Campfire at night. The novel is coming along. The kids were as fair as they could be and it was cool enough to be comfortable after the sun went down and warm enough to not need a coat. We understand the sound, how it satisfies. Words make the case for themselves. Sounds also do this. As rain drops onto a canvas outside the window, the repetition of its steady noise is comforting. Does "steady" work there? This too is a recreation of sound.
"For those pure waters tens of thousands dream
and are prepared to perish; night and day"
from "The Conference of the Birds" by Farid Ud-Din Attar
It's only nonsense if the wrong people read it. Hemingway had the sound right. It's hard to think of another prose writer who prioritizes this component of high-quality writing. Joyce, maybe. That might be considered inane rambling, but there are instruments that tend to ramble. Some writers do not do this. Tolstoy has little sound. Perhaps in Russian, it is different, but when translated the text lengthens. That isn't to say it's not high quality, but, one might say, that something opposite is prioritized in his writing.
Morrison has very little sound as well. Her's is more aura and tone. Which might be considered sound-oriented, if one is to imagine themselves sitting next to someone playing the cello. Even Jazz reads as syncopated text. This sound is different than style, however, which is the essence of a book and that which makes it truly exceptional. What Morrison might call "fire."
"—the boys have gone out of the city,
the songs withered black on their lips."
fom 'The Tribute' by H.D.
There is much that can distract from the page. Life does this. How many times have you been reading when, suddenly, you realize you're thought has strayed and you must go back to find your place, perhaps a few lines before that because you can't quite remember where you were. Then you commence reading, finding those places you've already been and what was developing there. But what of that which distracts within the page, those lines that seem raised as if all the rest was in relief.
"—like the great artist who takes up cooking or gardening late in life and who, though modest enough to be untroubled by criticism of his masterpieces, cannot bear to hear feint praise of his recipes or flower-beds, and basks naively in the delight of hearing them lauded; or who, though generous enough to let a canvas go for nothing, will be put out by losing a few pence at dominoes."
from "In Search of Lost Time" by Marcel Proust
So the sound rises to prompt reflection, like crescendo in a different volume. Like Pavarotti singing a couple of verses from the larger opera. This is the second distraction, the turn, or the point at which the words move towards reevaluation. It can feel as if the author has dropped pretenses and is speaking directly to the reader, not calling them by name, but speaking with such aesthetic intent as to develop another level of expression. Expression here is the key. It is the snake that coils over on itself, losing the eye at the impasse of rings. Before you realize, it's too late, you've been bitten, and the venom has already moved you to another place.