These guessing words I find junked in my brain in deranged juxtaposition, like files randomly stuffed into cabinets by q dispirited secretary with no notion of what, if anything, might ever be usefully retrieved. Often all language seems this way: a monstrous compendium of embedded histories I'm helpless to understand. I employ it the way a dog drives a car, without grasping how the car came to exist or what makes a combustion engine possible. That is, of course, if dogs drove cars. They don't. Yet I go around forming sentences.
Jonathan Lethem. Chronic City. page 125