A dictionary is more than a collection of words: it’s a writer’s arsenal
I didn’t bring many books with me to the UK when I left Cuba in 1997. There was one, though, that made the trip: my Spanish language dictionary. There were two copies in my house. Both belonged to my dad (I’ve no idea why he needed two same-edition dictionaries, but perhaps it was one of his many quirks). They were tattered, dog-eared and sellotaped inside.
The dictionaries sat on top of the wardrobe, in the only bedroom we had in our flat. I used to climb up onto a small table in order to reach one of the books. Such was my zeal for the written word from an early age. I’d open the Cervantes on a random page and read all the words on either side. Needless to say, for a six year-old, my vocabulary was pretty rich. Even if most of the time I knew the meaning of the words I spoke, but lacked the context in which to place them.
At some point my favourite section became the one that included frequently-used Latin phrases, located almost at the end of the dictionary. Covering five pages and a quarter, these were expressions with which we were all familiar. Sometimes we read them in newspapers and magazines, or heard them on radio or television. Other times, they would crop up in conversations. You could say that my language-driven curriculum vitae began to develop in these impromptu readings.
To this Spanish dictionary, I added a Webster in Year 12. I was at the end of my further education journey and about to embark on a different one. One that would cover my five years at university. Webster was the first English dictionary I ever bought. What I liked about it was that it came with an in-built thesaurus as well. More grist to my ever-expanding mill.
I’d be lying if I said that there wasn’t an element of competitiveness amongst freshers. That first year in uni we were all getting to know each other. This included putting one over the other students whenever possible. Many of my classmates had chosen a linguistics course because it was one of the few ones with plenty of places to apply for (for boys, this meant avoiding the draft). I chose English because I’d been passionate about the language since Year 7 and it was the next logical step towards getting acquainted with the intricacies of it.
It took me perhaps until my third year to develop a vocabulary that allowed me to think in English. My much-loved Webster helped a great deal. It was at that time that an OED landed on my lap. This Oxford was also tattered like my Cervantes, but in better nick.
My new “friend” came in handy when I delved into the works of Patricia Highsmith, George Orwell, and other British writers. It, too, had an in-built thesaurus and a phonetic chart at the beginning (the latter used the British norm). Suddenly, this nerd had found heaven on earth!
Did having access to dictionaries at such an early age help me become a writer? I’d like to think so. Above all, having a pool of words to choose from gave me an early insight into how languages worked. The reason I know the difference between “founder” and “flounder” can be traced back to those university years when I’d find the explanation and immediately would try to make a sentence with both words.
These days, next to my trusted Cervantes there are also a Larousse and a Pons, for French and German respectively. Although it’s unlikely I’ll ever write books in either language, they’re a reminder of the wealth we have as writers. A wealth at the tip of our fingers. Or as a younger self would put it, on top of a wardrobe.
* With permission from Maurice Sendak
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