"Language is my whore, my mistress, my wife, my pen-friend, my check-out girl. Language is the breath of God, the dew on a fresh apple; it's the soft rain of dust that falls into a shaft of morning sun when you pull from aft old bookshelf a forgotten volume of erotic: diaries. Language is the faint scent of urine on a pair of boxer shorts; it's a half-remembered childhood birthday party, a creak on the stair, a spluttering match held to a frosted pane." Stephen Fry

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