Of all of the possible reasons to waste a lifetime on words, the most important is the recognition that most of human communication—indeed, communication of any kind—relies on the lack of words. When we’re sad, we don’t need to use our words to convey our emotions, for the same reasons that our smiles are normally enough to convey our happiness. Humans use words in the same way we use all tools—for those exceedingly rare moments when our bodies fail us in producing the precise product that we wish will perpetuate our position in the universe.
Words, as anyone can attest, are often ineffective at generating a true representation of a given situation. It’s why we take pictures—a sentence will never be as poignant as a single snapshot of a moment in time. Even in circumstances where we’re separated by the boundaries of nationhood, citizenship, and nationality, words are often the precise variables that determine whether we miscommunicate or not.
Anyone who’s spent any time communicating with someone who doesn’t speak their language will attest that—when all is said—it’s what’s done that conveys the message. Humans, after all, are fascinating because of our well-developed language. That being said, our bodies allow us to express ourselves, whether we’re smiling in Japanese, English, or Bengali.
What’s the point of even learning words? Words are burdensome and cumbersome and troublesome. The right word can never be found and the wrong word is typically the only thing that draws our focus. Gaffes, mistakes, and mispronunciations wake us up and move us in our seats far more often than “Four score and seven years ago…”
Every great orator might be defined by his ability to adapt to his audience, but every legendary speech is defined by the speaker’s accidental miscommunications. Humans, in our grand capacity to connect with each other—always seem to focus on the words that don’t matter. While I’m not necessarily a jelly donut, scholars will continue to argue for eons to come about President Kennedy’s intentions when he claimed, “Ich bin ein Berliner.”
Worse yet, our words are vile and villainous. Sticks and stones may break our bones, but we can heal broken bones. We can recover from physical injury. Indeed, when my elementary school bullies tried to scare me into submission, they never managed to get a reaction out of me by threatening my body. No, they only succeeded in affecting me when they used their words – words, I might add, that were surprisingly efficient given the circumstances. My point, if I may arrive at one, is that sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will haunt me in the depths of the inky-black night once I’ve recovered from my physical wounds.
Of course, I love them. Words, not my bullies; Mr. Of Nazareth may have wise words on the matter of forgiveness, but I’ve never found it so facile to cling to his teachings on the subject of empathy.
I digress.
I love words, quite possibly more than I love movies—and anyone’s who’s read my columns knows that I love movies very much. I love words and I love sentences. I love sentences and I love paragraphs. I love paragraphs, and essays, and commas, and grammar, and phonemes, and morphemes, and I even love the non-linguistic ques that language has appropriated into onomatopoeia.
I love the feel of the right word. I love the way it rolls around in my tongue, like a piece of soft toffee melting on the surface of my palate. I love the way that the perfect word is able to summarize my argument—my entire state of being—in the single swift slash of a metaphorical sword. The perfect word, to me, is like butter on toast.
My perfect breakfast is butter on toast. To prepare the perfect breakfast, one must cook a slice of bread until it’s golden brown. One must then rinse one’s knife with hot water. The metal heats up so that one can slice off a thin sliver of butter and evenly spread it across every corner of one’s bread until there’s nothing left but the perfect concoction of buttery toast. Finding the perfect word—finding the word that summarizes every aspect of my argument—is like cooking a proper breakfast of buttered toast.
Words are unreliable, however. As a species, we already know this. Why even bother suggesting that there’s a way to solve this problem? Why bother suggesting that the careful appreciation of language can change a person’s entire perspective on life? It’s quite simple, really. A week ago, I walked past a group—of males and females of the human species—engaging in conversation. They were talking about Halloween costumes.
“Every girl dresses up in a slutty costume for Halloween,” said one branch of the amorphous blob. The others branches nodded their heads in agreement.
Fighting sexism does not start with recognizing sexism. Fighting stereotypes does not begin by combatting harmful stereotypes. Fighting the patriarchy does not begin by defining the ideological spaces in which we dwell.
Fighting ignorance begins by learning perfect words.
Every girl does not wear a slutty costume for Halloween. In fact, every girl doesn’t even partake in Halloween. The vast majority of girls do not wear slutty costumes, either. Lots of girls? Still no. Many girls? Arguably. Some girls? Absolutely.
In fact, I would be so bold as to suggest that the only guaranteed comparison between every girl is that every girl requires sleep, every girl requires nourishment, every girl produces waste, and every girl is the product of some form of reproduction. These are, many will notice, the basic requirements for all living things. The suggestion that some girls, or some boys, or some humans, or some cabbages are representative of the entire species is not only erroneous, it’s bad science – and that simply won’t do.
Today, I write simply because I’m aggravated by the inability to find the perfect words at any given moment.
“So avoid using the word very because it’s lazy,” explains John Keating, Williams’s character in Dead Poets Society. “A man is not very tired, he is exhausted. Don’t use very sad, use morose. Language was invented for one reason, boys—to woo women—and, in that endeavour, laziness will not do. It also won’t do in your essays.”
Keating’s speech to his male students applies to all males, all females, and all humans.
Friends, Romans, countrymen: lend me your ears. Never end your search for the perfect words.