Always, when he returned home, he set his great collection before him so he could admire it. He became very good a whittling his new words down to something he could use and his sharp eye could always find a place to squeeze something new in.
England liked to keep up to date with new scientific discoveries, fashions, art movements. The gaps would open wide in his language and he would eagerly snatch up new words to fill them. A new planet to be named, a new look, a new method; all required a new word, or an old word to be moulded into a new shape.
England started to look beyond Europe, to new lands, to places no civilised soul had set foot before. Colonies sprung up across the New World.
Their young eyes grew wide when England shared with them his collection. He showed them how the words fit together, from the oldest, worn and well-loved, to the newest additions that still felt bold and fresh.
They each took away their own copy, bright and eager to use it. England told them to look after their words. He told them that whatever they do, they must not lose them, because there is nothing in the world worse than having no words.
The colonies bent the words to their own whims and forced in new words they had stolen, chipped and chiselled for themselves. England would wince to see how his words had been contorted, some of them so twisted he had to spit them out. Others he slipped into his pocket after the colony had been sent to bed. No one would be any the wiser.
Not all acquisitions were so easy. England spent many days ripping words bloody, fresh and alive, straight from India's throat. He raided the houses and lands of the Africans. He rifled through the pockets of his fallen adversaries.
France laughed at him, laughed at his whore of a language, saying he was just a desperate slut for vocabulary. But where France prided himself on the purity of his language, England prided himself on his large and varied array of insults.
It was an arrangement that allowed them both to feel superior and it suited them greatly.
Always on the tip of England's tongue was a barbed comment ready to be flung, the origins of which had grown hazy, even to him. He could no longer pick out his oldest words, as they had grown round one another and set themselves deep into his flesh. As he had changed in his long and eventful life, so had they, and he knew they were nearly unrecognisable from what they had once been.
He revelled in the fluidity, the push and pull between old and new. Others may have laughed at him for his shameless ways, but he remembered the darkness he had come from, the fear of not knowing, and he remained snug and safe in the knowledge he would never be without words again.
Even in his darkest hour, with bullets whipping past and bombs raining down on his head, he snatched the word that fell with them out of the sky and took it for himself. In the trenches he found that France still could not keep his words contained, even after so many years.
Soon, turmoil left England's home and those around him and he no longer went out and took what he wanted. He invited guests over and persuaded them to part with a couple of words, nothing they'd miss. Others, the ones he'd given words to in the first place, brought them to him as gifts whether he wanted them or not. America, in particular, seemed keen to give back to the world as much as England had taken.
On cold winter nights England sat by the fireside as the house around him descended into darkness, and rolled words around in his mouth like a connoisseur, testing and tasting them again. He was, by now, a dab hand at smoothing off the rough edges and he sharpened his insults and biting comments to fine points; his best weapons.
He smiled to himself as the fire died away, using the last of the light to peel off one more word from an old newspaper. The words were his and they had shaped him as much as he had shaped them. He knew, as he settled down to sleep, that it wasn't a habit he was ever going to break.
England slept happily with that thought.
---
There you go, over 1000 years of history in under 1500 words, what more could you want?
This is beautiful. Truly, honestly, tear-inducing beautiful. I'm a Spanish speaking anon who loves the English language, who ravels in its fluidity, its musicality, it's taste. The image of little England born without words broke my heart: words are our world, what defines us, what makes us what we are. I can't imagine a world without words but as a void, black and empty hole.
Commenting here to echo the sentiments, because you have said everything I wanted to say, and put it more perfectly than I could. Thank you, author, for writing such a wonderful little story. (And thank you, Spanish-speaking anon, for demonstrating the fluidity of English so poetically.)
OP feels such an overwhelming sense of joy that she may explode. :'D I DON'T DESERVE SUCH BEAUTIFUL FILLS! T_T Love the England-was-born-wordless detail at the beginning. He knows how valuable expressing one's thoughts is. And how useful it is to have a never-ending supply of insults! :D
1.) Beautifully written and wonderfully paced! 2.) The image of a baby England digging through the pebbles on the beach for more words broke my heart. England's been through tough times but he's such a survivor. 3.) ...well, until he starts to become greedy. His acquisition of more and more words changes him from an innocent with no concept of how to express himself or his identity, to a powerful empire who wouldn't scruple to steal and horde words. He's never going to be weak again, but he is going to end up alone, isolated, and resented.
