Hey, it’s Daryl. The sea otter. Enhydra lutris to you zoological types.
I gotta say - the word quixotic annoys the hell out of me. KWIX-OTIC. The book is called Don Quixote. KEY-O-TEH.
It just doesn’t make sense.
Not that I have read Cervantes. I find literature in translation painful and who has time for the Classics anyway? It’s all Mr Darcy this, Mr Darcy that or some sweaty gardener. James Joyce! Even the judge only pretended to read Ulysses.
Sure, I tried to watch Becoming Jane, the movie about Austen; you know, the one with Anne Hathaway, because, hey – I’m only otter, but I fell asleep.
Deep down, say at a depth of around 22 metres in the cold waters of the North Pacific Ocean, I suspect the word quixotic is just another way that people try and make the otters of this world feel small.
Well, I got news for you! I’m a self-employed plumber. Six figures baby and I got more work than I know what to do with!
When I open a book at the end of a long day day foraging and unblocking pipes, I want to cross the silent spaces on my own terms. So give me plain writing and then give me less. It’s called minimalism. You wanna know about Hemingway’s Iceberg Theory? I am absolutely the otter for you.