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 special sort of imposition, playing a role and expecting the one you're playing for to play one in return.
Not ten pages in to the second volume of Sontag's journals, it's disappointing to find, in an editorial note (to 'Dexamyls'): 'a form of amphetamine on which SS became dependent for writing in the mid-1960s and which she used until the early 1980s'.
You imagine some writers being pure. Their acuity stemming literally from nothing else but looking, seeing, intently, carefully.
If you know that words can overflow, you won't think speaking just means 'communicating thoughts'.
'We do better simply to say the sentence and so speak not about language but about the world.'
Lou Reed graffiti on a building's back wall.
A translucent little radish.
Glee, at discovering the roots of 'idiot' in idiōtēs, 'private person, layman, ignorant person', from idios 'own, private'.