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The Interpreter It was something he was singing like the ponds would sing if only they would open their lovely mouths. All day he taught strangers to open their mouths, to enter the kingdom of English.Teaching is love of your own voice, and he is in love, singing as the first men must have when they realized what power, the animal sounds. Bone makes a sound. Skin makes a sound.The anvil ear picks it up, and puts it out as information: all the night noise amplified.What is it? The whisk of the air-conditioner, the brush of leg against leg? There are not signs for everything, the interpreter said when asked if she ever forgot words. You make them up, get close enough. Sign insect if you have forgotten cicada. Later, you can go back, sign seven year, sign seeking heat. Sign burrowing, sign gone. -21- ...

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