It’s hard, sometimes, to put things into words.

I’ve been stuck for a long time on that Stoppard quote—we are forced to work in a language which makes up in obscurity that which it lacks in style. It is, I think, a true observation, but a bit difficult for a stylist like myself to swallow.

Words we use most often are the worst offenders. Take “love,” for example. A single syllable, ungainly and awkward in the mouth, conveying a vast range of possibilities: the warm rich smoothness of good chocolate on your tongue; the smell of your grandmother’s hands as they hold you tight to her chest; the intimate nothing of running my fingertips softly across her naked thigh and belly on a lazy Sunday morning, provoking a ticklish squeak.

It really should have a different sound, “love,” if it’s going to mean all that. Something with curvy “s”s and at least two beats—if it means the heart, shouldn’t it sound like one? Other languages are at least more onomatopoetic; the Japanese for “excited” is “doki-doki”—literally, “badum-badum.” Sound suitability, as it’s called, is a linguist’s heresy but a philologist’s dream.

(Philos, now there’s a word that sounds to purpose.)

It’s a rather human thing, to dream the world other than as it is. It might be the most human thing, in fact. But I like the world the way it is, at least my little corner of it. I love it, in fact, my community, friends, and all those other unique worlds I hold dear. I just wish I had some sequence of sounds, sibilated and stylish, to precisely convey to her what she means to me.

Until then, dearest, I love you.