I sometimes sit out back (that’s where the breath of creation lurks around here) and wonder about words.
St. Augustine thinks that words are signs (which is fine as far as it goes).
And St. Derrida, along with his band of merry men, thinks words are infinitely regressive signs, which is a mouthful.
(Incidentally, if anyone knows how to vomit up words like yesterday’s lunch, it’s the pious society of St. Derrida.)
So, today, I sent the holy men packing and asked an artist. She says: Rattling words on the page [are] calling my eyes to dance with them.
Words are alive.
And with a novel this beautiful, I buy that.
G. C. Jeffers 
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