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.
I saw Nina Nastasia and Jim White at the 400 Bar tonight. I am completely broke and regret nothing.
A boy with an asymmetrical haircut and his girlfriend got on the bus tonight, and got off several stops later, she grabbing his falling pants by the belt as they walked down the aisle, holding them up.
'... if one may be allowed to hope where one does not know...'
On the watch list: people on the bus who switch seats more than once in the same trip for no discernable reason.
I had never before noticed that the stooped, slow, trenchcoated old man who boards the bus on Front pays the fare by emptying change from a pill bottle which he then puts in his pocket.
'What right have I to write on Prudence, whereof I have little, and that of the negative sort? My prudence consists in avoiding and going without, not in the inventing of means and methods, not in adroit steering, not in gentle repairing. I have no skill to make money spend well, no genius in my economy, and whoever sees my garden discovers that I must have some other garden. Yet I love facts, and hate lubricity and people without perception. Then I have the same title to write on prudence that I have to write on poetry or holiness. We write from aspiration and antagonism, as well as from experience. We paint those qualities which we do not possess.'
Soon after he has begun keeping his notebook (in the eleventh entry), Malte Laurids Brigge has a good day, which is figured for him, retrospectively, by the newly healthy man he sees walking down the street, not needing his crutch: 'he held it in front of him lightly, and from time to time to set it down firm and loud like a herald's staff. He could not repress a smile of joy, and smiled, past everything, at the sun, at the trees. His step was bashful as a child's, but unusually light, full of remembrance of earlier walking.'
The entry ends there, with not many more sentences before that. If it were longer, if it reported on too many more things seen (Malte also describes the morning, the setting), or worse, if it had continued with further events, or another encounter, or anything Malte could have said, it would not have been a good day. By its brevity, its consisting of this lone anecdote, excluding all else, the entry stands in for any other good day: this, or something like this, is sufficient for a good day. As anecdotal, it is the kind of thing anyone might have seen, and that anyone might accept that someone else had seen. Malte states what might work as a principle for the transferability of the anecdotal, later in the fourteenth entry when he says why his juvenile verses are no good. He says more than this, but basically, he says, they were about feelings, rather than experiences. The principle, then: an anecdote is a minimally complete story about someone having an experience.
'Blessed is he who expecteth nothing, for he shall never be disappointed.'
As I get off the bus, a couple is walking past the stop. 'Hello! Hello! Do you have a cigarette?' shouts the woman, waving her hands.
I tell her that I don't smoke.
'Thank you,' says the man, 'I wish I could sleep with you tonight.'