Lint shows up from time to time in books, and I always love it. I just finished reading The Feast of Love by Charles Baxter and was tickled pink to find this lint toward the end of the book:
"Wittgenstein regarded metaphysics as the lint on a suit. However, after he picked off the lint, the suit itself vanished."
Pretty deep, as were some parts of this book when one of the characters, Harry Ginsberg, a philosophy professor, spoke of Kierkegaard and other philosophers I know nothing about. But don't let that stop you; I'd recommend The Feast of Love to anyone who loves language, a good story, and is in the mood for a little lint.