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Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart; the effect doth operate another way

I have always been fascinated by metaphors; that a word, or phrase can suggest something other than what it was originally designed for is intriguing, don’t you think? Almost magical, in fact. Of course, there are cultural boundaries they have trouble crossing -describing someone as a snake, has little purchase in a country devoid of snakes- but in one that does, it manages to conjure up something like a slippery, untrustworthy individual, best avoided. The uses of metaphors are seemingly endless because they manage to convey a feeling that may otherwise be difficult to describe. ‘Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart; th’ effect doth operate another way,’ as the character Troilus, says in Shakespeare’s play.

But, could there be something deeper to metaphors, something more than fanciful idiosyncrasies, more than simply word pictures; more, even, than feelings made manifest?

I remember an essay I read a while ago which drew my attention to the  spatial, even architectural, way we sometimes use metaphors[i]: describing ‘some groups of people as ‘marginalised’ (pushed aside) or ‘oppressed’ (pushed down), and society itself to have a ‘structure’ to it, as though it were assembled like a skyscraper.’ Is there something dimensional, something geometrical, about how we experience our social lives: circles of friends, higher or lower status people, close acquaintances…?

After all, as we move through the world, ‘we rely on mental representations of where things are and how to interact with them. This is similar to the way that social information is conceptually represented: knowing where people are located in terms of affiliation and power is central to social functioning and helps us navigate our daily interactions.’ It turns out that we do both these types of mapping in similar neurological ways; spatial and social perceptions seem to be closely related. Perhaps it’s why poetry with all of its metaphors and images can be so evocative, so communal, so intimate…

But for many people, swept up in their personal struggles to interpret the challenging world in which they find themselves, that linkage seems notional, unsubstantiated -irrelevant, perhaps. Still, it makes me wonder if there’s something much more involved in metaphors, something additional within the country of poetry that affects us more subtly. Maybe its value is not so much spatial, as communal: the idea of a shared imagination that is the social glue.

When I was younger, still in university, and still trying to impress people, I would occasionally quote fragments of poetry, thinking it would demonstrate how clever and imaginative I was. Sometimes, an inauspicious eye-roll would greet my remarks; sometimes a sneer, but usually just an embarrassed change of topic to steer the conversation elsewhere; there are seldom rewards for hauteur. And yet, even in my dotage -perhaps especially in my dotage- I occasionally find myself reverting to the habit without really thinking it through. I mean I sometimes forget just how much poetic images have been essential to the way I look at things, but more often they only retrospectively embarrass me, like the ketchup the mirror tells me that it is still sticking to my beard.

I first met Laura when she sat beside me at a recital of Early Music hosted by the university. She had a nice smile, I remember, but her beauty was nonthreatening: her face would not have launched a thousand ships, but neither would mine. We both wore unstylish glasses, with thick lenses whose weight constantly caused them to slip down our noses. In fact I think our repetitive attempts at manual correction was what initially attracted us to each other -that, and perhaps our inability to dress fashionably at such a public event. But there you have it: two peas in a pod -or as Laura later put it, two wieners in a bun… Actually, maybe I was the one who said it; she was far more reserved in her metaphors at first. Far more apt, and certainly far more poetic in her descriptions I think.

But I knew no such boundaries in those days: snippets of remembered poetry, however incongruous, seemed to surface at odd times and places, and once in my mind, soon found themselves drifting to my mouth. I got the impression that she found them amusing at first, but tired of their inapplicability after a few dates.

“Where do you get this stuff, G?” I remember she was once emboldened to say when her eyes tired of an evening of rolling. “It’s like you have an list of non-sequiturs hiding somewhere near your mouth, and you keep flipping through it when you run out of things to say to me.”

I tried not to feel insulted, and she did try to soften her comment with a smile as she squeezed my hand. But I was young and vulnerable in those days and I wanted her to like me. For some reason, a fragment of Macbeth’s attempt to justify his murder of King Duncan suddenly slid down my mind into my mouth: “I have no spur to prick the sides of my intent, but only vaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itself…”

She sighed rather loudly at that, adjusted her glasses, and then glared at me with intolerant eyes. “Macbeth…? Oh please, G!”

I was impressed she knew it was Macbeth, so I suspect I looked rather pleased.

Still, I think it infuriated her because she immediately let go of my hand and folded her arms across her chest. “Are you going to quote Malvolio from the Twelfth Night, next?”

I had to flip through my list quickly to keep up with her on that one. “You mean…” I tried to remember the quote, but she was too quick for me.

“Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them…?”

Her memory did impress me, I have to admit, and I reached out to hug her in my delight. “You’re quicker than I am Laura!”

The hug obviously surprised her, but I remember she didn’t resist; in fact I think she felt it was a sort of apology -a proof that she, too, could play the game.

The essay reminded me of that seemingly unimportant memory of so many years ago. Although Laura eventually moved away to another city to do some post-grad studies, until she left, we quoted our poetry fragments to each other as perverse little reminders that we shared something special, something unique that bonded us. In fact, we still keep in touch from time to time. She’s married with grown children, but I know she still treasures the memories of our silly banter.

She must be in her late seventies by now, but in a recent text to me, she paraphrased something from Love’s Labour’s Lost that we both used to chuckle over: ‘We have been at a great feast of languages, but Time has not yet stolen all the scraps…’ and then, using a rolling-eye emoji, typed ‘And, we go still in content to liberty, and not to banishment.’

As You Like It, of course, but I knew what she was trying to tell me: how years and distance have not diminished what we enjoy about each other; how metaphors and poetry have continued to join our lives…

I couldn’t resist replying with Prospero’s  ‘We are such stuff as dreams are made on…’ from the Tempest.

I got a heart and a smiley in response…

[i] https://aeon.co/essays/why-do-other-people-form-imaginary-shapes-in-our-minds?

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