George Frederick Watts Love And Life paintingchilde hassam In a French Garden paintingEdgar Degas The Orchestra of the Opera painting
contingent status, of a thousand social and emotional connections. I could point to myself and say "Laure," but what relationship would that signify?
I suspect they heard my language as a noise made by an idiot.
Nothing else in their world speaks. Nothing else has sentience, let alone intelligence. In their world there is only one language. They recognised me as a human being, but as a defective one. I couldn't talk. I couldn't make the connections.
I had with me a magazine, a publication of an American conservation organisation, which I'd been reading in the airport. I brought it out one day and offered it to the conversation group. They didn't ask about the text or look at it with any interest. I'm sure they didn't recognise it as writing—a couple of dozen black characters, repeated endlessly in straight lines— nothing remotely like
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