Screw technicolor, red, and foreign languages. I dream in status updates.

The joy of knowing a foreign language is inexpressible. I find it really difficult to express such joy in my mother tongue.

Ho ho ho, tell me why you are not at home' is something Santa Claus could ask you if you stayed in a hotel over Christmas. It is most certainly not the reason why it is called 'hotel', but it will hopefully help you remember that the stress is actually on the second syllable.

Spanish—how shall I say this?—is likePortuguese spoken with a speech impediment.

Of village: it is not called so because its inhabitants are of higher age on average; in fact, there is no connection between the words “village” and “age” whatsoever.

I need complicated railroad journeys and people speaking to me in foreign languages to keep me happy. I want to see the world and write stories about everything I see.

Facing a language you don't know is like returning to your infancy when your mother tongue used to be a foreign language to you.

Bad people? What kind of bad people? Members of the Church of Satan? Insurance salesmen? People who don’t speak English?

It may be a silly way, but if you remember that an owl looks like ʌ(OO)ʌ, it will perhaps help you remember that it is pronounced with something close to 'ʌoo'.

One must not be shy where language is concerned.