"Hey… Get that!" A simple husband-to-wife request in what had been the hush of a peaceful weekend morning. "Get what?" she said. "What do you mean, 'Get what!?'" For at that moment our tea kettle was foaming at its metal mouth and peeping a tune so shrill it could both wake the dead and make them regret the experience. A screech I found I could only illustrate by adding a particular emphasis – by declaring that our about-to-burst kettle was… "Screaming like a banshee!"

"This month we cheer the Olympic team. Like this: 'Go for broke, Japan! Go for broke!'" She raises her arms and rattles her bracelets. The waiter glances our way and I signal for more wine. Urgently. She lowers her arms. "You don't like it? Why?" I gulp my wine. I have been here before. "Listen, Mariko, your dialog's fine. But people don't talk this way. No one screams, 'Go for broke' these days. Especially as a group. We'd just say, 'Go, Japan, go!' " She wrinkles her n

I learned to swear as a boy. It was the only thing my father ever taught me. He compensated for his lack of attention in other matters by instructing me well in this. And if you think that there is nothing therapeutic, nothing enriching, nothing self-purging about a decent five-second binge of bile, then I can only advise that you try it.