I have been on a poetry kick lately. One great thing about poetry is, it's portable! Here's the conclusion of Douglas Oliver's "The Jains and the Boxer".
The boxer's sounds interrupt plosively, while the Jaina vibrate, so repetitive in consonant that all is almost vowel, a continuous voicing. We wish for that passivity, the single vowel of wonder, unchanging reverence for the sacred. But we fall into Frenchified voodoo sacrifice: the clean blow, sudden slice at a cockerel neck. It's disgusting to gain erotic victory at such a price. The Jains know the flow of time free of harm. The boxer knows its beat: destruction and renewal. Poetic music flows, undulates, hits beats.