This bit from Breakfast of Champions has been fucking with my head lately.
Trout asked about the truck, and the driver said it was the greatest truck in the world. The tractor alone cost twenty-eight thousand dollars. It was powered by a three hundred and twenty-four horsepower Cummins Diesel engine, which was turbo-charged, so it would function well at high altitudes. It had hydraulic steering, air brakes, a thirteenspeed transmission, and was owned by his brother-inlaw.ย
His brother-in-law, he said, owned twenty-eight trucks, and was President of the Pyramid Trucking Company.ย
โWhy did he name his company Pyramid?โ asked Trout. โI meanโthis thing can go a hundred miles an hour, if it has to. Itโs fast and useful and unornamental. Itโs as up-to-date as a rocket ship. I never saw anything that was less like a pyramid than this truck.โย
A pyramid was a sort of huge stone tomb which Egyptians had built thousands and thousands of years before. The Egyptians didnโt build them anymore. The tombs looked like this, and tourists would come from far away to gaze at them:
โWhy would anybody in the business of highspeed transportation name his business and his trucks after buildings which havenโt moved an eighth of an inch since Christ was born?โย
The driverโs answer was prompt. It was peevish, too, as though he thought Trout was stupid to have to ask a question like that. โHe liked the sound of it,โ he said. โDonโt you like the sound of it?โย
Trout nodded in order to keep things friendly. โYes,โ he said, โitโs a very nice sound.โย
Trout sat back and thought about the conversation. He shaped it into a story, which he never got around to writing until he was an old, old man. It was about a planet where the language kept turning into pure music, because the creatures there were so enchanted by sounds. Words became musical notes. Sentences became melodies. They were useless as conveyors of information, because nobody knew or cared what the meanings of words were anymore.ย
So leaders in government and commerce, in order to function, had to invent new and much uglier vocabularies and sentence structures all the time, which would resist being transmuted to music.
From Breakfast of Champions or Goodbye Blue Monday by Kurt Vonnegut