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. ]