People around them may see things in different ways, even with the same views but choose different interpretations, so it is important to understand that there is no absolute truth at all, but only perspective. Of course, writing about the past is a heart-wrenching experience, and revisiting those long passages magically pushes me back to the past, reliving all kinds of feelings: the trembling of breathtaking love, the pain of loss and passing. Organizing texts for certain chapters is difficult, and it sometimes brings me to tears. Reading it through, there are places where I seem sentimental, annoying, or weak and incompetent, too dependent, and I see myself as sometimes naïve and uneasy, and I may have been such a person, and maybe still be, and I think at least this is honest. We stumble through our lives, leaving embarrassing footprints, and it is often only in such moments of introspection that we realize how bad things we sometimes do.
—Brett Anderson
……
Young Brett Anderson
I was born at the end of the first summer of love (the hippie movement that took place in the summer of 1967), and 38 years later in the room where I was born, my father passed away. It was also my parents' bedroom. She had the potential to be a painter, but she sewed great value clothing for the wealthy and miserly ladies of the area to supplement the family. He was a postman when I was born, and later as a pool attendant, an ice cream vendor, a door and window cleaner, and finally a taxi driver. The world of the two of them is a world of linoleum floors and pregnancy tests; a world of rented furniture and rent collectors coming and going. Far from the clichés of the swinging '60s Carnaby Street, it's more like gray and boring post-war Britain than the glitzy pop myth. The rooms are in a cramped, closed, low-cost house—the kind you're familiar with, abode of dilapidated suburban land and lifeless out-of-town residential areas. Poor alleys, stone rice facades, exiled to border cities, uninhabited, expelled forever.
My house is in a place called Lindefield, on the edge of a residential area. Lindfeld is a village on the outskirts of Haywards Heath and engulfed by it, an unnamed sleeping town, a lonely little train stop somewhere between London and Brighton. In that place, apart from the hot kitchen sink drama that burns in the daily life of the lower middle class, nothing has actually happened, and perhaps nothing has happened.
My parents chose this house because they thought it was nice to raise children in the woods. That being said, in fact, it's just a few yards away from a corrugated tin fence covered with graffiti. At the end of the concrete road is the local garbage dump. On weekends, people would go over and throw away damaged appliances and household waste. There were vast patches of rust and white enamel, jumbles of discarded furniture, springs, cracked tires and dried-up paint cans. In the eyes of the children in the neighborhood, it is naturally a wonderful and exciting playground, exuding charm and threats. We would climb gravel and debris, fiddle with tattered mopeds and jammed bicycle chains, and play in scrap buckets with cracked thermometers, unaware of the dangers lurking from the leaking mercury. Once, there was a broken rowboat there, and it became the focus of our hot game all summer, until it was finally destroyed and fragmented by our brutality. Now a nature reserve, I sometimes wonder if the dog walkers and picnic tourists know about the rusty landfill under their rain boots.
The house is very small, very small. When my father was alive, I always went back to visit every Christmas, but I was repeatedly amazed at the size of the house like a toy. I have an older sister, the lovely Blandin, who got her name from the daughter of the Hungarian Romantic composer Franz Liszt. Fortunately, my father Peter took my sister's name and left it for my mother, Sandra, to name it for me, for which I am very grateful. By coincidence or judgment, my birthday is the same as that of Horatio Nelson ( a famous British admiral and military strategist ) , one of my father 'heroes , his "Big Three" – his personal exclusive idol group, the other two members being Winston Churchill and the aforementioned Liszt – key figures. I remember my father buying a huge British naval flag, almost as big as a house, and installing a simple flagpole on the wall of our small low-cost house, and for many years afterward, he raised that flag on every three days. My family told me that I was almost named Horatio, which was terrible. According to my father, my mother named me after the actor Jeremy Brett, and it is also said that the name was in honor of Roger Moore's role as Lord Brett Sinclair in The Persuaders — perhaps subconsciously predicting the future.
Our family of four was crammed into this cheap particleboard hut made of bricks and cinder blocks: Blanding lived in a cold, north-facing bedroom, my parents locked up in their cramped marital fiefdom, and I slept in the morning-rising storage room at the corner of the house, which was almost just enough to fit my children's single bed and a few worn-out toys—a wool guard named "Soldier", a gray mouse doll named "Mouse", and a furry ugly thing called "Electric Electricity", which I put on my nose and played with, which my parents had from the "Soldier" Prizes from TV Times magazine. My mother went to art school, and she painted white clouds on the ceiling of my room, and I used to lie there staring at the clouds, listening to the traffic outside the house drifting away like the wind, and in the rooms a few feet apart, the quarrels of my parents roared.
