Did Humans Ever Speak Like Animals Reddit
T he first time Marcos Rodríguez Pantoja ever heard voices on the radio, he panicked. "Fuck," he remembers thinking, "those people accept been inside there a long time!" It was 1966, and Rodríguez woke from a nap to the sound of voices. In that location was nobody else in the room, simply the sounds of a chat were coming from a pocket-sized wooden box. Rodríguez got out of bed and crept towards the device. When he got closer, he couldn't encounter a door, a hatch, or even a small crack in the box'south surface. Cypher. The people were trapped.
Rodríguez had a programme. "Don't worry, if you lot all move to one side, I'll get you out of in that location," he yelled at the radio. He ran towards the wall at the other finish of the room, the device in his paw. There, breathless and red in the face, he held it high higher up his caput and brought information technology down hard against the brick wall, in 1 fierce swing. The wood splintered, the speaker popped out of its casing, and the voices savage silent. Rodríguez dropped the radio on to the floor.
When he knelt downwardly to search through the debris, the people weren't in that location. He called for them, but they didn't respond. He searched more frantically, but they still didn't appear. "I've killed them!" Rodríguez bellowed, and ran to his bed, where he hid for the rest of the day.
Rodríguez was in his early 20s. He did not have whatever learning disabilities. Indeed, there was cipher to suggest his intelligence was below boilerplate. But he was ignorant of the most basic technology because, between the ages of seven and 19, according to his ain testimony, Rodríguez lived alone, far from civilization, in the Sierra Morena, a deserted mountain range of jagged peaks that stretches across southern Kingdom of spain.
His story is that he was abandoned as a kid of seven, in 1953, and left to fend for himself. Alone in the wild, every bit he tells it, he was raised by wolves, who protected and sheltered him. With no one to talk to, he lost the use of language, and began to bawl, chirp, screech and howl.
Twelve years later, police found him hiding in the mountains, wrapped in a deerskin and with long, disordered hair. He tried to abscond, merely the officers caught him, tied his easily and brought him to the nearest village. Eventually a young priest brought him to the hospital ward of a convent in Madrid, where he stayed for a yr and received a remedial instruction from the nuns.
It is almost incommunicable to imagine what it would be like to sally into adulthood without any of the socialisation that the rest of united states unconsciously absorb, via a 1000000 imperceptible cues and incidents, equally children and teenagers. When he left the convent hospital, adjusting to life among humans brought with it a series of shocks. When he start went to the cinema – to see a Western – he ran out of the theatre because he was terrified of the cowboys galloping toward the photographic camera. The first time he ate in a eating house, he was surprised he had to pay for his food. I day he went into a church, where an acquaintance had told him God lived. He approached the priest at the chantry. "They tell me you're God," he said. "They tell me you know everything."
In the l years since he was found in the wilderness, Rodríguez has struggled to get a handle on gild's expectations. He lived in convents, abandoned buildings and hostels all over Kingdom of spain. He worked odd jobs on construction sites, in bars, nightclubs and hotels; he was robbed and exploited: people took advantage of his unworldliness. Some people did try to help him, but most found him awkward and uncommunicative, and he was largely shunned by society. "For most of my life," Rodríguez told me, "I had a very bad time amid humans".
Thou arcos Rodríguez still finds it hard to exist human being. He lives in Rante, a sleepy village of lx or so families in Galicia, in north-westSpain. He is retired, and spends his time walking in the countryside, at the bar – "where he likes to play the clown," a waitress told me – or hunting wild boar with a friend. The residual of the time, he stays home, watching daytime TV for hours. Rodríguez moved here in the tardily 1990s, when he was taken in by a retired policeman, who brought him to Galiciaand gave him a job doing subcontract piece of work and a place to live. For the kickoff time since he left the mountains, his life was quiet and peaceful. "The people go on an eye out for me here," he told me. "They're nice, better than those I met before."
I met Rodríguez in his cramped, cold living room. The walls were plastered with photographs, old mag pages and calendars of naked women. "I'm too much of a human being now," he said. "Before, when I first started living among people, I didn't fifty-fifty have a bed– I slept on piles of newspapers." The pocket-size, ordinary house was given to him six years ago past i of his friends in the village. There were dirty plates in the kitchen sink, a half-fabricated bed, wooden cupboards, a deskand a Boob tube.
