By the standard of the Greek ideal of clarity, Hebrew without vowels is a hopeless muddle. Vowelless Hebrew is already scarred, obscured, at best a form of poetic diversion, at worst a bad transmission, the signal down the nerve blocked, the insulation guaranteeing that the message will arrive stripped, generating difficulties and inviting interpretation in almost every word.
Reading Hebrew is thus perpetually reading a kind of letterature, sense suspended between our decoding of the letter and our reading of the word, as we shuttle back and forth in an interpretive frenzy, attempting, often vainly, to be sure of the intended meaning. This is really literary reading tending not towards clarity but dyslexia. Perhaps even the truth value of any text is suspended between the ever-threatening catastrophe of the infinite sign, and ever-promulgating interpretations that at first reading defeat the illusion of telepathy, but at another open hailing frequencies to a very animated and dynamic metaphysical and cognitive plane.
I don't know how you take your literature (or should I say, how your literature takes you) but this sure feels like how I hope I take, and how I am seized by, mine, in all its debilitating pleasure, its multiple scleroses. A good poem - or a dense novel striving to become a hypertext - exiles us, for a time. We read and we are lost somewhere in the wildness of the possible and the wilderness of mutually-enriching meanings. If we linger there long enough, the opaque text speaks to us, and if we climb the mountain, then perhaps revelation will come. Reading becomes a devotional, a form of prayer, and the engagement with letterature becomes liturgy.