That may be the meaning of life,” Toni Morrison asserted in her spectacular Nobel Prize acceptance speech. That may be the measure of our lives.” We do language not merely with our words — which are themselves events — but with the lived and living presence behind them. Arrows stuck in the rough hide of reality,” Susan Sontag wrote in contemplating the conscience of words.
If words are the arrow, we ourselves — our interior landscapes, our outward actions, the authenticity of our lives — are the bow. The elusive, essential art of not mistaking one for the other is what Leonard Cohen (September 21, 1934–November 7, 2016) explores in a prose poem from his out-of-print 1978 book of poetry, Death of a Lady’s Man (public library). In consonance with James Baldwin’s insistence that “it is experience which shapes a language; and it is language which controls an experience,” Cohen — who began his career as a poet — writes: Take the word butterfly.
To use this word it is not necessary to make the voice weigh less than an ounce or equip it with small dusty wings. It is not necessary to invent a sunny day or a field of daffodils. It is not necessary to be in love, or to be in love with butterflies.
The word butterfly is not a real butterfly. There is the word and there is the butterfly. If you confuse these two items people have the right to laugh at you.
Do not make so much of the word. Are you trying to suggest that you love butterflies more perfectly than anyone else, or really understand their nature? The word butterfly is merely data.
It is not an opportunity for you to hover, soar, befriend flowers, symbolize beauty and frailty, or in any way impersonate a butterfly. Speak the words with the exact precision with which you would check out a laundry list. Do not become emotional about the lace blouse.
Extract — continue reading at the source.
