The lost art of conversation.

Conversation is life, language is the deepest being. We see the patterns repeat, the gestures drive the words. It is the sound and picture of humans communicating. It is talk as a definition of itself. Talk. Voices out of doorways and open windows, voices on stuccoed-brick balconies, a driver taking both hands off the wheel to gesture as he speaks. Every conversation is a shared narrative, a thing that surges forward, too dense to allow space for the unspoken, the sterile. The talk is unconditional, the participants drawn in completely.

This is a way of speaking that takes such pure joy in its own openness and ardor that we begin to feel these people are discussing language itself. What pleasure in the simplest greeting. It's as though one friend says to another, "How good it is to say 'How are you?'" The other replying, "When I answer 'I am well and how are you,' what I really mean is that I'm delighted to have a chance to say these familiar things — they bridge the lonely distances.

[ Don DeLillo: The Names. ]

Revisão.

Ciências da comunicação.

Não há diálogo possível com um monólogo.

Edição crítica.

Aponho aos textos que escreves comentários invisíveis à margem, quase frase a frase — uma espécie de edição crítica, de notas para a leitura da obra de. Dir-me-ás que os critérios editoriais não foram bem definidos; que há lacunas e imprecisões graves; que estas anotações não servem para outro leitor que não eu; que «isso não é bem assim». Enganas-te, e eu sorrio.

Farol.