The Convocation of Story Tellers met in the garden.
One of their members was speaking on "What's In A Name?"
She said, "I quote a Master Story Teller. 'What’s in a name? that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.'"
"I'm not so sure that I agree with the Old Bard here. In its context, the story of Romeo and Juliet, it makes sense. As a general rule however, I don't think so."
"If a rose were called a turnip, would it still smell as sweet? How about if it were called 'shit 'or 'radioactive waste'?
"You might object. You might say that 'turnip' and 'shit' and 'waste' already have negative connotations but that if a rose had been called 'turnip' from the start, there would be no problem.
"Listen to this: That which we call a turnip by any other name would smell as sweet.
"Now this: That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
"Say the words aloud. Rose. Turnip. The sounds are different. Consider this: The sounds of the words produce a different meaning. Rose starts with a rrrr, a purring sound, and quickly opens to ohhh, an expression of wonder, and then sss, a soft sigh which ends abruptly and there it is! A rose! Purr, wonder, sigh.
"Turnip starts with an almost barking tuh, a forced entry into the world, and then uhr, as if one is not exactly certain, ending with a nip, a sharp bite which breaks the skin.
"The sound 'turnip' is appropriate for calling to mind a turnip. The sound 'rose' is appropriate for conjuring the image of a rose.
"The sounding of a word helps produce its meaning. This is not new news though most rarely think about it."
"Except the cunning linguists!" exclaimed a member of the audience.
Those seated next to him beat him with their programs.
The speaker laughed. "An excellent example. An appropriate sounding."
"But there is more to it than that," said the Story Teller speaker.
"Each word itself has and is a texture, a a texture that is sub-sonic, ultra-sonic, meta-sonic. Beyond the realm of ordinary sound. A vibrational hum that calls into existence what it is sounding.
"I refer you to the lines written by another ancestor Story Teller: 'In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.'
"The Word brings all into existence. The Word was here in the beginning. Nothing precedes the Word. Nothing. No thing. Blank. Void. Not even blank and void and nothing. For those are words."
The audience grew even more silent as they let understanding sink in.
The Story Teller speaker brought them back into an appropriate space for dismissal and lunch.
"I end my talk with this paraphrase of another ancestor Story Teller, an ancestress, one I hope you will keep in mind. A turnip is a turnip is a turnip!"
They sat stunned for a moment by the imagery and its meaning. Then burst into applause.
One of their members was speaking on "What's In A Name?"
She said, "I quote a Master Story Teller. 'What’s in a name? that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.'"
"I'm not so sure that I agree with the Old Bard here. In its context, the story of Romeo and Juliet, it makes sense. As a general rule however, I don't think so."
"If a rose were called a turnip, would it still smell as sweet? How about if it were called 'shit 'or 'radioactive waste'?
"You might object. You might say that 'turnip' and 'shit' and 'waste' already have negative connotations but that if a rose had been called 'turnip' from the start, there would be no problem.
"Listen to this: That which we call a turnip by any other name would smell as sweet.
"Now this: That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
"Say the words aloud. Rose. Turnip. The sounds are different. Consider this: The sounds of the words produce a different meaning. Rose starts with a rrrr, a purring sound, and quickly opens to ohhh, an expression of wonder, and then sss, a soft sigh which ends abruptly and there it is! A rose! Purr, wonder, sigh.
"Turnip starts with an almost barking tuh, a forced entry into the world, and then uhr, as if one is not exactly certain, ending with a nip, a sharp bite which breaks the skin.
"The sound 'turnip' is appropriate for calling to mind a turnip. The sound 'rose' is appropriate for conjuring the image of a rose.
"The sounding of a word helps produce its meaning. This is not new news though most rarely think about it."
"Except the cunning linguists!" exclaimed a member of the audience.
Those seated next to him beat him with their programs.
The speaker laughed. "An excellent example. An appropriate sounding."
"But there is more to it than that," said the Story Teller speaker.
"Each word itself has and is a texture, a a texture that is sub-sonic, ultra-sonic, meta-sonic. Beyond the realm of ordinary sound. A vibrational hum that calls into existence what it is sounding.
"I refer you to the lines written by another ancestor Story Teller: 'In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.'
"The Word brings all into existence. The Word was here in the beginning. Nothing precedes the Word. Nothing. No thing. Blank. Void. Not even blank and void and nothing. For those are words."
The audience grew even more silent as they let understanding sink in.
The Story Teller speaker brought them back into an appropriate space for dismissal and lunch.
"I end my talk with this paraphrase of another ancestor Story Teller, an ancestress, one I hope you will keep in mind. A turnip is a turnip is a turnip!"
They sat stunned for a moment by the imagery and its meaning. Then burst into applause.
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