The apparent publicity words receive from the dictionary is a falsehood.
According to?
Borges.
False publicity is it?
Yes. The language-using public is misled by clumsy pedants in every walk of life.
Into “increasing their vocabulary” in elevators.
And the like. That’s not it so much, though, the word-of-the-day in the elevator. And it’s not really false publicity; it’s not the Dictionary’s fault.
That’s where the pedants come in.
And not pedants. That’s not such a nice word.
And not the Dictionary either?
No, the Dictionary. But the grammar book too. Really, it’s the grammar book, the real domain of pedants. Not pedants. I’m trying to say, not the pedants. Not people. Well, people. But it’s the same with the Dictionary.
You’re confusing me. Are you talking to me?
Sorry. Yes.
What did Borges have to say about the Pedants? Who are these Pedants? I don’t understand you.
Well, I want to take back the word Pedants. That’s my bad habit. I start painting with my broad brushes and hurling epithets. I meant myself too, included. I admonish myself, but that doesn’t exactly shine through I realize. You have to listen to what you say out loud, what does it sound like? And I hear myself, but do I stop it? It’s a bad habit.
Yes, I see. So it wasn’t Borges’ pedants then?
No, he was talking about a grave error attributed to the academicians. The proliferation of words, the huge variety of words and the notion that they are all equally useful; that it is good to know a lot of them, more is better. Perpetuated by academicians, he said.
Did he have any particular academicians in mind?
I would think so, but I don’t know. And, see, now we’re talking about academicians. It’s not the academicians.
Then who? The pedants?
No, forget the pedants. We’re not talking about pedants. Not about academicians. We’re talking about the false publicity words get. Not false publicity. False inference: by the riders on the elevator. Not the elevator riders, the dictionary readers; it’s not the dictionary’s fault. But the neat columns of words in uniform fonts, defined, pronounced, histories stated. It doesn’t say, “Oh, by the way, if you ever try to use this word in real life you will be making a mistake.”
They’re not all real words.
You don’t need most of the words. Nobody needs them. They are very seldom called for. Picaroon. Something to do with pirates, pirate ships. Have you ever heard that word? You might name your boat Picaroon. Is this still a word? Yes, it’s a word. In crossword puzzles. Not a living word, not any more. Do you need that word?
Would I use it? No. I don’t need it. Who would use a word like that? Banish that word!
That was on the elevator yesterday. The word of the day, build your vocabulary. It’s always something like that. With example sentences: “Hey, that guy over there is a picaroon.” No, more like, “Them scurvy rogues be picaroons.” Not even that much context. Really, you’d have no chance to pick out the meaning. It’s really always something like, “That guy over there is a real picaroon.”
“Plissé.”
Plissé?
Some kind of puckered fabric texture. “He was transfixed by her stunning skirt of dimpled plissé.” Uth.
But I mean it, the grammar rules are even worse. The kind that tell you don’t split infinitives, don’t start sentences with But. Why not? I mean, if that’s what you want to say.
No reason. Split your buts.
But it’s the words. Among thousands of words, Borges sought the handful that resonated with his soul. He confessed to having written whole books in order to write maybe a single page. To be read by the angels in attendance on Judgment Day. OK, not nine or ten, but what? Some dozens of words? However many, but the ones that are called for by experience, living words.
And which are the living words, Phaedrus?
Sorry?
I mean, I take your point. You decide for yourself which words are called for. Some are and some aren’t. And you just hear it; you have to hear it. Language is music is poetry.
Are you making fun of me?
No, not at all. I take your meaning. Really, I’m trying to be straight. I’m not very mature. Pay no attention to the grin on the face of the man.
I’m very sensitive, and I’m not interested in your straight sarcasm.
Inhibition is underrated.
Or your wisecracks. It’s almost a taboo, that there should be a clear channel. The channel is ritually filled with noise. Not noise. Well, noise. Distractions.
You always have a clear channel to your own soul.
Or your platitudes.
No, really, I’m trying to be straight. I meant that. I’m not making fun.
Do you believe that? The channel to the soul is always open?
No. But it can be. Sometimes it’s open.
It can be. You have the right of way, but do you ever drive your golf cart down that way? Or would you have to clear the weeds with your machete first?
OK, so I’m listening. What about this Borges thing? With the words?
Not Borges. Not so much Borges.
The words?
The words.
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