The time's come: there's a terrific thunder-cloud advancing upon us, a mighty storm is coming to freshen us up....It's going to blow away all this idleness and indifference, and prejudice against work....I'm going to work, and in twenty-five or thirty years' time every man and woman will be working.
I believe in empathy. I believe in the kind of empathy that is created through imagination and through intimate, personal relationships. I am a writer and a teacher, so much of my time is spent interpreting stories and connecting to other individuals. It is the urge to know more about ourselves and others that creates empathy. Through imagination and our desire for rapport, we transcend our limitations, freshen our eyes, and are able to look at ourselves and the world through a new and alternative lens.
Not a wonder you are out camping with us princess, ' Rizz said dryly. Falita gave a clearing snort of her opposite nostril and looked up. 'Why's that?' 'One can't go snorting and blowing snot all over a castle. It would ruin the decor!' Falita ignored the comment. 'A bath would certainly freshen things up.' 'You've bathed three times in five days. How many more baths do you need?' Artamos asked. 'Enough to stay clean, and I don't recall either of you bathing on this trip.' 'I don't need to Princess, ' Rizz replied. 'I have my own naturally sweet odor.' Falita scrunched up her nose, 'I'm aware of that, and it is not pleasing in camp.
Language is my whore, my mistress, my wife, my pen-friend, my check-out girl. Language is a complimentary moist lemon-scented cleansing square or handy freshen-up wipette. 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 an 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, the warm wet, trusting touch of a leaking nappy, the hulk of a charred Panzer, the underside of a granite boulder, the first downy growth on the upper lip of a Mediterranean girl, cobwebs long since overrun by an old Wellington boot.