The band "Goatskin"
I was a nervous, anxious, worried child, often prone to insomnia, waking up alone for hours in fear, staring at the folds at the top of the curtains revealing a vicious face. After sunrise, I waited for my family to get up and look out the window at the end of the road at a pile of trees near an abandoned mushroom factory. I called one of them "Rats" and the other "Clowns," and watched intently as they swayed and flapped, as if trapped in eternal strife, and let the swirls of the wind push and drive.
My upbringing was mundane in many ways, and at the same time a little unusual, and the strange thing was that we never really integrated into our surroundings. We nominally live in a quaint village in Sussex, but our area is rarely visited by tourists, in a dirty residential area on the outskirts of the village, secluded and secluded, away from the world of the vulgar flowers and flowers of the commercial streets. We were destitute, with low-cost housing surrounded by walls, but our parents decorated it more like a family of upper-middle-class intellectuals in Hampstead (an area of London, England, inhabited by intellectuals, art celebrities and the rich). The room is full of paintings by her mother, who has devoted her unpretentious painting career to depicting the undulating countryside of Sussex, and the walls of her home are full of her beautiful landscape watercolors and observation of subtle natural studies. In addition to her own work, she hangs paintings by Hendrick Afkamp (a Dutch painter known for his winter scenes), Vincent van Gogh and Aubrey Beardsley. She decorated the house with intense colors—midnight blue, William Morris wallpaper, and intense homemade velvet curtains. Of course, the family also echoed throughout the house with my father's deafening classical music: Wagner, Berlioz, Elga, Chopin, and the omnipresent and inescapable Liszt. My musical education must have taken shape in this raging furnace, forged by The Ring of the Nibelungen and The Hungarian Rhapsody, hammered into the shape of Brunnhild's breastplate by the dark and gloomy musical landscape and the exhilarating melody. Dad would stand with his feet on slippers, two small hairy legs under his red silk nightgown, "directing" the music with a baton in his hand, his old Philips disc recorder spinning the tape round and round, and the rest of us in the kitchen frightened.
His obsession shattered other attachments. He spoke of Liszt in a quasi-religious, pious tone, and even reverie "minororders" as a tribute to Liszt's later years of faith—a thought he had as a staunch atheist that would be absurd. He had been called a juror, and after two weeks of busy work he had come home to tell us that he had refused to take a hand-pressed Bible oath in court and asked to take a biography of Franz Liszt instead. This, he said, was what he really trusted.
During the black-and-white years of the 1960s, he cruised Haywards across an old BSA motorcycle with a shouldercar, and my mother often squatted restlessly in the shouldercar for fear of losing her haircut. After having children, he bought a Lilaient Mockingbird tricycle, similar to the Sinclair C5 electric car of that year, which required a driver's license to drive: a glass fiber brittle shell with wheels, giving people thin protection and a small dignity. By the time I was born, he had changed into a run-down racing green Morris station wagon and was carrying us around. The car fell into disrepair, and every September, small mushrooms would emerge from the rotting wooden frame of the rear carriage. My sister and I wore no seat belts and swayed in the back seat, singing abba songs. As soon as this car is on the highway, no matter how fast or slow, it will shock people's hearts, and if you look closely, you can see the highway speeding underneath through the gap in the bottom plate. Incredibly, every other year my father was able to drive it all the way to Leiden, Austria, where Liszt was born, for a pilgrimage. He would pick up a small piece of dirt from the land of Redding, pour it into a glass bottle, and wear it around his neck.
Living under his father's eaves, he had to face a bunch of seemingly pointless rules and choose a path in this strange and intricate wilderness. He once laughed bitterly that he was "a cigarette and a copy of Radio Age" on weekdays, and he would cling to the magazine like Gollum (a character in the British writer J.R.R. Tolkien's "The Lord of the Rings") and guard it carefully. If anyone pulls it out of the tartan bookcase, or before Dad circles a string of programs with a ballpoint pen and arranges a happy listening time, and then jumps on it first, or even more out of the box, and takes it out of the nest under the wicker stool (Dad likes to rest on this stool and spit on the heather pipe that never leaves him), then this person is going to be very unlucky. Other rules, such as when to eat plums is appropriate, how to tie the tie to be "correct", I think we are not very observant, but at that time I felt that they were rigid and trivial, always revealing that Dad was eager to monopolize power and dominate the living creatures in his world.
