But a language gives itself to whomever wishes to take it, he replied as if stung. It uses seductions and illusions to draw you in. Reticences too, sometimes. French is, as you know, a feminine language. For me she was a lover. For you a mother, I presume.
For me a mother? No, I’ve never thought of her that way. Then he smiled, looking at me askance, like an old Zen master or a sly psychoanalyst, reading me like an open book, on this page my urge to run away and hide, on that one my compulsive desire to prowl around in circles, which is why, my young man, you’ll find yourself sketching maps one day.
{Francois Emmanuel, The Cartographer’s Waltz}
{Map of Angria, one of the fictional territories created by the Bronte children, by Branwell Bronte}