Talking with Rodríguez is somewhat uncanny. Nothing about his appearance suggests an unusual past: he looks like a typical Spanish septuagenarian, thin, with salt-and-pepper hair and reddish cheeks. A cigarette habitually protrudes from his thin lips. Only within moments of meeting him, I could sense something different in his demeanour.
He constitute it difficult to expect me in the eye, and stared intensely at the footing whenever he spoke. He would make a joke, and laugh at himself, only to lose his confidence almost immediatelyand retreat backside a sheepish, diffident grin. He was friendly and talkative, just he seemed overly conscious of my reaction to everything he said: if I looked confused, he was visibly discouraged; if I was enthusiastic, he was of a sudden excited and energetic. He always seemed to be anticipating his interlocutor'southward scorn.
In his company, you cannot help realising that our daily interactions are eased past a stream of invisible signals – a kind of silent language nosotros all understand, which you don't even find until it'southward absent. "Marcos can first seem unknowable, and hard to help," Xosé Santos, one of his friends in the village, had told me. "But in one case he gets to know yous, and you him, he is a very loyal person."
Rodríguez drew a lighter towards his cigarette and struck. "I'thousand nonetheless amazed past these things," he chuckled, pointing at a large collection of lighters on a nearby shelf. "If you lot only knew the lengths I went to to make fire back then." On the desk behind him is a pile of cuttings from Spanish newspapers, with headlines such every bit "The Wolfman of the Sierra Morena" and "Living Among Wolves" – mementoes of a bewildering new period in his life.
In 2010, the Spanish director Gerardo Olivares released a moving-picture show, Entrelobos ("Amidst Wolves"), based on Rodríguez's life in the mountains. After reading his story in a volume by Gabriel Janer Manila – a Spanish anthropologist who wrote a PhD thesis based on extensive interviews he conducted with Rodríguez in the 1970s – Olivares hired a private detective to rails down Rodríguez. "I did not have much hope of finding him," Olivares told me. "Manila told me he was expressionless."
The movie, which was a modest hit in Spain, was a heavily romanticised depiction of Rodríguez's coexistence with nature, with the story told through the eyes of the "wolf kid". "Some details were missing, but I do like it," Rodríguez told me. "I spotter it all the fourth dimension, especially when I'm sad or can't go to sleep." (Olivares went on to make a documentary about Rodríguez, chosen Marcos, el Lobo Solitario.)
Suddenly, to his daze and dismay, Rodríguez became a celebrity: Castilian TV declared him the "son of wolves"; the BBC dubbed him "the wolf homo". Spanish papers seemed to write almost him every other calendar month. At offset he was pleased with the attention: subsequently years of rejection and atheism, his story was being told, and he was finally existence accustomed. Just soon, people wanted more of him than he could requite. Journalists were lined upwardly outside his door, and the press wanted to find out everything almost his life. Fans wrote him from Germany, America and all over Spain. He was the famous wolf human being of the Sierra Morena.
What Rodríguez remembers of his time living wild is that information technology was "glorious". When he was found by the law and brought down from the mountains, an untroubled, simple boyhood among animals and birds was cruelly cut short. He had always institute it hard to relate to humans, who were baffled by his ignorance and infuriated past his inability to communicate. Just at present the intensity of their belated fascination was most as puzzling as their earlier contempt – Rodríguez could never empathise what was expected of him.
Rodríguez speaks in a loftier pitch, oscillating betwixt seriousness and frivolity; a sober tone can plough apace into a raucous laugh. But he is quiet and solemn when he tries to explicate how he suffered at the hands of humans after he returned to social club: "I was constantly humiliated. Among people, I learned to hate and to be embarrassed."
No one believed his story; they merely took him for an idiot or a drunk. He wanted to exist liked, to exist normal, to have a wife and children. He wanted everything he seemed utterly incapable of having. But when Rodríguez thinks about what has hurt him well-nigh in life, what he returns to aren't these everyday humiliations, but ane earlier expose: when his father sold him into slavery.
R odríguez was born on eight June 1946 in a squat, whitewashed house in the village of Añora in Andalusia. His parents, Melchor and Araceli, had two other boys. The rural economy had collapsed afterwards the ceremonious war, and life was harsh. "The family unit were poor, and they left for Madrid, in search of piece of work," Anastasia Sanchez, Rodríguez's cousin, told me.
