Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Thousand: Three Hundred Fifteen
the book at the garden gnome so vigorously it went wubba wubba and wubba wubba. “Wubba wubba,” repeated the garden gnome. “Wubba wubba wubba.” He mimicked so perfectly the sound the text made as it flexed that the fisher gnome thought he’d shaken the book three more times than he had. “I have the future,” said the fisher gnome again, limply. “The future.” The garden gnome sighed, a cozy murmur that made a nap seem inevitable. That night, lying in the guest bedroom, after such adventures as would make an infant chortle, the fisher gnome glared at the ceiling where
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
2 comments:
Wubba wubba wubba, infant sounds indeed.
I understand an infant has access to every sound a human language will take advantage of; as we grow in one language we lose the capacity to make sounds peculiar to some of the other languages.
Post a Comment