That is probably why all art aspires to the condition of wordlessness. When literature works on you, it does so in silence, in your dreams, in your wordless moments. Good words enter you and become moods, become the quiet fabric of your being. Like music, like painting, literature too wants to transcend its primary condition and become something highter. Art wants to move into silence, into the emotional and spiritual conditions of the world.
Statues become melodies, melodies become yearnings, yearnings become actions.
They ate by turns from the same fork, and she drank wine from his mouth. You do not have to have a complicated moral philosophy. But a writer always tries, I think, to be a part of the solution, to understand a little about life and to pass this on. Even someone as grim and unsentimental as Samuel Beckett, with his lunatics in garbage cans or up to their necks in sand, whose lives consist of pawing through the contents of their purses, stopping to marvel at each item, gives us great insight into what is true, into what helps. He smiles an oblique and private smile at us, the most delicious smile of all, and this changes how we look at life.