точно про меня!

Like those foreigners in adventure stories who would come out with Caramba! Zut! and Himmel! when excited, I was still likely to revert to rushing streams of Stephenese at moments of high passion, but essentially I was cured. But something wonderful and new had happened to me, something much more glorious than simply being understood. I had discovered the beauty of speech. Suddenly I had an endless supply of toys: words. Meaningless phatic utterance for its own sake would become my equivalent of a Winnie the Pooh hum, my music. In the holidays I would torment my poor mother for hours in the car by saying over and over again ‘My name is Gwendoline Bruce Snetterton.
Gwendoline Bruce Snetterton. Snetterton. Snetterton. Snetterton.’ Ignoring the gender implications of such a name choice, which are not our concern just now, these were the only songs that I could sing. It was the journey from consonant to vowel, the tripping rhythm, the texture that delighted me. As others get tunes on their brain, I get words or phrases on the brain. I will awaken, for example, with the sentence, ‘Hoversmack tender estimate’ on my lips. I will say it in the shower, while I wait for the kettle to boil, and as I open the morning post. Sometimes it will be with me all day.

Stephen Fry. Moab Is My Washpot

кирпичом не чистют

But in a culture like ours, language is exclusive, not inclusive. Those on easy terms with words are distrusted. I was always encouraged to believe that cleverness and elegance with words obscured and twisted decent truth: Britain’s idea of a golden mean was (and still is) healthy inarticulacy. Mean, certainly — but golden? Leaden, I think. To the healthy English mind (a phenomenon we will dwell on later) there is something intellectually spivvy, something flash, something jewy about verbal facility.

Stephen Fry. Moab Is My Washpot