Ordinary language is all right.
One could divide humanity into two classes:
those who master a metaphor, and those who hold by a formula.
Those with a bent for both are too few, they do not comprise a class.
In the end, in the 'Lecture on Ethics', the existence of language itself is what Wittgenstein wishes to say expresses what he seeks to express by describing the various experiences he puts forward in his examples (wonder at the existence of the world or the miraculous, a feeling of absolute safety, a feeling of guilt).
The ground cleared in Investigations §118, when everything interesting (great, important, as it were buildings) is seemingly destroyed, is 'the ground of language'.
Wittgenstein is already speaking as a 'we' in the second paragraph of the Investigations; and acknowledging his position relative to it ('so it seems to me'). And he does it in order to read a passage in a book whose author speaks as an 'I'.
'Stop! You're making me tired! Experiment, don't signify and interpret! Find your own places, territorialities, deterritorializations, regime, lines of flight! Semiotize yourself instead of rooting around in your prefab childhood and Western semiology.'
I'm always convinced that Descartes betrays himself by the sublimity of his examples: who distinguishes 'the sky, the earth, the seas' from one another? Who does it on the basis of anything?
Does any work which addresses a universal audience first have to constitute its audience as a universal one?
It's a bad sign that a philosopher may be inclined to start explaining what a condition is by indicating a blank spot in a conditional statement, written on a blackboard: 'whatever goes in here…'.
What serve us most paradigmatically as examples of 'conditions'?
'There is a splendid statement in one of Herzog's films. The main character asks himself a question and then says, Who will answer this answer? Actually, there is no question, answers are all one ever answers. To the answer already contained in a question (cross-examination, competition, plebiscite, etc.) one should respond with questions from another answer. One should bring forth the order-word of the order-word. In the order-word, life must answer the answer of death, not by fleeing, but by making flight act and create. There are pass-words beneath order-words. Words that pass, words that are components of passage, whereas order-words mark stoppages or organized, stratified compositions. A single thing or word undoubtedly has this twofold nature: it is necessary to extract one from the other—to transform the compositions of order into components of passage.'