Try telling the boy who’s just had his girlfriend’s namecut into his arm that there’s slippage between the signifierand the signified. Or better yet explain to the girlwho watched in the mirror as the tattoo artist stitchedthe word for her father’s name (on earth as in heaven)across her back that words aren’t made of flesh and blood,that they don’t bite the skin. Language is the animalwe’ve trained to pick up the scent of meaning. It’s whywhen the boy hears his father yelling at the doorhe sends the dog that he’s kept hungry, that he’s kicked,then loved, to attack the man, to show him that every wordhas a consequence, that language, when used right, hurts.
