St. Augustine thinks that words are just labels for things (the boneheaded semi-Gnostic).
And St. Derrida, along with his band of merry men, thinks words are infinitely regressive signs, which is a mouthful.
(Incidentally, if anyone knows how to vomit up words like yesterday’s lunch, it’s the pious society of St. Derrida.)
So, today, I sent the holy men packing and asked an artist. She says: Rattling words on the page [are] calling my eyes to dance with them.
Words are alive.
And with a novel this beautiful, I buy that.