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.
'A book of philosophy suitable to what Thoreau envisions as "students" would be written with next to no forward motion, one that culminates in each sentence. This sounds like a prescription for a new music, say a new discourse, and hence like a negation of poetry as well as of narrative, since it implicitly denies, in a work of literary originality, the role of the line; the sentence is everything.'
'... his own wish to write (to fish with the poet in him) interrupts his wish to read, which would, according to his way of thinking, mean that his writing is continuously a matter of interrupting writing, genuine writing being a matter of breaking in upon something, call this meditation, or silence, or call it language, or the present.'
With whom, for whom, to whom, do others do what they do? Us, sometimes; but also others still. So our interest in what others do may range far.
Caring what others do means being interested in knowing what they do.
Can you make good on a confession?
You might try to set things right or make things even to make good on an apology. In confessing, what you owe is the truth. To whom is it owed?
If you're guilty, you're meant to pay; if you're ashamed, you're already paying—or overpaying.
Those to whom one confesses and those to whom one apologizes.
We confess guilt to those we have wronged; and to others who may hardly know us. (This is one way confession can be hard; as if we are introducing ourselves as bad people.)
To confess shame we may need those who know us best; we need not have wronged them, nor even to have done anything they would fault us for.