Words came spilling out of him before he knew their meaning, and if there was none to listen, he'd talk to his own ten toes. He didn't care a fig for what he talked about. One matter would serve him as well as another. He'd prattle of Normans or crops or weather till the spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth, and if you made a move to flee, there'd come to his eyes a haunted look, and he'd prattle all the faster so you'd find no chink to flee him through. Words were the line that moored him to the world, I think, and he thought if ever that line should break, he'd be forever cast adrift.
-Frederick Buechner, Godric, 13.
1 comment:
This popped into my head the other day...it's such a great description...I think I've see this in others (with a rising sense of panic--help! I'm stuck in a conversation and I can't escape!) as well as myself.
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