Born into a military family, he grew up in a dull, state-built housing district in Haywards Heath called Benzwood: a group of identical, boxy 1930s houses filled with alcohol, violence and failure, permeated with the scent of sour sherry, dog food and the mist of heaters. My grandparents' house was filled with military souvenirs, such as recoiled knives, decorative shell casings, and trinkets that their family had brought back when they were stationed in India during the first years of my father's life. His mother was a delicate, high cheekbones woman, shy and timid. Her husband, father of her father, was a rough, alcoholic soldier who was indifferent to almost everything except his big black Labrador dog, Kahn. Later, he expelled his own son from the house, because Peter was fed up with the atrocities of his drunken stormy reign over the stone-walled city and revolted with resentment. The effect of this upbringing on my father was that he would never resort to physical violence against me, but when he was sullen, Larkin's pessimistic prophecies about family inheritance (the Sad picture of family inheritance painted by the English poet Philip Larkin in his famous poem "This Be The Verse") were subtly fulfilled. The dollhouse we lived in was already damp and closed, and my father's moodiness occasionally made the atmosphere worse—the charming, decadent freak turned into a depressed bully, and the house was shrouded in a cloud of tension and threat. Their generation never learned how to control and dissolve the mustard in their hearts. The black dog in his father's heart slowly devoured him and eventually destroyed him. A series of horrific events led him to isolation, depression and loss of control.
I must have a little Scottish ancestry, as naturally from my last name, and because my grandfather was a drummer and bagpiper in the Royal Scottish Musketeers. He was a cold, old-school, serious-looking man with a big back, hair combed with Wanga shampoo, and an alcohol-battered face. Bizarrely, he was one of the few people who had been rumored to have died twice. After a series of unforgivable episodes of drunken violence, his marriage finally collapsed, and he staggered away, after which he borrowed the house of an old military friend or stayed in a cheap hotel. We vaguely learned that he seemed homeless, drunk day after day. Because of the long run-up with him and the repeated hearing that he spent the night on a park bench, one day in the nineties, we were told that he was dead, and none of us were surprised—my father's reaction seemed surprisingly cold. However, at least a decade later, he received a phone call from an institution asking if he would like to help organize his father's funeral. We learned that my grandfather was actually alive before: he had been wandering, drinking, and sinking. Dad never forgave him for the family horrors he committed, hated him to the bone, and although he was shocked to hear the news, he still refused to help.
Although Dad never physically hurt me, his gloomy anger was intimidating, and perhaps the effect was my neurosis. He was sometimes very controlling—whoever left the room, he always asked to know where he was going. To this day, even if I go to the bathroom, I have to tell my wife. Like the scene in the movie "The Shawshank Redemption", Morgan Freeman plays a character who works as a packer in a supermarket and asks for instructions every time he goes to the toilet. Sometimes Dad was aggressive and made some extreme or unrealistic remarks about politics and music. As I approached adolescence and began to confront him, we often clashed over the strengths and weaknesses of pop and classical music, and the debate intensified. Christmas year after year ends in controversy, and it is inconspicuous and disturbing. The two of us would sit at the table in anger in Christmas hats, excited but senselessly trying to prove to me that the Sonata of Sorrow was "better than" "[I Can't Get No] Satisfaction." This experience made me quite opinionated about music, and perhaps prepared me well, always over-interpreting my music later in my life.
Of course, there are also relaxing times. He was also a gentle and loving father, considerate, funny, materialistic, completely unaffected by the ambitious atmosphere of the 1980s, contented in his small kingdom of particle board and paint. He was a skilled craftsman, always sawing wood with that set of well-maintained tools, drilling holes, pasting, knocking, and tinkering. He made furniture, shelves, frames for my mother, and even made his own speakers. One year during the Easter holidays, he worked tirelessly to make a box and told Blanding to do it to put his tools. We wonder why the toolbox needs to be filled with barbed wire. Until Easter Day, he led us into the garden and gave us a beautiful little white rabbit. What he had been doing before was their rabbit box.
