...of pleasantries

Without the slightest apprehension, in all innocence, in all confidence, they present it... they find words to make clearly perceptible, to make evident its "perfect proportions," its "great simplicity," "the admirably chosen place it occupies, where it harmonises perfectly with the city, with all the colours of the sky..."
But all those ornaments, all those gems they cover it with, which don't suit it, which were not meant for things of its sort, increase the intensity of the feeling of repulsion, of revolt, of impotent fury it provokes, produced by... what, exactly? No words have ever yet attempted to capture it, to demonstrate it...
Their words are now bringing up to the surface here words of the same sort, of the same force, ones which could hurl themselves on their words, snatch them away from the tower, take their place... here they come, building up, crowding in... "inaccurate proportions"... "a servile, impoverished imitation of what elsewhere is a masterpiece of originality, of force"... "the worst possible choice of site... where it disfigures, dishonours the whole city, whatever angle you look at it from, whatever the time, whatever the light"... the words they come, they insist, they want to pounce, to launch an assault... but on no account must they come out, nothing must allow any suspicion of their existence... above all, the silence holding them back must not last too long, it could become one of those "heavy," "reproachful" silences... the dangerous words retreat, hide... those that must take their place arrive... "Yes, yes, you're right, it's quite true."

"Yes, you're right, yes, it's true"... the signature affixed to the bottom of the peace treaty after the surrender...
But there has been no surrender. Had they not been welcomed into a friendly country? Was it not necessary that perfect understanding should be preserved at all costs? Were they not meant to feel at home here?
And now that they've gone... even their image has faded... what they have left behind them is still theirs... They are at home here. They are at home everywhere... Everywhere, their words have complete mastery... they alight with perfect liberty... there?... yes, even there... and they remain fixed there forever, they stick fast... "Admirable"... "Amazing"... "A gem"... "A real marvel"... Their constant drone produces a kind of drowsiness... a kind of numbness... a kind of slight suffocation... a kind of very slight nausea... oh, so slight... it's nothing... it'll pass... it's already passing... things will be all right... yes, everything is fine.

[Here, Sarraute, N.]