Thesaurus Man
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| My old thesaurus |
One of the oldest books in my
present collection is Roget’s Thesaurus. I bought this book in
the Christmas season of 1975. One of my teachers bought it for me as well as a
few other students who wanted it. The book was my faithful companion for many
years because I was in love with words.
The art of
writing has little to do with a thesaurus. But I realised that truth much
later. Initially I laboured under the delusion that writing was a kind of
verbal jugglery. My appetite for words was ravenous for quite a few years and I
employed bombastic words in my writing in those days. Somebody compared me to
Mrs Malaprop and somebody gave me the nickname ‘Thesaurus Man’.
Eventually I was
enlightened. It dawned on me that writing wasn’t quite about words. Of course,
if you can use words elegantly and appropriately that’s a great advantage in
writing. But writing isn’t all about such elegance or appropriateness.
Writing is essentially
a form of self-expression. It doesn’t need a florid lexicon. You can be a good
writer with a vocabulary of a few thousand words, believe me. The heart has its
own diction. It must have if you want to be a good writer. That diction doesn’t
come from any thesaurus. That comes from your inner depth. Any discerning reader will discover sooner
than later where your words come from: hour heart or the thesaurus.
As I grew up
I discarded a lot of books from my collections. When I shifted from Shillong to
Delhi and later from Delhi to Kerala, on each occasion, I discarded a
substantial number of books. But Roget’s Thesaurus stayed. Though
I never used it anymore. It stayed because it carries a lot of memories. It has
a heart of its own, for me.
The price: Rs7.05
I still
remember with much fondness the teacher who bought it for me. I remember
frantic searches for words while I wrote articles for a local newspaper in
1990s. My malapropisms of those days wink at me even now. The thesaurus is a
bag of mixed memories.
It was the
ambition of my youth to become a writer. I wrote quite much but I know they haven’t
made any ripples – not even in a humble teacup, let alone the wretched Ganga. Now,
less foolish and much less quixotic, I write with a shrug of resignation that
aspires to hobnob with some ascetic detachment.
My study today
xx
Enjoyed reading this insightful piece.
ReplyDeleteGlad you did.
DeleteHari OM
ReplyDeleteIt's interesting, is it not, how some of us just know we have many words to share and keep working at it no matter how wide the ripples? From an early age I knew words to be my 'art' and was gifted a Roget's by my parents who felt that to be true also. Later, one of dad's friends gifted me his old school dictionary (Chambers). Maybe once a year I take them from the shelf to let them know I appreciate their part in my writing path! Thanks for a post that stirred similar reminiscence. YAM xx
It's always heartwarming to see another soul with similar experience. My first personal dictionary, a pocket Oxford, came from an uncle who was a teacher. That didn't endure with me beyond ten years or so.
DeleteYes I remember the earliest gifts were dictionaries. I still have the Oxford dictionary along with a few others. Unfortunately or otherwise, now they are all replaced by digital versions.
ReplyDeleteI too rely on a lot of digital reference books these days. Easy to use. The flip side is the increasing distance from books altogether, especially by the young students.
DeleteLovely lovely piece sir. This morning I was having a conversation around honesty in writing being of paramount importance. And then I read this. A huge fan of your writing.
ReplyDeleteBut what resonated most with me was the last line,
Now, less foolish and much less quixotic, I write with a shrug of resignation that aspires to hobnob with some ascetic detachment.
It takes us time to learn certain hard lessons.
DeleteThanks for sharing this too.