Language (n.) built of nouns and verbs presents the world as a heap of separate bits — screening out, or repressing, every interrelation.
Language (n.) cannot properly say what is implicit in it: the unity of differences, the inseparability of light and dark, of Yes and No.
Language (n.) looks like a set of fixed terms standing over against events — an illusion given away by the impossibility of keeping a living language stable.
Language (n.) slices continuous behavior into discrete elements, as if it were made of replaceable machine parts.
Language (n.) decides what we can notice: Eskimos have five words for kinds of snow, while Aztec had one word for snow, rain and hail.
Language (n.) is full of spooks, like the "it" in "it is raining," invented as the supposed causes of action.