In short, though in
thousands of respects he is like his fellows, he has after all no human
counterpart; he is a distinct, individual self. To know him, to use him,
to count upon his service in whatsoever contingency it might bestead you,
you must deem him something more than a member of the great human family.
You must cultivate him personally, cultivate him without weariness or
stint, and undergo inconvenience in so doing.
Even so with a word. Commonplace enough it may seem. But it has its
peculiar characteristics, its activities undisclosed except to the
curious, its subtle inclinations, its repugnances, its latent
potentialities. There is no precise duplicate for it in all the wide
domain of language. To know it intimately and thoroughly, to be on
entirely free terms with it, to depend upon it just so far as dependence
is safe, to have a sure understanding of what it can do and what it
cannot, you must arduously cultivate it. Words, like people, yield
themselves to the worthy. They hunger for friendship--and lack the last
barrier of reserve which hedges all human communion. Thus, linguistically
speaking, you must search out the individuals. You must step aside from
your way for the sake of a new acquaintance; in conversations, in sermons,
in addresses, in letters, in journalistic columns, in standard literature
you must grasp the stranger by the hand and look him straight in the eye.
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