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.
'The lover speaks in bundles of sentences but does not integrate these sentences on a higher level, into a work; his is a horizontal discourse: no transcendence, no deliverance, no novel…'
'It is in fearing our own thoughts, concepts and words, but also honoring ourselves in them and involuntarily ascribing to them the strength to reward, despise, praise and censure us; it is therefore in associating with them as we would with free, spiritual persons, with independent powers, as equals with equals—herein lies the root of the strange phenomenon that I have called "intellectual conscience."'
The disillusioned name themselves after a term of criticism whose importance to them betrays their disappointment, as well. Those who have no illusions are not likewise disillusioned.
'Why…?' asks for an explanation or a justification.
'How…?' asks for an articulation, breaking something down in parts or steps, or putting something into words.
Questions about how texts work are precluded by the belief that one knows what counts as work.
How texts mean, before 'what does he mean?'.
How texts work, before 'what's been done?'.
You really must admire any work in whose blurb the aggrieved or bewildered phrase 'Why the fuck…?' occurs.
Since the detective usually never finds the body, she must almost always be called in; so she can always be shown being called away.
'… he begins to search for the kind of statement that will show a way rather than be an answer, invite a further question rather than elicit direct assent.'