In the capital, Melchor found piece of work in a brick mill, merely before long afterward the family arrived, his wife died. According to Sanchez, Melchor couldn't cope on his own. He presently met another woman and sent 1 of his sons to live with his family in Barcelona, and left another with relatives in Madrid. (Juan, the only surviving brother, did not respond to requests for an interview).
Melchor kept Marcos with him, and together the new family unit returned to the s, to Cardeña – virtually 50km east of his birthplace. Melchor took a job making charcoal. Rodríguez, at the age of iv, took care of the family'south pigs. He would be sent to steal acorns from the landowner's estate to feed them. "If I didn't bring plenty abode, my stepmother wouldn't give me whatsoever dinner," he told me. She beat him oft.
And so, one solar day – Rodríguez thinks he was about half-dozen – a man arrived on a chestnut horse. The man spoke briefly with Melchor, and then took the child abode with him. Rodríguez had never been in such a big house. In a sprawling kitchen, he was fed a thick, meaty stew. The man told him his father had sold him. From now on, the rich man said, the male child would piece of work for him, tending his herd of 300 goats. "And that was information technology," Rodríguez told me. "I never found out how much my Dad was paid."
Julian Pitt-Rivers, a British anthropologist who published a classic study of a traditional Andalusian customs in the early 1950s, wrote that information technology was common in the rural s for children from impoverished families to be sent to the mountains to look after sheep and goats in commutation for money. "At that place were lots of immature boys working and sleeping on the hillside back then," Juan Madrid, a civil servant in Añora who has researched Rodríguez's case, told me. "But that his father sold him – I'one thousand non sure that was and so common."
The adjacent morn the homo took him on horseback into the mountains, to a small cave deep in the Sierra Morena, a sparsely populated mountain rangefull of wolves and wild boars. There, Rodríguez was handed over to the intendance of an elderly shepherd. He slept outside, and at kickoff was frightened by the animate being noises. The taciturn old shepherd gave him goat'due south milk to drink, and taught him how to trap hares and light fires.
Simply one day not long after Rodríguez arrived, the old shepherd said he was going off to shoot a rabbit and never returned. Nobody came to replace him. The landlord appeared from time to time to cheque on the goats, but Rodríguez hid from him. He didn't desire to be taken back to his family home, where he had suffered years of beatings. "Even in my worst moments, I preferred the mountains to the thought of home."
In the following weeks, the young boy tried to suck milk from the goats. He tried to take hold of pheasants and fish for trout, but had lilliputian success. And then, instead, he started following the lead of the animals. He watched how wild boars dug for tubers and how the birds picked berries from bushes. With the basic knowledge he had learned from the shepherd, he improvised traps for rabbits and noticed that when he gutted them in the river, their blood attracted the fish. When he got older – Rodríguez couldn't remember how old – he likewise learned how to hunt and skin deer.
He told me he was still a child, just six or 7, the first time he encountered wolves. He was looking for shelter from a tempest when he stumbled across a den. Not knowing any ameliorate, he entered the cave and savage asleep with the pups. The she-wolf had been out hunting, and when she returned with food, she growled and snarled at the boy. He thought the wolf was going to attack him, he says, but she let him take a slice of the meat instead.
Wolves are not the just animals he lived among: he says he made friends with foxes and snakes, and that his enemy was the wild boar. He says he spoke to them all in a mix of grunts, howls and half-remembered words: "I couldn't tell you what language information technology was, but I did speak."
Rodríguez told me this with absolute confidence, every bit if cipher could have been truer. The fact that I might find it implausible didn't seem to worry him; it was the one moment when he showed absolutely no business concern for my reaction. There was no blushing, no adolescent timidity or raucous, incoherent humour. Indeed, if at that place was ane thing Rodríguez seemed to know for sure – no matter what other people thought – information technology was that he had lived a better and happier life in the wild. The complexity of his interactions with humans would later grate confronting the remembered simplicity of his dealings with the animals. "When a person talks, they might say one affair but hateful another. Animals don't do that," Rodríguez told me.
I n early 1965, a park ranger reported to the police that he had seen a man with long pilus, dressed in a deerskin, roaming the Sierra Morena. Iii mounted officers were sent to search for him. Rodríguez says they plant him eating fruit under the shade of a tree deep inside the Sierra. He remembers the men dismounted their horses and tried to talk to him, simply Rodríguez didn't know how to respond. He understood their questions, only he hadn't spoken in 12 years, and no words came. He ran.
