ESP.LITERATURE

All wordsmiths are writers. Not all writers are wordsmiths. The distinctions between the two are many and varied. Language elements such as grammar and punctuation are employed differently; aesthetics occupy the wordsmith more frequently; while practical matters occupy the writer’s attention. The writer has targeted an audience; but the wordsmith seeks only some abstract ideal and needs to satisfy only himself.

Paradoxical? Perhaps. The internet has spawned writers who spew words at an alarming rate. Few ‘bloggers’ are wordsmiths. All, of course, are writers.

A wordsmith, by definition, is a skilled user of words. This noun was coined, it seems, in the late 19th century. A simple compound word, its etymology begins with ‘wurda’ from Proto-Germanic (2500 years ago) which is also the source of the Old Saxon, Old Frisian ‘word’; the Dutch ‘woord’; the Old High German ‘wort’, the Old Norse ‘orð’, the Gothic ‘waurd.’ It is likely that some form of ‘to be’ verbs existed in Proto-Indo-European (6500 – 2500 years ago), but this reconstructed language is highly speculative and best left to scholars who dote on the subject.

From whatever perspective, ‘word’ obviously was a commonplace word from the beginning of language.

The etymology of ‘smith’ shows a heritage equal to ‘word.’ Proto-Germanic gives us ‘smithaz,’ a skilled worker, which led to the Old English (1700 years ago) ‘smio’ whose meaning was ‘blacksmith.’ This was a general term in Old English, and defined any practitioner of skilled manual arts including both metal workers and wood workers. ‘Smio’ gave us the Old Saxon ‘smith,’ Old Norse ‘smiðr’, Danish ‘smed’, Old Frisian ‘smith’, Old High German ‘smid’, German ‘Schmied’, Gothis ‘-smiþa’, all originating in a suffixed form of Proto-Indo-European root ‘smi-‘ meaning to cut, work with a sharp instrument which also gave the Greek ‘smilē’, a knife for cutting and carving, a chisel.

All of the above boils down to the obvious definition of the compound ‘wordsmith’ as a skilled worker with words who might very well have a sharp tongue.

 * * *

The grandfather of all wordsmiths goes by default to William Shakespeare. His most brilliant progeny must needs be James Joyce (‘must needs be’ is an archaic or rather formal adverbial phrase meaning ‘necessarily’… for those who wondered). Shakespeare, of course, wrote volumes. Joyce wrote but three novels, a book of short stories, a play, and a slim book of poems. While one might read Hamlet in a day, Finnegans Wake might occupy a lifetime (indeed, Joyce himself suggested that the perfect reader for Finnegans Wake would be an insomniac who on finishing the book would turn to page one and begin again).

A disclaimer: A most democratic club,  no hierarchy lords it over the work of the wordsmith. Lewis Carroll drinks alongside Chaucer, swapping lies.

Verbosity is not the sole measure of the wordsmith. 17th century Japanese poet Bashō, known primarily for his haiku, was also a consummate wordsmith. His books are a combination of prose and poetry known in Japanese as haibun, a word often translated as prose with a distinctive haiku flavor. They were simply travelogues, but exquisite examples of that genre done by a master wordsmith. His prose was lean and to the point, and his haiku both terse and lyrical.

Some noted modern writers (post World War II) one might find on a list of wordsmiths, are Samuel Beckett, Jorge Luis Borges, and Thomas Pynchon. Other writers that might fit this niche are Lady Muraski, who wrote A Tale of Genji in the 11th century, and Miguel Cervantes who penned Don Quixote. Obviously, many other established writers might be added to the list which is not to mention unknown writers.

The criteria for inclusion in this club are an ability to use language skillfully, to effortlessly string words together, to coin new words (neologisms, portmanteaus, slang, etc.), and to use words that provoke tears and laughter and admiration. Wordsmiths are not necessarily authors. Writing a book of whatever genre requires a different skill-set than does wordsmithing. As I stated at the outset all wordsmiths are writers; not all writers are wordsmiths. All authors are writers; not all writers are authors.

An argument can be made that any writer who has penned a literary classic must de facto be a wordsmith. If the definition is left as ‘a skilled user of words’ then this would be the case; but if the ‘skill’ is qualified then some authors of note need not apply.

Ernest Hemingway (1889 – 1961) won a Nobel Prize for literature; and, of course, some of his work was skillfully done. His best work came in short stories and excerpts of his various novels. At his best, the man makes a strong case for inclusion. His life, however, seems to be a posture adapted to bolster his image as a writer. More often than not he had an audience fixed in his sights. He leaned heavily on declarative sentences that comprised his journalism. Neologisms were not part of his repertoire. Too often his writing became stilted and but a caricature of his style at its best.

William Faulkner (1897 – 1962) also won a Nobel for literature. His style evolved into a brilliant non-linear collage of flashback, internal dialogue, stream of consciousness, and dislocated dialogue that painted a picture both compelling and, with some attention, clear. He was, of course, a wordsmith.

Literature has two general categories, prose and poetry, which differ in structure, style, and purpose. Prose is based on spoken language, and generally is structured in complete sentences whose purpose is to express ideas and information. Poetry uses a variety of structures as well as meter, rhyme, and a variety of other techniques to evoke emotion or to express ideas through imagery. Prose is usually natural and grammatical; whereas poetry is figurative and symbolic.

To accomplish their task, poets employ two forms of lineation that are not found in prose.The most common form is the end-stopped line. The other, enjambment, is the technique used to continue an idea or theme without stopping the line with punctuation. The word comes from a French term meaning to stride over. Poet Mary Oliver described it as jumping over a ditch. Inevitably we conjure up more energy to jump a ditch than to merely jump. While first named in the 19th century, the technique has roots in Homer as well as Biblical verses.

In his poem, ‘since feeling is first,’ e. e. cummings (1894 – 1962) uses both end-stopped lines and enjambment. Read aloud, the distinction becomes clear.

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don’t cry
—the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids’ flutter which says

we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life’s not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

Cummings, with his body of work, has earned himself a place at the wordsmith’s table.

Blurring the boundaries between prose and poetry are writers who use poetics to inform their prose or prose to inform their poetry. French poet Charles Baudelaire was the most prominent of the symbolists, and his prose poems inspired many who followed, including one Bob Dylan.

‘Be Drunk’ is a poem of Baudelaire’s which exploits the features of both literary genres:

And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is singing, everything that is speaking. . . ask what time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: “It is time to be drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish.

A few synonyms for ‘wordsmith’, to round out the concept, are jokesmith, songsmith, penman or woman. pen pusher, and word slinger. A quote from Finnegans Wake should sufficiently overstate the case:

And the message she braught belaw from the missus she bragged abouve  that had her agony stays outsize her sari chemise, blancking her shifts for to keep up the fascion since the king of all dronnings kissed her beeswixed hand … poetry or on virtue as …