I love books. I love language. I love it when the precise word comes to mind that expresses the shade of meaning that you need at that moment. I love hearing a good reader or storyteller get down to the essence of a story.
As much as I love language, it's so inexact. Maybe that's why I don't talk so much. There isn't really a word that describes the angle and the intensity of the light careening off the new snow on a December morning, except perhaps for Eskimos. Everybody knows it when they see it, though. Thankfully, there is music to fill in some of those gaps where words fail us.