I
nfinite and immeasurable gratitude for the educators who contributed to my pre-existing passion for words and language. For whatever proclivities and talents I may possess, I consider the joy of a bon-mot or a crisp riposte among my most cherished passions. Repartee for two, with someone who is viscerally invested, is also high on my passion meter and it does my heart good. Tearing into an etymological mobius strip like a dog dismembering a hind quarter is also good for my soul.
For whatever proclivities and talents I may possess, I consider the joy of a bon-mot or a crisp riposte among my most cherished passions.
Language is a Lego set for the linguistically inclined. We start with the beginner’s kit and follow the step-by-steps adroitly before venturing into the realm of invention; and before we know it, we are surrounded by a mammoth collection of pieces with which to construct the most complex and intuitive models of sociolingual wonder.
Language is an alcoholic drink. We start with the odd stolen swig of creme de menthe from the cabinet of words, advancing to the sideboard of fine wines, and ultimately the wonderwall of single malted Scotch. A poem becomes a gateway to adventures in prose. A sonnet turns into a rush to find complete works of Philip Larkin or Charles Bukowski. And we find we cannot survive this world without a daily hit of well intentioned inoculations of literature, and that we would rather succumb to any of life’s plagues than a paucity of pretty words.
But language . . . F#&*ing eh!
