He talks incessantly. Presumably he talks in his sleep. Talking is his
constant exercise and recreation. He thrives on it. He lives for
talking's sake. He would languish if he were deprived of it for a single
day. His continuous practice in talking enables him easily to
outdistance all ordinary competitors. There is nothing which so
completely unnerves him as long periods of silence. He has the talking
habit in its most virulent form.

The trifling talker is equally objectionable. He talks much, but says
little. He skims over the surface of things, and is timid of anything
deep or philosophical. He does not tarry at one subject. He talks of the
weather, clothes, plays, and sports. He puts little meaning into what he
says, because there is little meaning in what he thinks. He cannot look
at anything seriously. Nothing is of great significance to him. He is
in the class of featherweights.

The tedious talker is one without terminal facilities. He talks right on
with no idea of objective or destination. He rises to go, but he does
not go. He knows he ought to go, but he simply cannot. He has something
more to say. He keeps you standing half an hour. He talks a while
longer. He assures you he really must go. You tell him not to hurry. He
takes you at your word and sits down again. He talks some more. He rises
again. He does not know even now how to conclude. He has no mental
compass. He is a rudderless talker.

Probably the most obnoxious type is the tattling talker. He always has
something startlingly personal to impart. It is a sacred secret for your
ear. He is a wholesale dealer in gossip. He fairly smacks his lips as he
relates the latest scandal. He is an expert embellisher. He adroitly
supplies missing details. He has nothing of interest in his own life,