From Philosophical Investigations, §2
“Imagine a language . . . to serve for communication between a builder A and an assistant B. A is building with building-stones: there are blocks, pillars, slabs and beams. B has to pass the stones, and that in the order in which A needs them. For this purpose they use a language consisting of the words block, pillar, slab, beam. A calls them out; — B brings the stone which he has learnt to bring at such-and-such a call. — Conceive this as a complete primitive language.”
After a day of hard labor with builder A, assistant B has eaten — wordlessly — the dinner his wife has — wordlessly — prepared. He sits crosslegged before the fire, satisfied. By degrees, a distant look comes into his eyes.
“Block”, he says softly, staring into the fire. The wife glances quizzically in his direction.
He looks down at his own hands. “Block”, he says again. The woman, who knows the language from observing him at work with his colleagues but has never participated in it, looks around to see the block he must be referring to.
Once again, he speaks, slowly, softly, wonderingly: “Pillar”. The woman grows distraught and finally frightened.
Assistant B has lunched upon strange mushrooms. The afternoon’s work begins ordinarily enough; but at some point he responds to builder A’s call “beam”, not by tossing a beam, but with a suggestive pelvic thrust. Builder A, attending to the work in front of him, does not see this, but calls out again “beam”. Assistant B dances from side to side, erotically, giggling.
Assistant D, from the adjacent worksite, whose mate gathers from the same fields as assistant B’s, joins the dance. Several other assistants do the same.
The afternoon grows chaotic, as the workers’ conduct deteriorates to a rhythmic bump-and-grind, shouting each of the four words of their language in turn, circling the stock of parts. Some begin clapping at each bump. Others join in on the off-beats.
The masons, bewildered, abandon their work but do not join in. They go home.
Assistant A and his mate luxuriate — wordlessly — under their furs, after a capacious meal. He holds up his hand, palm upwards. “Slab”, he says. She does not understand. “Slab”, he says again, and claps his hand to his chest. Tentatively, she presses a hand to her own breast; he grasps it, transfers her touch to himself, and presses his own hand to her breast. “Slab,” he says, softly.
She smiles. He chuckles. She puts a hand to his crotch. “Pillar”, she says. He laughs uproariously.
The rest of the evening proceeds wordlessly.