Dialog - Om att uppfinna ett nytt språk

Stillman: You see, the world is in fragments, sir. And it’s my job to put it back together again
Quinn: You’ve taken on quite a bit
Stillman: I realize that. But I’m merely looking for a principle. That’s well within the scope of one man. If I can lay the foundation, other hands can do the work of restoration themselves. The important thing is the premise, the theoretical first step. Unfortunately, there is no one else who can do this.
Quinn: Have you made much progress?
Stillman: Enormous strides. In fact, I feel now that I’m on the verge of a significant breakthrough.
Quinn: I’m reassured to hear it.
Stillman: It’s a comforting thought, yes. And it’s all because of my cleverness, the dazzling clarity of my mind.
Quinn: I don’t doubt that.
Stillman: You see, I’ve understood the need to limit myself. To work within a terrain small enough to make all results conclusive.
Quinn: The premise of the premise, so to speak.
Stillman: That’s it, exactly. The principle of the principle, the method of operation. You see, the world is in fragments, sir. Not only have we lost our sense of purpose, we have lost the language whereby we can speak of it. These are no doubt spiritual matters, but they have their analogue in the material world. My brilliant stroke has been to confine myself to physical things, to the immediate and tangible. My motives are lofty, but my work now takes in the realm of the everyday. That’s why I’m so often misunderstood. But no matter. I’ve learned to shrug these things off.
Quinn: An admirable response
Stillman: The only response. The only worthy of a man of my stature. You see, I am in the process of inventing a new language. With work like that to do, I can’t be bothered by the stupidity of others. In any case, it’s all part of the disease I’m trying to cure
Quinn: A new language?
Stillman: Yes. A language that will at last say what we have to say. For our words no longer correspond to the world. When things were whole, we felt confident that our words could express them. But little by little, these things have broken apart, shattered, collapsed into chaos. And yet our words have remained the same. They have not adapted to the new reality. Hence, every time we try to speak of what we see, we speak falsely, distorting the very thing we are trying to represent. It’s made a mess of everything

ur: Paul Auster (1985) The New York Triology. City of Glass p. 91-93