I love words.
No, that's not entirely accurate. To love something implies at least a tacit desire for reciprocity, for a mutuality of feeling between lover and loved thing. That phrase doesn't quite get at it, in this case.
I am in awe of words.
Getting closer, but still not right. To be awestruck seems to me to have more in kind with idolatry, an admiration from a distance, always acknowledging the gap between worshiper and worshiped. Again, not exactly my position.
I hoard words.
Now we're getting closer. Much as I do adore words and am consistently amazed by their power, I am not content with other a loving give-and-take or a reverent admiration. My connection to words is far more covetous, more selfish, more self-indulgent. I want to fill my pockets with them, to take them in and make them mine, to re-present them as my own inventions.
I've been obsessed with words for a very long time. I was an early reader, encouraged by my parents to feed my imagination with books and language. Even as a small child, I showed signs of the covetousness I speak of now. My parents were convinced that I was reading by age three, because I could recite Bread and Jam for Frances word for word. I had not learned to read. I had taken the text in and absorbed it, through frequent aloud readings and the repetition from my record-player. I had memorized the words before I could read them, before probably I even completely understood what they meant. Textual theft. A trademark of mine.
Incidentally, I now make a living drawing on that behavior in my professional life. I pride myself on being a 'quick study,' memorizing lines easily, without really needing to apply myself to the task. Truth is, I don't know how I do it. I love re-reading things... to me, a familiar book is just as comfortable as an embrace from an old friend. I want to carry that feeling with me, so I tend to pull passages of writing into my memory unconsciously. I'm a magpie for language.
I like the tactility of language. Words stab. Words caress. They soothe, they admire, they belittle, they humble etc. etc. etc. Small line and hatches cooperate with one another to create a world of meaning. I think of words as physical objects often, imagining their invisible lines tattooed on living surfaces; to carry this image, if you turned my skin inside out, I suspect the inside of it would be coated in ink scrawls. I like carrying language with me. I wear a poesy ring on my right hand, and have for years. The text is biblical, and is often used on Jewish wedding bands... I like it for entirely different reasons. The engraving contains the word 'Beloved,' a word I find utterly satisfying in its simplicity. I like that all three syllables are evenly voiced, and to me, it manages to sound like a contradiction, containing both suppleness and strength. Just the word itself suggests those things to me, and for that reason, I love it. Hence the ring, aside from its religious or spiritual overtones.
I am drawn to old writing, because to me, the tactility of language feels more acknowledged. I feel it when I read for Shakespeare for example. The language is so delicately crafted, both for literary meaning and a sheer pleasure of the word. Individual words each here serve their literal function, but are also arranged so carefully, with an ear for painting larger pictures through the rhythm of phrases, then sentences, then sonnets then etc. Iambic pentameter, echoing the rhythm of the human heartbeat, is to me a kind of textual acrobatics, crafted in language letter by letter. Its complicated construction becomes more exquisite as the power of the words distracts a reader from its scientific assembly, reason giving way to the pleasure of the words. I am drawn to Shakespeare as well because, when existing words didn't suffice, the poet invented new words to convey just the right 'something.' That is incredibly satisfying and almost heart-achingly beautiful to me, a fellow language-lover.
I sometimes wish that I were synasthetic, that is a person for whom written words carry color, taste etc. Intellectually, I feel like I grasp the concept. Words to me often carry sensibility outside of their individual meanings... I love the roundness and open space of the word "spoon" for example (and, in a nerdy reference, feel kinship with The Tick for choosing it as his rallying cry). It's an entirely satisfying word, outside of its use to describe a metal utensil. It's a pleasurable word to say and hear. Other words work on the opposite side of the spectrum for me... words like "moist" and "squat" never fail to sound horrid and unpleasant, no matter their context (much to the amusement of my father, who discovered this quirk of mine at dinner a few weeks ago). Sounds and cadences make an impression on me, with and without the prescribed textual meanings. Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to see words "in color," as it were, though I suspect this would be so overwhelmingly distracting for me to carry on with any semblance of a life.
If you had any doubts before reading this of my insufferably nerdiness, I should think they'd be suitably assuaged now. Words have been my longest friends, and will continue to be my constant companions. Except for words like "slacks," which I can happily do without.
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