"Somehow the word allow is in the word swallow and in swallow two wholly different meanings: one to take in through the mouth and another what we call the common winged gnat hunter who is, in all probability, somewhere near us now. Once, I thought if I knew all the words I would say the right thing in the right way, instead language becomes more brutish: blink twice for the bird, blink once for tender annihilation."
"Once, I thought if I knew all the words I would say the right thing in the right way, instead language becomes more brutish: blink twice for the bird, blink once for tender annihilation. Who knows what we are doing as we go about our days lazily choosing our languages. Some days my life is held together by definitions, some days I read the word swallow and all my feathers show."
The word 'allow' sits inside 'swallow', linking disparate senses. 'Swallow' holds two wholly different meanings: one to take in through the mouth and another, the common winged gnat hunter likely nearby. Confidence that knowing all words would ensure saying the right thing yields to the discovery that language can become brutish. Simple signals—blink twice for the bird, blink once for tender annihilation—replace nuanced speech. People move through days lazily choosing their languages while unsure of their actions. Definitions sometimes hold life together; other times a single word provokes a physical change—reading 'swallow' can make feathers show.
Read at The Atlantic
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