1:01am February 3, 2012

“

“…My name is growing all the time, and I’ve lived a very long, long time; so my name is like a story. Real names tell you the story of the things they belong to in my language, in the Old Entish as you might say. It is a lovely language, but it takes a very long time to say anything in it, because we do not say anything in it, unless it is worth taking a long time to say, and to listen to.

"But now,” and the eyes became very bright and ‘present’, seeming to grow smaller and almost sharp, “what is going on? What are you doing in it all? I can see and hear (and smell and feel) a great deal from this, from this, from this a-lalla-lalla-rumba-kamanda-lind-or-burúmë. Excuse me: that is a part of my name for it; I do not know what the word is in the outside languages: you know, the thing we are on, where I stand and look out on fine mornings, and think about the Sun, and the grass beyond the wood, and the horses, and the clouds, and the unfolding of the world…”

”

Treebeard, Lord of the Rings, J.R.R. Tolkien

This is, in a nutshell, my great failing as a writer. Weirdly enough, like the Ents, I’m someone language is not natural to (autistic), who came by an understanding of words later than average. Wonder if there’s some kind of correlation there. :-P

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