The failure of words.

from Les Mots by Jean-Paul Sartre page 30 nonfiction ~1 min read

So I'm a promising poodle; I prophesy. I make childish remarks, they are remembered, they are repeated to me. I learn to make others. I make grown-up remarks. I know how to say things "beyond my years" without meaning to. These remarks are poems. The recipe is simple: you must trust to the Devil, to chance, to emptiness, you borrow whole sentences from grown-ups, you string them together and repeat them without understanding them. In short, I pronounce true oracles, and each adult interprets them as he wishes. The Good is born in the depths of my heart, the True in the young darkness of my Understanding. I admire myself on trust: my words and gestures happen to have a quality that escapes me and that is immediately apparent to grown-ups. It doesn't matter! I'D offer them unfailingly the delicate pleasure that is denied me. My clowning dons the cloak of generosity: poor people were grieved at not having a child; moved to pity, I drew myself out of nothingness in a burst of altruism and assumed the disguise of childhood so as to give them the illusion of having a son.

—Jean-Paul Sartre, Les Mots, p. 30