Slang
Slang, argot! Nothing else in language is more strange, more strong, uglier, or more beautiful. It is the element in language that lives most, lasts longest, and decays quickest. It is vital. It belches words which become miasma. It spews words that fall into the gutter and disappear—cruel, warty, misshapen, monstrous! words that are ashamed in the light—words that are the seed of hideous fungi growing in darkness from decay. Slang also drops words that quiver, palpitate in the light—words that strike hard, that smell of sulphur and trail smoke.
Slang is the fetid breath of the sewer—an unclean exhalation of the underworld. It is a stench. Some of its words are pustulous, infectious, horrible: some are criminals, others merely the stupid monsters of ugliness—idiotic ejaculations. Some are only unclean; others are solely vicious. Taken together, they form the vocabulary of the Good God and the Great Beast that dwell side by side in humankind.
112
