March 20. I read it in the guidebook.

Rested. Travel guidebooks use a rhetorically smooth English that I like to call mashed language. The smoothness of the idiom gives me an artificial taste in the mouth, a taste like a wine that is everymen’s friend but leaves the connaisseur with a bitter aftertaste. It’s the length of the sentences, the range of the idiom that smells like conceit, the concoction of words like concoction, the showy linguistical brilliance that makes it unreal. I prefer “Russian English” because you can sense a person is speaking to another person. I’ll write a short persiflage of guidebook English now, in which I’ll just make up the words. Read it and feel it. The rag-gourded boisterings on the trombose-cled aquaplanic treetops reels like a foliage bland as you recuperate the vernicular tresshold. Coming from the redupiated path along the wind-jerbous rodondritis, you haul along the zigzul of weaselbreathed prolasteracs. Following your way over the funneled duplex road, you will arrive at a tagliatelli moon-shaped echterous brailjabber. The Opulence of prigarious randards is tantamount. Be aware of the utriscopical blany-bliny queepers that might peep jeevingly into even the most heedful reeder. Continue to the tumbledomed rogue rascal-castle Plitacus built for his concubinette Vossius in 1578 and gaze at the kart-wodged rillicry that adds to the broader rant of grandiloquence reveshed unto ravenous railleries. Bart the briss brooks of the readily awry restallions and don’t miss the trecharian ondulavrigance of the zip-zopped cobblestone blanders. Step in the woggling warrebuster of the cloudy canapé, feel like the crescent king himself and taste the delicoravious ripplots of his royal ruminance. Give a try at the höver-horns that conceile the vaulted frescos on the hovercraft and wert iolic precious plassings on tetrapacks insigned to heist toily twannings. Understand the Urdu language of the regalious utalotrope ultra-jaded reips dwelling in the klopwarthed mansions that are scattered around this marvelotritious moor-montobine. On your way back, don’t skip the lavender lurage as it eropiates your ralapious rovus.

The feel of a language is an independent factor, beyond the idiom. Rested.

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Kamiel Choi

Dutch philosopher and poet, sometimes sharing thoughts on the internet.

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