The officers caught up with Rodríguez easily. They tied his hands to the saddle of ane of their horses and dragged him off the mountain; Rodríguez told me howled every bit he left the hillside.
Commencement, the officers took him to a nearby town, Fuencaliente, and brought him to a barbershop. "I was sitting in the chair, and I remember looking in the mirror and wondering who was staring back at me." When the hairdresser took out a razor and began to sharpen it, Rodríguez lunged at him. "I thought it was either him or me," he recalled. The two officers had to restrain him.
And so, Rodríguez remembers, he was taken to the local jail in Cardeña, nearly 20km away, while the officers searched for his father. But when they eventually tracked Melchor downwardly, they did not charge him for selling his ain son into slavery – they merely asked if he wanted the boy back.
Instead of welcoming his son with open up artillery, his father was indifferent. (In fact, Rodríguez recalls, his male parent berated him for losing a jacket he had been given as a child.) When the constabulary saw that Melchor had no interest in him, they simply left him in the master square of Cardeña. Ii shepherds known locally equally the "widowers" took him in, and put him to work tending their sheep. Merely a few days later on his capture, Rodríguez was back in the mountains, looking after animals again.
In the spring of 1966, the shepherds Rodríguez was working for moved their flock nearly the village of Lopera, where there was adept grazing. The son of the local doctor, a curate named Juan Luis Galvez, encountered Rodríguez, scared and however unable to speak. It was a year since he had been discovered in the mountains, but he had notwithstanding hardly spent whatsoever time with humans.
Galvez told Gabriel Janer Manila, the anthropologist, that he was at first utterly "unadapted to social norms", seemingly allowed to the cold, and walked with the hunched, bow-legged gait of a monkey. Galvez moved the young man into his family dwelling in Lopera, where he taught him how to dress himself, how to eat correctly, and how to pronounce words. He even arranged football game matches then Rodríguez could play with other local children. But Rodríguez resisted. "I would endeavour to run back to the mountains whenever I could," he told me. "I didn't feel comfortable among humans."
When Janer visited the area a decade after to confirm the details of Rodríguez's stories, he found "a powerful reluctance to talk about this period", and specially the circumstances of his abandonment and capture – a sign of shame about the misery and poverty that haunted the region in the years after the civil war. These socioeconomic atmospheric condition, Janer wrote, were essential to agreement the trauma of Rodríguez'south early on life.
Joaquin Pana, a priest in Lopera, told Janer that the young Rodríguez "had been treated very badly past people", and seemed to be surprised by everything, whether it was a glass of vino, a cigarette, or a broom: "He had the heed of a very, very young child." A local woman called Maria Antonia Cerillo Uceda remembered Rodríguez every bit "very scruffy and wild", just as well "clever and curious".
At the terminate of the summer of 1966, Galvez, the curate, sent Rodríguez to the Hospital de Convalecientes in Madrid, a convent infirmary on Meléndez Valdés Street in the due north of the city. There, doctors cutting the calluses from Rodríguez's feet and placed a board on his back so that he would stand directly, and the nuns carried on his language lessons.
Rodríguez was perfectly capable of understanding language; the problem was simply that he hadn't spoken for then long that he had lost the ability to pronounce words. "I talked before they captured me, and fifty-fifty in the mountains, I spoke to myself," he told me. But he never seemed to catch upward, even after many years in the globe. "I always felt I never had knowledge of annihilation that mattered to people," Rodríguez told me. "The but affair I knew was my life in the mountains, and nobody believed me."
'Y ou know, the first fourth dimension I saw the sea, I was travelling to Mallorca on a ferry from Barcelona," Rodríguez told me 1 evening over dinner. "I was so confused past the never-catastrophe water that I went to ane of the sailors and asked him why in that location was so much h2o surrounding the boat. The sailor turned to me and smiled; he must accept known I was different. 'We tied the water to the boat,' the man said to me, pointing to one of the ropes hanging off the gunwale." Rodríguez cackled, shook his caput, and took a swig of his wine. "Poor nuns," he said, "they tried their all-time, but they didn't gear up me much for the real globe."