Ahhh, sorry for the tl;dr but I just really, really enjoyed this. Well done! <3
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His Words (2/2)
(Anonymous) 2010-09-19 10:56 pm (UTC)(link)England liked to keep up to date with new scientific discoveries, fashions, art movements. The gaps would open wide in his language and he would eagerly snatch up new words to fill them. A new planet to be named, a new look, a new method; all required a new word, or an old word to be moulded into a new shape.
England started to look beyond Europe, to new lands, to places no civilised soul had set foot before. Colonies sprung up across the New World.
Their young eyes grew wide when England shared with them his collection. He showed them how the words fit together, from the oldest, worn and well-loved, to the newest additions that still felt bold and fresh.
They each took away their own copy, bright and eager to use it. England told them to look after their words. He told them that whatever they do, they must not lose them, because there is nothing in the world worse than having no words.
The colonies bent the words to their own whims and forced in new words they had stolen, chipped and chiselled for themselves. England would wince to see how his words had been contorted, some of them so twisted he had to spit them out. Others he slipped into his pocket after the colony had been sent to bed. No one would be any the wiser.
Not all acquisitions were so easy. England spent many days ripping words bloody, fresh and alive, straight from India's throat. He raided the houses and lands of the Africans. He rifled through the pockets of his fallen adversaries.
France laughed at him, laughed at his whore of a language, saying he was just a desperate slut for vocabulary. But where France prided himself on the purity of his language, England prided himself on his large and varied array of insults.
It was an arrangement that allowed them both to feel superior and it suited them greatly.
Always on the tip of England's tongue was a barbed comment ready to be flung, the origins of which had grown hazy, even to him. He could no longer pick out his oldest words, as they had grown round one another and set themselves deep into his flesh. As he had changed in his long and eventful life, so had they, and he knew they were nearly unrecognisable from what they had once been.
He revelled in the fluidity, the push and pull between old and new. Others may have laughed at him for his shameless ways, but he remembered the darkness he had come from, the fear of not knowing, and he remained snug and safe in the knowledge he would never be without words again.
Even in his darkest hour, with bullets whipping past and bombs raining down on his head, he snatched the word that fell with them out of the sky and took it for himself. In the trenches he found that France still could not keep his words contained, even after so many years.
Soon, turmoil left England's home and those around him and he no longer went out and took what he wanted. He invited guests over and persuaded them to part with a couple of words, nothing they'd miss. Others, the ones he'd given words to in the first place, brought them to him as gifts whether he wanted them or not. America, in particular, seemed keen to give back to the world as much as England had taken.
On cold winter nights England sat by the fireside as the house around him descended into darkness, and rolled words around in his mouth like a connoisseur, testing and tasting them again. He was, by now, a dab hand at smoothing off the rough edges and he sharpened his insults and biting comments to fine points; his best weapons.
He smiled to himself as the fire died away, using the last of the light to peel off one more word from an old newspaper. The words were his and they had shaped him as much as he had shaped them. He knew, as he settled down to sleep, that it wasn't a habit he was ever going to break.
England slept happily with that thought.
---
There you go, over 1000 years of history in under 1500 words, what more could you want?
Re: His Words (2/2)
(Anonymous) 2010-09-19 11:53 pm (UTC)(link)Thank you for this. It was amazing.
Re: His Words (2/2)
(Anonymous) 2010-09-20 02:00 pm (UTC)(link)Re: His Words (2/2) student!anon here
(Anonymous) 2010-09-20 12:51 am (UTC)(link)Captcha says: ripped statutes...Captcha's feeling political today?O.o
Re: His Words (2/2)
(Anonymous) 2010-09-20 02:33 am (UTC)(link)Re: His Words (2/2)
(Anonymous) 2010-09-26 12:23 am (UTC)(link)I DON'T DESERVE SUCH BEAUTIFUL FILLS! T_T
Love the England-was-born-wordless detail at the beginning. He knows how valuable expressing one's thoughts is. And how useful it is to have a never-ending supply of insults! :D
Re: His Words (2/2)
(Anonymous) 2011-07-02 08:35 pm (UTC)(link)2.) The image of a baby England digging through the pebbles on the beach for more words broke my heart. England's been through tough times but he's such a survivor.
3.) ...well, until he starts to become greedy. His acquisition of more and more words changes him from an innocent with no concept of how to express himself or his identity, to a powerful empire who wouldn't scruple to steal and horde words. He's never going to be weak again, but he is going to end up alone, isolated, and resented.
Ahhh, sorry for the tl;dr but I just really, really enjoyed this. Well done! <3