And something important will have happened.
That most ingrateful boy there by your side,
From the rude sea's enraged and foamy mouth
Did I redeem; a wreck past hope he was:
His life I gave him and did thereto add
My love, without retention or restraint,
All his in dedication; for his sake
Did I expose myself, pure for his love,
Into the danger of this adverse town;
Drew to defend him when he was beset:
--William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, Act V, scene i
I love this language. I love every word in it. I love the fact that English-- well, as James D. Nicholl famously put it, "The problem with defending the purity of the English language is that English is about as pure as a cribhouse whore. We don't just borrow words; on occasion, English has pursued other languages down alleyways to beat them unconscious and rifle their pockets for new vocabulary."
It's the most wonderful, flexible, useful tool for communication on the planet, and I believe (as a writer) in exploiting the Hell out of it.
I'm reminded of this every time I read Shakespeare, or Marlowe, or Powers, or Millay, or Gaiman, or--
Damn, there's a lot of fine writers out there.