Happy Nice Mall

I can’t remember how old I was when I first learned the words literal meaning (definition of a word) and connotation (one word suggestion). However, I remember being somewhat betrayed by the idea that there is a layer of language that cannot be fully transferred via a dictionary. Like most young people, I enjoyed learning, but I thought of it as something I would eventually finish. At some age, I assumed I should know everything. Understanding the nuances of language seemed like an obstacle to this goal.

It wasn’t until after graduating from college that I realized there was no such thing as all-encompassing knowledge, that I could read for pleasure. A sense of curiosity rather than hopeless complementarity drove me. I began to see dictionaries as they are, as field guides to the life of language. Looking at words encountered in the wilderness was more like acknowledging that there was more than a failure, but an opportunity to discover that there was so much I didn’t know and how much there was.

I’m awarding my 1954 copy of Webster’s New International Dictionary, Second Edition, which I bought on the street near my Brooklyn apartment a few years ago. Its 3,000 pages (Indian paper, marbling on the leading edge) are dotted with a thumb index. I keep it open, alone on a desk, like dictionaries are usually found in libraries. I often consult him at evening Scrabble games or while reading a magazine at noon. I usually read novels in bed at night, so when I come across foreign words, I whistle at the bottom of the page, then quickly look at the words. The language universe seems to have shrunk to the size of a small town as I begin to encounter these newly dazzling words in my model-seeking mind in articles, podcasts, other books, and even the occasional conversation. Dictionaries, like some mind-altering substances, amplify my senses: they divert my attention outward, into speaking with language. They make me wonder what other things I’m blind to because I haven’t taught myself to notice them yet. Examples that have been identified recently include: sorry, “a mechanical model designed to represent the motions of the earth and moon (and sometimes planets) around the sun, often working like a clock.” The Oxford English Dictionary also tells me that this word comes from the fourth Earl of Orrery, around 1700, when a copy of the first machine was made. Is it useful? Obviously not. Satisfying? Deeply.

Unknown words in dictionaries become solvable mysteries. Why should we leave them to guesses?

Wikipedia and Google answer questions with more questions and open pages of information you never wanted. But a dictionary is built on common knowledge, using simple words to explain more complex ones. Using one feels like opening an oyster rather than falling down a rabbit hole. Unknown words become solvable mysteries. Why should we leave them to guesses? Why not look into a dictionary and feel the instant satisfaction of matching context to a definition? Dictionaries reward you for paying attention both to what you consume and to your own curiosity. They are a portal to a kind of irrational, infantile impulse. to know What I had before I learned it became a task rather than a game. I am most amused by words that do not express exactly what I think they mean. like swan cub. This has nothing to do with rings or stationery. (This is a young swan.)

Of course, there are many different dictionaries. The way they multiply over time is a reminder of how futile it is to approach language as something that can be fully understood and contained. Samuel Johnson’s Dictionary of the English LanguagePublished in 1755, it trivially defined 40,000 words. The original OED, proposed by the Philological Society of London in 1857 and completed more than 70 years later, contained more than 400,000 entries. Merriam-Webster universe, directly Noah Webster’s American Dictionary of the English Language, published in 1828. Compiled by Webster alone for more than 20 years, it contained 70,000 words, about a fifth of which had never been defined before. Corresponding with founding fathers such as Benjamin Franklin and John Adams, Webster saw lexicography as an act of patriotism. He believed it was necessary to establish American standards of spelling and definition in order to solidify the young nation’s cultural identity apart from Britain.

Perhaps because of Webster’s enthusiasm for rules, dictionaries have long had an undeserved reputation as arbiters of language as tools used to limit rather than expand your range of expression. But dictionaries don’t create language – people do. Receive amateur: The superficial connotation of the word is a modern invention. Noah Webster’s aforementioned American Dictionary defines him as “a person who enjoys promoting science or the fine arts”. OED states its connection with the Latin verb delectaremeans “to enjoy or to please”. Being an amateur once meant that love and curiosity fueled your interest in a particular discipline. For me, dictionaries are a portal to this kind of search for uncalculated knowledge. They remind me that when it comes to learning, indulging your curiosity is just as important as paying attention. After all, isn’t curiosity really just another form of interest? Following rather than fending off your curiosity is one of the best ways I know of feeling connected to more than what’s in front of you.

Rachel del Valle is a freelance writer whose work has been published in GQ and Real Life Magazine.