We can send black puddings and pettitoes without giving them a flavour of our own egoism; but language is a stream that is almost sure to smack of a mingled soil.
我们送血肠和猪蹄,可以不让它们沾上自我中心的味道;可语言是一股溪流,几乎总会带着流经混杂土壤的气息。
— George Eliot · Silas Marner · Chapter X —