I love words. In fact, I love them so much that I had all my favorite ones tattooed on my back in an attempt to turn myself into a walking dictionary. Sisu, amor fati, timshel, animae magnae prodigus, lettre en souffrance: five of the most meaningful phrases I have found; and I know this is not the end: with every book I read, the list gets longer.
Some words are purely for the sake of communication. “The time flew by,” or, “This train is old,” or, “She was not thinking,” when used flippantly, shoved mindlessly between other flippant sentences, have no poetry (although they have meaning). They are each made up of four words that add up to four-word sentences. But then there are those sentences that are more than just the sum of their parts. “Time was passing like a hand waving from a train I wanted to be on. I hope you never have to think about anything as much as I think about you,” by Jonathan Safran Foer, is but one example of the haunting beauty that words can have. This sentence doesn’t make much sense—not at a superficial glance, at least—but it speaks to the soul in a way that everyday words and sentences never can. It has meaning that goes far beyond what it is trying to say, and for that alone, it deserves to be celebrated.
If I were to summarize my reason for being here—for writing these essays—it would be this: to bring to light the beauty of words, especially those that I feel are sometimes overlooked. I read a lot—I always have—and I often come across words that are so beautiful that they cause me pain. Unfortunately, the only way I can acknowledge their existence is by underlining them, or writing them down, word for word, in special journal; and then putting them back on the shelf where are forgotten by me and unseen by the people around me. But the desire to share is a deep human need that dates back to our evolution as social beings. And for me, at least, that desire has at last become so strong that it now surpasses any trepidation I might feel about putting my most special thoughts on the internet. I don’t share because I’m bored, or looking for recognition, or hoping to hone my writing skills: I share because I no longer have any choice.
Another reason I want to write about all the beautiful words in the world is because I believe they can teach us something about how we can, and ought, to live. Consider this phrase by Milan Kundera: “Anyone whose goal is ‘something higher’ must expect someday to suffer vertigo.” ‘Vertigo’, for Kundera, is not the fear of falling, but the desire to do so; and if it is your intention to climb—to achieve the great and the unimaginable in those difficult places where no one dares to go—you will inevitably reach a moment when you wish to jump back down to a time and space where life is simpler and you don’t have to fight so hard.
In a world that keeps trying to kill the esoteric, I’m convinced books are pure magic. Every word you read is an extension of someone else—their ideas, their thoughts, their feelings; a book is a glimpse into someone else’s being. When I wake up in the morning, the first thing I do is flip open a book. The nature of these books have changed over time: from fiction (in all its forms) to epistolary to biography to non-fiction to dictionaries (I’m not joking—I’m especially fond of thesauri), I have always sought solace, wisdom, and meaning in the words of others. As a lover of words—a logophile, I believe we’re called—the focus of my work is to share what I love, and to extract from this love those things that teach us what it is to live meaningfully and beautifully.
Or maybe, my own words are just an excuse to write about the things I could never write myself, because this is as close as I will ever get to creating something magical.