The Romance of Language

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that rail along the floor -
And this, and so much more? -
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
'That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.'

- T.S. Elliot excerpt from "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

"It is impossible to say just what I mean. . ." Ironically, I know just what J. Alfred Prufrock means. Speech is a burden to my soul. I believe I accomplish it as well as the next man, and perhaps better on paper but it frustrates me just the same. I do not wish I were better at speaking or writing; I wish it were not necessary. And it is not the action of speech itself that galls me. I am not a lazy communicator. If anything, I am too much of a perfectionist. So what, then, do I mean? That if I had my way in the world (thank goodness I do not) you would never have to ask this question of anyone. Minds would meet in the absence of all things besides perfect being and its expression in perfect thought.

If you are reading this, then my wish has not been fulfilled. You still have the wonderful freedom to misinterpret me, and I have the privilege of writing ambiguous sentences. Praise be to God, for leaving the romance in our language.

Yes, there is romance in our language, and it is the romance that flusters. Every sentence flirts with a host of different meanings. Some words are associated with one another so that they can best be called friends. Others will court one another until they become synonymous, and then finally philander into entirely different meanings. This is the way of words and who am I to stop them?