Blessed in the Language

I gave up on Leopardi’s Zibaldone long ago. I’ve read thousands upon thousands of pages of other things since, so it was not because of its length, which I still regard as one of its saving graces. I stopped because I found it too generally negative in tone. My friend and fictional alter-ego, Stephen Monroe, was also negative, but his negativity was leavened with humor; also, he knew he was being negative, and that it was a kind of pose or act, as if he were wearing clown makeup. Nowadays, of course, almost all of us are wearing clown makeup. So it’s the person who lives in the world mask-free who is considered an oddball or a danger. As for Latin and French, I have learned perhaps a dozen or two dozen words of the former, and know pretty well how it should be stressed and read; French has become a bit easier to follow, but I am still essentially a stranger to the language. Over the years, though, I am gaining a deepening appreciation of English, and the changes through which it has passed, and is most assuredly passing through still. I feel blessed in the language, crippled as I am, and find it most forgiving, like one of my dear old aunts. For instance, I can place my words on a smooth, flat stone, pat them together, and let them warm in the sun, and English will smile and say it’s a beautiful mud pie.

[ 1954 ]