"A voice with no hunger. No grief. No gossip. A voice that’s never bitten itself trying not to speak. Real language stumbles. It hesitates. It remembers. I think of Tin Ujevic, Croatia’s great poet, who [had] once entered a tavern unshaven and was refused wine. He returned the next day in a suit. They served him. He poured the wine into his pocket. Feeding the coat, he said. You weren’t serving me. That, too, is language. Who’s being fed? What’s being served?"