Discarding Descartes.

The truth is that Walkers is genuinely interested in what she does. He
has read Jakobson and Merleau-Ponty on aphasia and language
acquisition, has given serious thought to there matters because of his
engagement with words, and therefore he does not feel like a fraud or
a conniver when he starts pelting her with questions. At first, Hélène
is taken aback by his enthusiasm, but once she realizes that he is in
earnest, she begins to talk about articulation disorders in children,
her methods of treating the lisping, garble-mouthed, stuttering
youngsters who come to her clinic, but no, she doesn't only work with
children, there are the adults as well, the old people, the victims of
stroke and various brain injuries, the aphasics, the ones who have
lost the power of speech or can't remember words or jumble words to
such an extent that pen becomes paper and tree becomes house. There
are several different forms of aphasia, Walker learns, depending on
which part of the brain is affected--Broca's aphasia, Werincke's
aphasia, conduction aphasia, transcortical sensory aphasia, anomic
aphasia, and so on--and isn't it intriguing, Hélène says, smiling for
the first time since she entered the restaurant, truly smiling at
last, isn't it intriguing that thought cannot exist without language,
and since language is a function of the brain, we would have to say
that language--the ability to experience the world through symbols--is
in some sense a physical property of human beings, which proves that
the old mind-body duality is so much nonsense, doesn't it? Adieu,
Descartes. The mind and the body are one.
Paul Auster