These two rabbits have become the biggest thing in our little world. Every morning we both swung into the wasteland behind the garbage heap by the house, picking dandelions and carefully selected grass for the rabbits. In the winter, Mom would mash the oats and potato skins and make them a fragrant, hot powdery feed. Blandin even built a so-called "rabbit club" of unknown significance. The only membership rule seems to be that members (only two – me and her) twitch their noses at each other to show mutual approval. People who know me well know that this habit is still difficult for me to change.
If the father was obsessed with Liszt, the sister was obsessed with "The Watersip Wasteland." She read the paperback book over and over again, and the cover was off the page, so she changed into one herself, trimmed with lace and denim, and painted the characters of hazelnut and Kotako in watercolor. Eager for me to know the story, she paid me two pennies an hour for her to read it — a practice that was later applied to the works of other writers, such as Tolkien and Rosemary Sakleaf (English novelists and children's writers). However, I don't remember any pretentious children's books my family read for me, and one of the earliest books I remember was "Beowulf" read to me by my mother. Blanding was very influential to me: she introduced me to literature, stimulated my enthusiasm for learning, and later made me listen to the pop music of the sixties and seventies, which grew and evolved in me and merged into another part of my musical self.
When I was six or seven years old, I started attending Sunday school with Blandin. It was a single-storey white brick house on the edge of our residential area, run by an elderly and frail couple. In short, I was too young to understand the true spiritual significance of the courses I attended. In retrospect, I had to see the experience as a process of enlightenment, and my atheistic parents seemed to have resigned themselves to it. I think what attracts me to Sunday school is the year-end "awards" ceremony, which awards children based on the number of days of attendance in a year, and awards them a small toy or a book based on the number of stamps they accumulate each week. Of course, some unscrupulous local children will take advantage of the awards and only show up at school on that day, and then march home triumphantly, waving a wire book or an equally worthless religious gadget.
My house is the next one next to the townhouse, and next door lives Mr. Bin's family, an old milkman who has lost his teeth and is generous. But I've felt since I was a kid that there's really friction between our home and other people in the residential area. I think most people think we're arrogant and distant. The unruly boys next door were still jumping loudly late at night, laughing, and playing heavy metal music. Another group of little hooligans would yell at Dad, play soccer against the corrugated tin fence near our house all day, stomp on mom's flowers, and brutally smash her fragile, fictional Edwardian idyllic life. Indeed, the world our family's craftsmanship creates is bound to be at odds with the popularity of Status Quo T-shirts and plastic furniture. Most of our clothes were made by our mothers, and they must have looked very different from the corduroy that everyone wore, and we were often teased and provoked. I don't think it helps us that Dad's rise to fame as Edith Sitwell of Hayward Heath (an Avant-garde English poet and literary critic) and Mom's habit of sunbathing naked in the garden. But over time, we have also become accepted and integrated into the community, although we have always been regarded as outsiders - "the family with the piano in the kitchen".
Outside each house there is a small patch of grass on which children play a ball game tirelessly. Laughter and laughter flutter through the residential area. A bunch of little villains spat foul language, wore air guns, and rode high-speed bicycles to run around. Years later, every time I returned home, I was always touched by these situations that no longer existed. The meadows are silent, the children are gone, generations have matured, and the land is reserved for white-haired parents—sickly, wives and orphans, all like a line in "North Country Blues".
