Verbally I dwell in a two-story linguistic house. Let us say that on the ground floor I have placed my Spanish language where I keep the traditions, feelings, attitudes, fears, hatred, love, and memorized poetry that I have been hoarding all my life. Upstairs, I have the English language and tradition, the history, literature, feelings, and likes and dislikes, and also the poetry I have committed to memory, that this tongue has fostered during my life. And I go up and down often, running away or hiding in either one of them. When I become angry with Spaniards for whatever reason, I take refuge and solace upstairs, and vice versa, of course. I might even have a linguistic split personality, who knows. But I even have a garret where I have stored linguistic odds and ends: French, Velenciano, bits of German and Latin, a smattering of Portuguese. Sometimes I visit the attic and dust these languages and brush them up a bit and lament the lack of time to really bring them up to date. To own this house is, I think, a blessing and I am very thankful for it. I try to imagine those who must endure only one language and who think that that is the only reality and who cannot take refuge in another to see the world from a different point of view. A pity because all languages are sources of ceaseless wonder.
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