hall where the convent elders assembled for their meals, the credenza has been replaced by a small harmonium. A painting by Sartorio in his "early manner" hangs over a console. [..] The painter has signed with only his initials, without realizing that the initials for “Giorgio Aristide Sartorio” spell the word "gas.”

Fine ArtConventSecret Language
Author:Alberto Savinio
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“We go up to the convent. […] To the right of the entrance, some letters of a mysterious language are traced on the wall. We are told that Michetti invented this language for his personal use. Why? Prison inmates use a secret language among themselves so as not to be understood by their jailers. Obviously, Michetti considered humanity to be totally composed of jailers. […] To show how difficult it is to read this introductory epigraph, we are told that not even Gabriele d'Annunzio succeeded in interpreting it. […] "Who do you think you are — Dante Alighieri?" According to the most reliable version, the epigraph goes as follows: "Whoever brings evil into this house, may he be buried in shit.” It is a legitimate wish and one that, for all we know, Providence has thus far fulfilled. But why not express it in a clearer way? […] The visit to the convent continues. Rooms and corridors are of a virginal whiteness. In the hall where the convent elders assembled for their meals, the credenza has been replaced by a small harmonium. A painting by Sartorio in his "early manner" hangs over a console. [..] The painter has signed with only his initials, without realizing that the initials for “Giorgio Aristide Sartorio” spell the word "gas." [FROM: Speaking to Cleo (1939)]”

Fine ArtConventSecret LanguageFart Joke
Author:Alberto Savinio
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“They are forever looking into the nooks and crannies of a thing, whatever the thing may be. Always up very early or very late, going for rides on the backs of whales who deliver the mail; waking up covered in a secret language of hums; writing about the hobbies of feathers; changing shape like a cloud; howling at the moon; being a radioactive night-light in the dark; being a life raft on an ocean of alphabet soup; being great-hearted; being selfless; believing in tall tales, doodlebugs, and doohickeys. Believing. Believing in themselves. Believing in you.”

DarkMoonOceanYouMailSelflessHobbiesFeathersWhalesBelievingCloudShapeDeliverAlphabet SoupHowlingTall TalesRadioactiveSecret LanguageHumNooksCranniesDoodlebugsDoohickeysGreat HeartedLife Raft
Book:Confessions of an Imaginary Friend
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“Her mother was peaceful. She was calm. The sight filled Alice with the kind of green hope she found at the bottom of rock pools at low tide but never managed to cup in her hands. The more time she spent with her mother in the garden, the more deeply Alice understood- from the tilt of Agnes's wrist when she inspected a new bud, to the light that reached her eyes when she lifted her chin, and the thin rings of dirt that encircled her fingers as she coaxed new fern fronds from the soil- the truest parts of her mother bloomed among her plants. Especially when she talked to the flowers. Her eyes glazed over and she mumbled in a secret language, a word here, a phrase there as she snapped flowers off their stems and tucked into her pockets. Sorrowful remembrance, she'd say as she plucked a bindweed flower from its vine. Love, returned. The citrusy scent of lemon myrtle would fill the air as she tore it from a branch. Pleasures of memory. Her mother pocketed a scarlet palm of kangaroo paw.”

GardeningMother And DaughterSecret Language
Book:The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart
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