While Rodríguez stayed at the convent, he worked on structure sites in and around Madrid. The nunshad hoped this would prepare him for society, but information technology didn't help much. "I never had any idea what I was supposed to do," he told me. At the kickoff of 1967, Rodríguez was sent to practice armed forces service in Córdoba. He didn't last long. He fired his gun during a training drill and almost killed a member of his platoon. He was discharged, and returned to the infirmary in Madrid. On his render, he met a young man patient who convinced him to go to the island of Mallorca – which was so turning into a tourist destination for people from all over Europe. At that place would exist lots of work, the man told Rodríguez, and he could finally have some independence.
As before long as they arrived on the island, his travelling companion stole his suitcaseand the little money the nuns had given him, and left him stranded in a hostel. The owners, who thought Rodríguez was pulling a scam, called the constabulary. "Luckily the nuns had called alee to warn the local constabulary of my arrival," he told me. Instead of being arrested, he was put to work to pay off his debts.
In the following years, he held jobs as an assistant chef, a barman, a bricklayer and a route-sweeper. Because he didn't understand money very well, his bosses oftentimes underpaid him and took advantage of his naivety. "For a while, I was selling marijuana, without knowing. My boss told me it was tummy medicine. People would come up to the bar and inquire for 'medicine', and I'd requite it to them."
Juan Font, who worked with Rodríguez on building sites on the isle in the 1970s, remembers him as mischievous and funny, but easily exploited. "He was a good person and a hard worker, who we all respected," he told me over the telephone from Mallorca. "I remember he loved to sing; he had a great voice. But it was hard to believe his stories of living in the mountains; they simply seemed so unreal."
Information technology was in Mallorca, in 1975, that Rodríguez was introduced to Gabriel Janer Manila, the anthropologistwho would proceed to producethe most significant study of his life in the wild and its upshot on his subsequent development.
"Hither was this fragile-looking, childish human who was telling me the well-nigh incredible tales," Janer told me on the phone. "I admit, I struggled to believe him." But the more Janer heard of Rodríguez's story, the more credible it seemed. The pair met almost every solar day for six months. "I noticed that his story never varied, the facts never changed, no matter how many times I asked him to tell information technology, no affair how many times I asked him to clarify something," Janer wrote in his PhD thesis.
After subjecting Rodríguez to a series of intelligence tests, Janer determined that Rodríguez had no learning disabilities. Instead, he concluded, his emotional and social development had remained frozen at the moment in his childhood when he was abandoned. Rather than learning the rules of human being interaction, Janer wrote, he idealised life amidst the animals. "Fifty-fifty now," he concluded, "Marcos tries to use to social life the rules he observed during his life in the mountains."
Of course, the question remains: did Rodríguez really communicate with the animals in the way he remembers it? Certainly, the idea has fired the imagination of fiction writers. But for scientists, the question of whether animals would ever allow a human to alive among them, every bit one of their ain, is withal the subject of fierce debate.
When a pocket-sized child was discovered in a woods near Kampalain Uganda in 1991, the woman who found him described an emaciated boy, covered in hair and missing a big toe. When she tried to bear on him, he screamed like a banshee. At first, the male child, who was given the name John Ssebunya, didn't speak much, but with the care of his adoptive family unit, he regained parts of his oral communication and was able to tell people what had happened to him. Ssebunya claimed that monkeys had raised him – that they brought him foodand containers of water made of giant leaves, and that he played hide-and-seek with their immature.
Douglas K Capland, a primatologist and psychologist who studied Ssebunya'due south case, believed that the boy lived alongsidemonkeys, but not among them. The monkeys, Capland concluded, had foraged more than food than they needed, and John had picked up what they left behind.
José España, a biologist and specialist in wolf behaviour, who knows Rodríguez, believes his experience was probably comparable. "It's very possible for humans and wolves to co-exist," Espana told me. "Simply do I believe that every time he called the wolves they came to him, every bit he says? Well, that'south more debatable." Certainly, the wolves would have come up to Rodríguez when he had food. "Marcos is what I would call a periphery wolf – tolerated past the alpha, and past the rest of the pack because he posed no threat," España said. "How he chose to translate these interactions, nevertheless, is nearly likely a instance of selective memory."
Janer says the young boy would take projected his social needs on to the animals and imagined relationships with them. "When Pantoja says the fob laughed at him, or that he had to tell off the snake, he gives united states of america a version of the true reality, what he believes happened – or how, at least, he explained the reality to himself," Janer told me. "Marcos's listen was drastic for social acceptance," he told me, "so instead of understanding the animals' presence equally incentivised past the nutrient, he idea they were trying to brand friends."
