What's in a Word?

December 9, 2013

Did you know that when someone asks me to tell them what a word means or give a definition, I always give it in terms of synonyms rather than an actual description? It's funny the way the mind works sometimes. I suppose that means that my thoughts are based more in relations between objects and ideas rather than in individual components or descriptions of the subject. 

In some ways, I suppose this is beneficial. In others, I think it can be slightly misleading. I guess it's just one of the ways that I am reminded that "knowing" is a nebulous and intangible concept that is continually morphing and recreating itself. 

This entire line of thought came about when I was trying to identify my mood this evening. For me, it's simply not good enough to say, "I'm tired," or "I'm unhappy," or "I'm depressed," or (conversely) "I'm happy." There is too much ambiguity in those kinds of words. Not enough specificity. If I say I'm sad, I immediately think, What kind of sad? To what degree? In what stage? From what source? So, with only myself, my vocabulary, and my relational tendencies, I decided that I felt "maudlin." 

Then of course came that nagging little suspicion in the back of my mind. Does that actually mean what I think it means? In my mind, "maudlin" sounded like it perfectly fit my mood. The roundness of the sound, the heavy weight it carried on my tongue, the dark tone it inspired, it made me think to myself, Yes, I feel quite maudlin at the moment. Yes indeed.

But still, the nagging doubt, so I took advantage of the wonder of knowledge and technology and looked up the exact definition of "maudlin." From the online Merriam-Webster Dictionary, an Encyclopedia Britannica Company, the definition is:

maudlin- showing or expressing too much emotion especially in a foolish or annoying way; drunk enough to be emotionally silly; weakly and effusively sentimental

This was definitively not what I had in mind when I was thinking of the word "maudlin." The emotional and sentimental component? Yes. The foolish and/or annoying component? Not so much. So I searched for other words that would more precisely encompass the tragic, profoundly upsetting sadness that I was feeling. This is what I found.

somber- very sad and serious;  having a dull or dark color; so shaded as to be dark and gloomy; of a serious mien; of a dismal or depressing character; conveying gloomy suggestions or ideas

saturnine- very serious and unhappy; cold and steady in mood; of a gloomy or surly disposition

And I was dissatisfied with both of these choices. They are perfectly respectable words that fit what I was trying to describe much better than my previous choice. And yet. And yet. 

And yet I was still stuck on "maudlin." Perhaps because the sound reminded me of similar, dark-sounding, tragic words, such as "macabre" and "morbid." Maybe I'm just having a small affair with the letter "m" this evening. Because there was some small part of me that didn't want to accept Merriam-Webster's definition tonight. For me, "maudlin" no longer carried its foolish and trivial connotation that was spelled out in that definition. Tonight, its very intonation carried with it a great and heavy sadness, the kind that makes you question the truths of your life and the beliefs you hold dear. The kind of real emotion that simultaneously makes you want to charge out into the world and protect all the innocence and at the same time shy away from its daunting presence which hovers over you like some great and terrible cloud. 

What's in a word, dear audience? Does it truly matter whether or not the emotion that I relate to this word is the same as what was defined by some British linguist probably hundreds of years ago? Is that any more the true definition than what I had previously held as the true definition in my own mind? 

I was reading one of my new books that I recently bought on sale over Thanksgiving, called The Thirteenth Tale. In it, one of the main characters received a letter from an author who was infamous for never giving a true accounting of her life to biographers. Each time she was asked about her life, she would spin a new tale, until it almost became a rite of passage for any journalist or biographer to go visit her and say, "Tell me about yourself." 

This author (the character, not the author of the book herself), wrote this passage to the main character which stuck with me. She wrote,

"My gripe is not with lovers of the truth, but with truth herself. What succor, what consolation is there in truth, compared to a story? What good is truth, at midnight, in the dark, when the wind is roaring like a bear in the chimney? When the lightening strikes the shadows on the bedroom wall and the rains taps at the window with its long fingernails? No. When fear and cold make a statue of you in your bed, don't expect hard-boned and fleshless truth to come running to your aid. What you need are the plump comforts of a story. The soothing, rocking safety of a lie." - pg 5, The Thirteenth Tale

At the time, I had a challenging time wrapping my mind around this concept. Typically, I am of the mindset that many times things would turn out better in the end if one simply faced the facts of life and accepted them. This subversiveness (at least in my mind) was not only completely unhelpful to a person, but also actively detrimental to a person's state of being. It followed a similar vein to my very solid belief in personal responsibility. 

But now I have a new lens from which to view this proposed philosophy towards truth and reality and their purposes in our minds and our lives. Because sometimes maybe it doesn't truly matter what the world deems is truth or fiction, what is correct or incorrect. When it is something internal, when you are frozen inside yourself, "a statue in your bed," you don't really give a fig about anything Merriam-Webster or any other authority has to say. What is true for you, in that moment, is as real as any thunder and lightening that damages your property and frightens your children. And perhaps, that says something about this nebulous nature of knowledge and truth that we always seem to think we have figured out. To sound completely cliche and unoriginal, "The wise man knows he knows nothing, the fool thinks he knows all."

So, for the moment, I shall remain "maudlin," despite disagreements on the behalf of Merriam and Webster. To be blunt, they can currently go shove it. Whatever "it" may be. 

I suppose I should mention what brought me to this maudlin state. Wouldn't want you to think that I am needlessly despondent, dear audience. To be perfectly honest, my roommate and I decided that tonight would be a good night to watch Schindler's List together in lieu of studying for final exams. I think that sometimes a person simply needs to confront that kind of sadness, to remind ourselves why we are here and what we are trying to accomplish. Of course, it's entirely possible that we are both decidedly strange, but I suppose that has already been established, no?