Dismissing language as an imperfect medium is now an acceptable and even fashionable excuse for linguistic laziness. Dinner parties crawl with so-called artists and cultural critics who twist their tongues into labyrinths in an attempt to impress; when unable to produce anything more than a sloppy reproduction of a greater mind’s musings, these same intellectuals readily conclude that words could never convey the essence of their high thought.
When I was a child, my grandmother told me where words go at night. All the letters gather together, she said. They crawl off of