by David D. Horowitz.
The term “onomatopoeia” evoked giggling in the grade-school classroom where our teacher first wrote it on the blackboard. I did not take it seriously until I studied English literature at the graduate level, where I learned many critical theorists argue there is no definable reality; all is subjective, especially language. How I understand a word—“table,” for instance—is different from how Persons A, B, and C understand it. Literature, for many such thinkers, is an exercise in self-reflexivity—charmingly mellifluous and sometimes poignantly suggesting our inability to understand each other, but ultimately no reliable bridge of communication.
I never felt convinced by such theorists. English, like many other languages, features hundreds of onomatopoeic words, such as “snap,” “bang,” “buzz,” “splash,” “boom,” “hiss,” “chirp,” “burp,” “ping,” “growl,” “gobble,” “giggle,” “click,” and “coo.” Other words are slightly less imitative yet still onomatopoeic: for example, “spank,” “spangle,” “bark,” “spark,” “puppy,” “snip,” “burst,” “lash,” “quick,” and “rip.” Such words illustrate the connection between denotative meaning and sense perception of a physical world beyond the mind. Admittedly, the theorists made me think more deeply about language. Surely, “angle” might sound like “spangle,” yet the two are denotatively dissimilar. “Bark” to describe a dog’s aggressive voice is imitative, but what about as the coating of a tree trunk? Indeed, language is complex, and understanding its evolution entails exploring the million streams that feed its river.
Surely, too, many onomatopoeic words are snappily monosyllabic and thus seem to belong to a special class. Yet, “see-saw,” “wishy-washy,” “susurrus,” “sizzle,” “fizzle,” “babble,” “gurgle,” and many others suggest polysyllabic onomatopoeia frequently tints our language. And where is literature without vivid description and attention to tone and resonance, to a reader’s physical, gut-level reaction? Language is not a simple phenomenon; sometimes language is disconnected from the senses, but sometimes it is deeply connected, and a skillful writer knows how to exploit that connection. After all, no honest critical theorist could deny “buzz” sounds like what it describes.
Moreover, respect for the connection between language and the physical world entails ethical accountability. One might murder dissidents and claim one represents “freedom” and “the people,” but this would be the sort of manipulation about which George Orwell warned us. One can argue the rich should help the inner-city poor, but if data about the poor is mere illusion, then what responsibility remains? If one ignores a ghetto’s broken windows, syringes in the gutter, gunshot victims’ wounds, glass-shard-littered playfields, shuttered storefronts, and rat-infested flats, then why argue the rich should help the poor? It’s a contradiction to say the senses are too flawed to trust, and that language is disconnected from physical reality, yet the rich should help the poor. Throw away sense data and language denoting matter, and how would we learn about poor people in the first place? And what about poor people who work hard to feed their children? Should they ignore their children’s cries and needs as mere illusions?
“Reality” also entails other people’s emotions. Most people wound easily, and this can undermine confidence. When I worked as a college instructor, I would not say to a struggling student, “You’re a stupid failure,” but “Feel welcome to visit me during my office hours to discuss the next assignment” or “You’re essay shows improvement over your last effort—and you could improve even more.” Empathy is based on respect for real experiences and emotions of real people. Without it, what kind of compassion could we show one another? Why bother to cultivate tact if one does not believe others’ circumstances and feelings are real?
Critical theorists often revile the term “reality” as an intolerant presumption. Yet, it can remind us to empathize, consider, love, and improve. It can remind us to assess honestly, not simply see what we want to see. It can remind us to mitigate harsh candor with the honey of tact. And it can remind us, through onomatopoeia, how experience flows through imagination and can emerge as poetry, and poetry’s power can be as physical as a breeze, a storm, a midnight candle. Indeed, poetry can splash, boom, whisper, hiss, chirp, and coo.