One of the things to look forward to in getting on a plane and going back home is to be able to fold the English language in four and tuck it neatly into an envelope, to be opened at discretion. Having lived an entire life where that language has been a confidante, an imaginary friend, and a magic carpet ready to fly me off to distant lands, I am disturbed by this intrusive ubiquity, its sudden, larger-than-life presence. Is Hobbes as playful when he is an actual tiger ? Does Calvin not cower ?