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; it’s a half-remembered childhood birthday party, a creak on the stair, a spluttering match held to a frosted pane.