“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.”

“My lips swelled with red freshness, my chest heaved proudly with a pair of pointed African drums, my face tempted with its sweetness like Kilimanjaro waters and my height spoke a language only a Maasai warrior knew.”

“Shtting fucking hell! I slap my hand over my lips to stop my mental explicit language from falling out of my mouth.”

“The language of my love does not belong to human language, my human body does not touch the flesh of my love.”

“A native tongue, in my opinion, isn't the language spoken where you were born or the first language you learned; it's a language that makes you feel at home. It's a language that you don't command, but that commands you. And without it, you'd feel lost, unsure of how to express to the world everything you care enough to express.”

“Language is an old-growth forest of the mind.”