Almost reminiscent of the format of Tropismes, the individual pieces composing L'Usage de la parole are more abstract and more profound, less anchored to a particular individual or group, than the sketches contained in Nathalie Sarraute's earlier work. Here the author is delving into the significance of language itself, often deflected from its original meaning by continual usage and habit. In each case she takes as her point of departure some commonplace word or expression, which she then subjects to microscopic scrutiny. It is too much to say that Sarraute dissects language. Rather, like a sensitive turning fork, she picks up echoes and reverberations and transmits them to her reader….

Like the writer in Entre la vie et la mort, Sarraute is fascinated by words. They are, of course, the writer's stock-in-trade. But how often words are misunderstood, even when they are intended to persuade and convince. The more banal the expression, Sarraute seems to say, the further removed it is from its original import and the more susceptible it becomes to misinterpretation. And misinterpretation—the slight misalignment of two speakers, their divergent perspectives, their unexpected reactions—is the basis for half the world's ills. Sarraute never says as much, of course. She never dots her i's or crosses her t's, preferring the ubiquitous points de suspension, which leave conclusions—even the endings of sentences—up to the reader.

This reader finds Sarraute to be a tacit moralist in the lineage of La Rochefoucauld and La Bruyère. Her instantaneous portraits, sketched in and rubbed out in the same twinkling gesture, capture the essence of human relationships. She re-creates en passant the torment of incomprehension, the magic of love, the fear of abandoment, the anguish of betrayal, even the unthinkable act of dying. There is almost always a victim tyrannized by a victor. The oppressor and the oppressed, the strong and the weak, the bold and the timorous are joined in a linguistic struggle, where words are the ultimate weapon. (p. 625)

Once again—as in Le Silence and Le Mensonge—Sarraute notes the power of language and the perils of misunderstanding, as well as the fear and distrust of direct communication. (If a subject is disagreeable, who interrupts to say, "Ne me parlez pas de ca"? If an argument is dense, how many speak up with, "Je ne comprends pas"?) But Sarraute refuses to dictate behavior or make value judgments. It appears that she is merely describing what is, not suggesting what ought to be. In fact, her manner is so mild, her weapons so disguised, that we are barely aware of hearing a soft-voiced call to arms. (p. 626)