We writers aren't sculpting in DNA, or even clay or mud, but words, sentences, paragraphs, syntax, voice; materials issued by tongue or fingertips but which upon release dissolve into the atmosphere, into cloud, confection, specter. Language, as a vehicle, is a lemon, a hot rod painted with thrilling flames but crazily erratic to drive, riddled with bugs like innate self-consciousness, embedded metaphors and symbols, helpless intertextuality, and so forth. Despite being regularly driven on prosaic errands {interoffice memos, supermarket receipts, etc.}, it tends to veer on its misaligned chassis into the ditch of abstraction, of dream.
( Jonathan Lethem )
[ The Ecstasy of Influence: ]
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