R odríguez left Mallorca in the 80s and moved to the south of Espana, where he worked in a series of jobs – "anything that didn't involve reading or writing," he said. He was at his local bar near every twenty-four hours, getting drunk and playing the fruit machine. "This was the time that Marcos's life passed in a mistiness of alcohol and odd jobs," Gerardo Olivares told me. Rodríguez finds it hard to recall much of those years – except the day he met the man he calls "my boss".
In 1998, a retired policeman from Galicia, Manuel Barandela, was visiting his son in the town of Fuengirola, near Malaga, when he spotted Rodríguez living in the basement of an abandoned building. They talked over lunch, and Rodríguez gave him Janer'south book to read. Afterwards struggling through his story with the assist of a Catalan dictionary, Barandela decided to have him dorsum to Rante, where he could offering him a dwelling and give him piece of work on his homestead.
In Rante, Rodríguez institute quiet and solitude for the showtime time since his capture. Barandela tried to teach him to read, so that he could at least use the phone and recognise the names of medicines, but it proved well-nigh incommunicable. Barandela found information technology hard to talk to him, and began to worry information technology had been a error to take him in. "In the end, I came to meet Marcos as a kid," he recalled in a Spanish interview in 2010, shortly before he died. "Understanding him this way made everything easier."
Of course, it is every bit a "child" that Rodríguez has now go an object of fascination. For centuries, writers and thinkers have been obsessed past the stories of "feral children"who grow up without human being contact, supposedly untouched past civilisation – and therefore taken to stand for human nature in its purest form, innocent of society's conditioning.
Victor of Aveyron, mayhap the most celebrated feral child of modern times, emerged from a forest in southern French republic in 1800, aged 12, subsequently virtually seven years living in the wild. This was a moment of social and philosophical ferment, when ideas about the "state of nature" put forth by the likes of Locke and Rousseau were even so being hotly debated. Victor, who was unable to speak, was hailed throughout the land as a potential window on to man's soul, and intently studied by learned men keen to exam their theories of language and pedagogy.
It may be no accident that Rodríguez's case was, for one-half a century, rather less celebrated: he emerged from the mountains into a state scared to investigate itself for fear of what it might observe. There was little appetite for reopening debates virtually poverty and neglect, or the sale of children into labour, even in the 1970s. Information technology was non until much later, 35 years after Franco had died, in a republic mature enough to confront its past, that the details and significance of his story were finally embraced.
The release of Entrelobos, and the sudden inundation of interest in the circumstances of Rodríguez's abandonment, brought back to life a forgotten Spain, cut off from the world, struggling to survive on scarce resource under a repressive dictatorship. Rodríguez told Olivares that he had given him back his dignity. The innocence and naivete that had made him an outcast his whole life were at present the subject field of intense interest.
But this was nevertheless another complexity: it seemed equally if people thought their attention could compensate for all his suffering. People wrote to him from all over the world: some wanted to understand him, some wanted his advice, and some said they wanted to take care of him. Schools asked him to visit to tell his story to their pupils. His phone filled up with messages from journalists wanting a more intimate business relationship of his life. "There was a queue outside as long as the one at a benefits office," Rodríguez said, slumped in the chair in his small living room.
"People withal come round all the time. Some of them call back I'1000 rich and try to exploit me. I don't have a penny!" Rodríguez told me. He remembered i occasion, a few years back, when a woman visited his house and alleged her beloved for him. "She offered herself to me and said that we should go into business organisation together. I suppose she idea I made loads of coin from the film!"
Rodríguez could non understand how his story could be met with complete indifference for decades, only to make him famous 40 years afterwards Janer first wrote about it. "Specially when I hadn't changed," he said. To him, all this newly discovered adulation seemed just another hurtful, incomprehensible quirk of the human heed.
From the window of Rodríguez'due south house, I saw that the morn frost had lifted, and the lord's day bobbed in a higher place. The house had no primal heating, and the crisp February air collected in dumbo clouds effectually his nose and oral fissure as he spoke. "You lot know, at first they didn't want to listen to a give-and-take of what I was proverb. Now, they tin't terminate listening. What is it they actually want?"
Source: https://www.theguardian.com/news/2018/aug/28/how-to-be-human-the-man-who-was-raised-by-wolves
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