And if that didn't entertain you, then Pierre's google translation from my English to French ("a proper, civilized language") and then back to English again certainly will.

“oughtn' T of I to laugh at my father,” I indicated. “Not,” he said, concerning his lips and rolling his eyes upwards. “I would not have! It is a sin. ” Sinned, sinned, I felt soaked and patient of him. “I was accustomed to requesting with God to make me just like him. Smart and right and proportioned with his will,” I admitted. “Now I cannot even what wish. I wish that I be differently rather everyone. ” It leaned ahead and looked in my eyes. Its finger moved of its lips towards my face and planed, awaiting a place to plant its blessing. “Béene, if you were rather everyone differently, you would not be thus béene-béene. ” (“the bible of Poisonwood,” Barbara Kingsolver) Up to now I abilement had abilement avoided responsibilities these holidays. It is the same history each time. Given a spare excess of time, I resist the productivity completely and the revel in a small gust of wind nothings occupied. The other day I spoke with friends about making the kitchen, an excuse during time and to eat of girl, two activities which always galvanize me, and I immediately offered to the host centre. I did this knowing it would force me to organize my alarming apartment swine, one to charge which I burning had avoided at this point. And during the day spent reordering an apartment in the face similar to that of a cell of prison (some steps in this way, some steps which manner), I found my hiding-place of the books. Naturally I could not resist to review them. What I found in inside was a paper trail cataloguing my dispersed thoughts which dart disparate idea with the disparate idea. I often wondered my propensity to commutate books as one could commutate equipment, as abilement disguising this spirit which can remain with such an amount of astonishment repeated with the same reflexions, the same events. Turning of the pages slowly, slipping with a light crumpling to accelerate the discs of an imprisoned time, I saw myself as who I was in the past, a younger version of an entirely different person completely. A girl carried in so perilous balance above the edge of what she knew, strengthening itself before the abyss of an unforeseen future. Three things shocked me: (1) all the difference in which I was then with which I am now, (2) sameness total between me and this girl, our thoughts, our daydreams, and (3) childhood of the thoughts that I embrace now that I supposed to be recent in their impregnation of my spirit. I frequently register, sowing thoughts dispersed through the pages of the books innofensifs of schoolboy. The writing brings a peace of interim to this spirit. And in an unspecified way, it is a private attempt to claim of the pieces of the past, to lend the validity to the progression of the life. However because I relived has after that feels so distant, thought the narrowly planed number two, specifying how little I really evolved/moved, how frequently my spirit remains on the society man. However then an event or a conversation was recorded, something said by a friend who incited me to think. I defended my point of view. I considered theirs. And suddenly my clean started to incline dangerously, me threatening by a great accident, a bursting in fragments. It is the girl who I became. The same ones, thought so much extended outside like roads by the course from my days and weeks, but so different, a foreigner who stole the skin of this other girl. To consider the change with is an alarming thing. The considerations which were in the past thus planted orderly, accompanied by the facts and the opinion supporting the conclusions, are suddenly torn their bases and approximately widespread. It is a weakening loneliness. But in last weeks, since I had too much free hour and no work some, I was blessed-- yes, I with force and employ this word intentionally-- by the people who étincellent in you the thoughts with which you must fight. And the same people which support you to be different from what one expects that you are, of what you were in the past. A certain number of these conversations took place in the sauna, a retirement marvelously hot of the fresh air of winter. I did not speak yet about the saunas of Korea, probable because the concept seems so strange with the Western emphase on the intimacy. They are the public baths of Asia, where one disappears, stripped naked, for cleaning. In a culture where the physical aspect is so much intensely important and people are examined with the scientific meticulous examination for their straws, extremely documented in the noisy comment, they, in the careful negligence of the time of drill, to extend on side their examinations. Entering a moisture of swimming, one strips of all clothing: jacket, shirt, trousers, socks, underclothing. Completely naked passer by in front of the Koreans who do not seem any more to note the pale whiteness of your skin and the more deep whiteness of the unusual sectors to the sun, one enters the sector of shower and bath. The water which functions in synchronized gushings of the head of shower is employed to strip our final layers of protection. The colors function in bottom of the face to one in definitely slightly of the lines, like the negative photographic one of a tear-striated face. Nudity. We dare with precaution in the hot swimming pools, the cold swimming pools, moderated water, the vapor rooms, by using corners for our conversations of bar-restaurant. It is only in this moment that us as from abroad are really noted. We speak and laugh without much reservation; we are observed with the dark eyes wondering our strange language however familiar. The Koreans are curiously quiet with the saunas, like so completely, though temporarily, renonçant with their culture to look at and of chattering fixedly. Recently, I took part in a certain number of these naked conversations with Meaghan and Sacha. Come together, we remove these layers of the past slowly, fixing clothing which we use the newspaper in order to appear the same ones as each one differently. Protecting our doubts, hiding our fears. But I am so grateful for these girls with whom I can be completely naked and entirely shameless. Above me quoted an extract of the bible of Poisonwood, which each of the three of us reading finished just. One of four children of a missionary in Congo, Leah is infested by the concepts of its own sin, dirtied mud in him, suffocated by him. In it I saw that girl I was in the past, if eager of the perfection, however so much intensely informed my clean failings. Sin, sin, sin. I worry now so much less concept of the sin. Sometimes I considered if I stopped completely worrying about my faith, for my future, the poor, the poor one, broken in this world. Did I wrap myself in the excuses? Did my heart develop cold? But while I spoke with Sacha and Meaghan, saw their passion and care for others, their belief, their dreams, I felt to rise similar of my clean. The beauty of a dialogue which does not require any answer, that requires only the participation in the process. I am not confronted to worry less; neither one nor the other not care of I more than I in the past made. It is simply that the pallet of my sight of the world shifted of a black dogmatic and gray with a watercolor of more than colors than I could call. Sacha has so much poetically written, “these last couples of the weeks were invaluable with me, because I held an objective to the top close to my heart and considering the pieces of me which could only be versed outside by the stimulation of another heart pouring it out of me. My friends, you know who you are. ” It is with precision what feel me I. With such friends with me, I prolong my mercies.