Brett Anderson and David Bowie
Everything in our house is either homemade or second-hand. My mother, sister, and I were regular customers of the charity sale, and every Saturday afternoon they went to the village hall to wrestle with the retired old people who were pushing and shoving, spending a few coins to grab the jewelry, books and even underwear and move them home. For some reason, I can still remember the touch of the pair of second-hand purple nylon shorts that my mother insisted I wore. My mother was the kind of person who, as the saying goes, tightened her pants and belt to get by. She grew up in the post-war rationing years and had nothing wasted or discarded in her home. She would pick wild nettles and mushrooms for salads, cook soup, and pluck birds and rabbits to skin and stew. She was sewing and mending all day, with needles large and small in her mouth, Cleopatra-like makeup, and her hair curled up like Elizabeth Taylor's. On countless winter nights, Dad was working outside, the wood in the fireplace crackled, and we squatted down, listening to the sound of needles and threads gently wandering on the clothes, waiting for Father's key to be inserted into the door lock and turn, wiping out the terrible sound of rain and rain in his mood. His meager salary could not withstand much splurge, and his mother had no choice but to buy some cheap meat—greasy, chewable pieces of meat, minced meat, and tendon-laden sewage. However, food is strictly forbidden to be wasted, and we are not allowed to leave the table without licking the plate clean. On those terrible evenings, the beef loin pudding slammed into our plates, so I often sat alone at the white plastic countertop round table in the kitchen, whimpering and shoving food into my mouth, sitting for several hours, until it was late at night, and my mother had to give in even though she was angry, and she poured out the leftovers in a rage. Such an experience had made me hate eating meat all my life, and it must have starved me at the time, and Blanding and I began to hide our food and hoard it in our bedrooms. As soon as we have snacks and leftovers that we particularly like, we put them in our pockets and quietly transport them to our bedrooms for storage in case of emergency. I remember my mother would make a delicious yeast sauce twist pie, which I loved to eat, and often sneaked it into my room and stored it in an old cardboard box under the bed, which was originally used to hold a pair of headphones for my father. Fascinated by this small reserve, I gradually forgot the original intention, and as a result, I left things for too long. One day my mother came to me with the cardboard box in her hand, and she found it when she was cleaning the room, and the box was full of moldy and spoiled dough. I was always immersed in obvious sorrow and shame that day, and I did not dare to commit the sin of wasting food again. Looking back, she is still an amazing woman: talented, skillful, stoic, with her unique heart of stone. There is no modern equipment in the home except for a cheap electric oven, and all our clothes are hand-dried by hand, which is incredible to me in the 21st century. She struggled to save money, washing her clothes in the winter with excess warm water from the hot water bottle. The house has no heating, only a narrow fireplace in the living room and a small kerosene stove in the kitchen. One by one, the cold of the dark morning is compelling, and the ritual of making fires and taking care of fires has a religious status. Mother was the high priest, and we were her auxiliary priests, running errands to carry matches and shredded old newspapers, preheating flues, and turning the fire around. On wet and cold afternoons, she would crouch on the floor and blow air at the smouldering embers, her hands stained with the smell of firewood smoke, and a troubled tattoo was engraved on her forehead.
In addition to housework, she sewed most of our clothes, and in the time outside of reading, drawing, and watching the fire, she often sat on her knees on the dark yellow carpet, holding a tailor's scissors in her hand, and bowed on a sewing paper pattern, which was a kind of tailor's design drawing drawn on thin and light drawing paper, which was used to cut the fabric in the same way, and then sewed the pieces of the various parts to make clothes, pants, and dresses. When her sister reached her teenage years, she insisted that her mother sew a fake "brand" label on one of her corduroy pants, so that she felt that she was not much different from other girls who wore Levi's and Lee Cooper's. The only time my mother bought clothes for me was when I was about eight years old, and she reluctantly paid for a brand new winter coat. I put on this new dress and went to the children's party, where the boys' family was on a small, run-down farm in the countryside. I rolled into the mud with the other children and came home covered in mud and mud. When my mother saw this, she erupted with anger that I had never imagined before, and she jumped like a thunderbolt, frighteningly, and violently hit my naked legs. This kind of corporal punishment was usually reserved for dealing with particularly serious mistakes, and it was usually carried out by her subordinates, but this time she seemed to be so angry that she lost her mind. I thought that trying to tighten the empty money bag at home, this chore could not be wrong, exhausting and thankless, had made her on the verge of collapse, and when the frustration finally overflowed, she really couldn't bear it.
