By Marcia Yudkin
During one of my entrepreneurial projects, I stood in a recording studio at Berklee College in Boston performing a script I'd written on increasing one's vocabulary. Another woman and I took turns saying each word, defining it, then illustrating it in a sentence. During a break, the other woman turned to me and commented, "You really feel words, don't you?"
I looked at her. Did I?
Euphonious: nice-sounding. The salesman disarmed me by speaking in euphonious tones.
In elementary school, tinkering with words was as natural for me as other kids playing with trucks or dolls. An aunt gave me a hardcover anthology of poems for children, and I was hooked. The sound of words and ways they could rhyme captivated me. I would read verses from The Golden Treasury of Poetry out loud and in a wire-bound notebook scribble stanzas of my own. At age seven, I read two of my creations on a local TV show, swinging into the echoes of "know" with "snow," of "spring" with "king." That aural resonance was the thing
Flaunt: display flagrantly. Though he had so much he could never spend it all, Richie Rich tried not to flaunt his wealth.
From the enchanting sound of words, I moved on to their meaning. With my weekly allowance I bought a paperback called 30 Days to a More Powerful Vocabulary. It cost 35 cents. Before going to sleep, I studied it, learning words like "ascetic," "querulous" and "vindictive." I especially devoured a chapter called "Words for Mature Minds" containing words that the author, Wilfred Funk, said nine-year-olds would not be able to understand.
Not long afterwards I injected one of those words—"maudlin"—into a composition for my third-grade class. "You see, I was not the maudlin type," I wrote, noting how surprised I was that other kids cried their first day of school. "So there, Dr. Funk!" I thought with great satisfaction (although my use of "maudlin" was a bit off kilter).
Apotheosis: culmination or highest point. Marilyn Monroe was the apotheosis of Hollywood glamour.
Words also gathered associations. Today I can't hear the word "obstreperous" without thinking of my grandfather. Self-educated because he'd had to leave school at 13, he read mysteries and histories in a high-backed wing chair in our living room, tapping the lit tip of his Havana cigar into a beanbag ashtray. Even when we kids behaved well, he called us obstreperous, I think because he enjoyed having that complicated a word roll off his tongue.
Since I too read like a fiend, I collected phrases from books that stuck word for word in my memory. This might consist of a bombastic nonfiction title, like What You Should Know About Communism and Why, or a snappy line from Catcher in the Rye, such as "If you want to stay alive, you have to say that stuff." And as a grownup, I felt thrilled when I was able to insert—appropriately, wryly—Jane Eyre's "Reader, I married him" into one of my books. With just four words I could breathe a puff of Charlotte Bronte's passionate intensity into the tale of my own clandestine romance.
Visceral: felt immediately in the gut. Her opponent's insult had a visceral impact on the governor.
As my Berklee College script-reading partner had intuited, for me words have one more element. Besides sound, meanings and associations, they have oomph. Words can shoot out of you like pellets of energy or at you like a baseball hitting your solar plexus. "Obstreperous" has oomph. So does "albondigas," a punchy word from my seventh-grade Spanish class that I loved so much I would say it again and again with exaggerated vigor. (It means "meatballs.")
Sometimes the oomph is personal. I spent a year working in China at a time when outsiders stood out. When I traveled, kids would run after me and my blond companion, gleefully shouting "Waiguo ren!" ("Foreigners!"). When I rode the bus in Beijing, adults would stare. After eleven months of this, a five- or six-year-old boy leaped into the air with "Waiguo ren!" when he saw me, flicking a switch I didn't know I had. Without thinking, I stalked toward the boy. Just as quickly, the boy's father stepped in front of his son. "He's welcoming you, you see," he said in Chinese, giving me a worried look.
Catharsis: emotional release. After so much struggle and pain, the funeral represented a catharsis for the poor man's family.
Ah, words. In any language, they dance, sing, point and sometimes sting.
__________________
Marcia Yudkin lives in the woods of Goshen, Massachusetts. The author of 17 books, she publishes a Substack newsletter called Introvert UpThink, in which she critiques society's myths and misunderstandings about introverts. In addition to her newsletter, you can follow her on Twitter.
No comments:
Post a Comment