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.
'Putting a book together is interesting and exhilarating. It is sufficiently difficult and complex that it engages all your intelligence. It is life at its most free. Your freedom as a writer is not freedom of expression in the sense of wild blurting: you may not let rip. It is life at its most free, if you are fortunate enough to be able to try it, because you select your materials, invent your task, and pace yourself. In the democracies, you may even write and publish anything you please about any governments or institutions, even if what you write is demonstrably false.
The obverse of this freedom, of course, is that you work is so meaningless, so fully for yourself alone, and so worthless to the world, that no one except you cares whether you do it well, or ever. You are free to make several thousand close judgment calls a day. Your freedom is a by-product of your days' triviality. A shoe salesman—who is doing others' tasks, who must answer to two or three bosses, who must do his job their way, and must put himself in their hands, at their place, during their hours—is nevertheless working usefully. Further, if the shoe salesman fails to appear one morning, someone will notice and miss him. Your manuscript, on which you lavish such care, has no needs or wishes; it knows you not. Nor does anyone need your manuscript; everyone needs shoes more. There are many manuscripts already—worthy ones, most edifying and moving ones, intelligent and powerful ones. If you believed Paradise Lost to be excellent, would you buy it? Why not shoot yourself, actually, rather than finish one more excellent manuscript on which to gag the world?'
The work, of late: taking up the Tractatus more seriously, intent on 5.5563:
'Alle Sätze unserer Umgangssprache sind tatsächlich, so wie sie sind, logisch vollkommen geordnet. – Jenes Einfachste, was wir hier angeben sollen, ist nicht ein Gleichnis der Wahrheit, sondern die volle Wahrheit selbst.
(Unsere Probleme sind nicht abstrakt, sondern vielleicht die konkretesten, die es gibt.)'
An under-recognized 'least action' principle: tell students how much they have to do, and they will try to figure out how little they have to do.
'It's so bright in here', I tell the cashier. I do feel amazed, dazzled. It must be the same—mundane, dim the way day-to-day life is dim—but tonight the store looks sparkling, alight like the supermarkets in movies, childhood. I tell her I've been walking out on Summit, where all seems darkened, long shrouded stretches passing by tall peaceful houses isolated from the street by their spacious, manicured yards. Where the people with money live. She can't believe that—how could they not have nice safe streetlights—but I volunteer, maybe with some (justified) spite, that they somehow paid to have the lights turned off so as to discourage visitors. Oh no. But.
The cashier looks uncharacteristically grave. 'We had a stickup here last night', she says quietly, gesturing outside. 'Someone was waiting at the bus stop at midnight. Somebody came up behind him and said, "Gimme your money."' She makes a little finger-gun, points.
'They didn't do anything, though.'
The workers call banging on things 'striking'.