His father's family was originally from Kentish Town, and his mother was from rural Sussex. My grandmother died of breast cancer before I was born, my grandfather moved, remarried, and was loyal to the new family, so my sister and I only met him once. It was a needle-and-felt afternoon, and we were drinking tea in a cabin in Lewis, when I was about eight years old. Mom used to ride around the village on a sturdy blue tricycle, and Dad installed a large wooden box for her in the back of the car. When the box was free of clutter, it contained her beloved Welsh Springer dog Misty. Mom pedaled hard, Misty was lazily panting and drooling, and the others looked at it with a raised eyebrow, only to find it funny. In the more relaxed, mother is gentle and romantic, sitting and drawing while listening to Jonny Michelle or the Rolling Stones in her plastic portable cassette recording booth. Her only hobby is to allow herself to extravagantly open a jar of Sanhua condensed milk under extremely occasional circumstances. It must have been a rare delicacy of her hard and simple childhood, for only such things always seemed to restore her to weakness. As she sat at the kitchen table like a little girl and scooped up a spoonful of slimy white condensed milk into her mouth, smiled contentedly and muttered, she faded the cold robe that usually held everything. She also had a warm, loving, kind side, and I was worried that she might die one day. Occasionally, she wore a wig that was usually draped over a surreal-looking polystyrene dummy head on the dresser. Following the legacy of the 1960s, she loves to comb her hair upside down and set it up, spraying it all over her head with hairspray. I was convinced that inhaling too much hairspray would cause her cancer, and like all my sons, I was afraid of not getting her warmth and love.
In those days, people like Eisinger and Mordor (J.R.R. The main place names in Tolkien's novel The Lord of the Rings, The Tale of two cities, are the double fears that generally stand over the continent of my mind, that is, the obsession with the poisoning of hairspray and the threat of nuclear attacks in the early 1980s, when the world was still full of doubts, trapped in the clouds of the Cold War, and the danger seemed to really happen, and the never-responsible, self-serving mass media continued to exacerbate and toss this worry. People spend their days gloomily examining the map of the impact of a nuclear explosion, or pessimistically wondering which is better to escape from death or evaporate in such a frightening situation. This kind of bitter discussion snaked over to our kitchen table, and the mother would have a serious look on her face, talking about how painful it was to be burned alive in molten nylon clothes, or whether we had time to save two rabbits. She reads with hunger, drawing and sewing, and she sits on the couch, legs in stockings, and indulges in fiction. And I was next to her, my head buried in her shoulder socket, and from time to time I was bothered, asking about the plot, and asking her if there were any pictures in the book to see. Her love of literature must have flowed into my blood, and even though it was hidden in my youth, my desire to read is now bordered on greed.
Aside from the highly regarded C.S. Lewis and Tolkien fantasy series, the only serious novel that really got into my head as a child was Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four. This is a book that I often look back on, and the rereading process at different stages of life is very interesting, and I enjoy it by distilling a slightly different meaning over and over again. Needless to say, the novel's well-founded foresight is fascinating, but in my reading, its true essence is the core love story. From a very young age, I realized that, even if I can't generalize, the vast majority of art is about love in some way. Years later, I threw myself into my own writing, always composing songs in a human, emotional context, allowing the drama and friction between people to become the medium, revealing a deeper and broader reality. Later, anyone who interpreted our music as "non-political" always made me feel superficial. Social commentary must be confined to the primary colors of partisan politics.
A tiny literary seed must have been implanted in my heart at the time, because I had been writing diaries since the late '70s. The diaries, which had previously been lost in memory, had been in a cardboard box for decades, silently following me from house to house, quietly waiting for the moment to see the light of day again. Unfortunately, this moment has not yet come, and I originally wrote them, hoping to reveal the past and give an enlightening account of my early life, but they failed to do so. Unfortunately, they are just boring and lengthy weather reports, shop itineraries, tedious school schedules and test scores, without any form of insight or description, nothing interesting. Even if it was a shocking event to think of now, I seemed to have skimmed over it at that time, preferring to relish the dinner menu and the score of the ball game. I must have been a "boring young man" anymore. Perhaps Morrissey was right after all (author Brett Anderson called British singer-songwriter Anderson the lead singer Of Smiths "a bit like a useless teenager" in a 1993 interview, and Morrissey hit back in a later interview that Anderson was like "a boring young man with cake crumbs on his bed"). I don't think my childhood self had any emotional depth to speak of, nor did I have any insight. For example, the theme of the complicated situation of the parents' marriage, expressed only by a strange "parents quarrel", shows that I am an unusually short-sighted and self-centered child. I felt that my mother had specially wrapped me in a warm and comfortable blanket of fantasy, and that our fragile world was built on fault lines, turbulent and crumbling, and that mother never dared to reveal her worries. I remember not having some serious, honest conversations with her until puberty. She prefers to communicate with me by chatting about books or TV shows, and more often through those gentle and primitive ways that are commonly used between mother and child...