In The Poem – a 700-page exploration of how poetry works – Don Paterson devotes a long and thoughtful footnote to the troublesome subject of homophones. A homophone is a word that sounds very much like another word, but which carries a different meaning (‘homo’ means ‘same’ and ‘phone’ is related to sound). ‘Sea’ and ‘see’ are homophones, for example, as are ‘knight’ and ‘night.’ So far, so good. We might occasionally mix up ‘to’, ‘two’ and ‘too,’ but this is unlikely to cause any major issues, as mistakes of this kind are generally well-caught by Microsoft word’s spelling and grammar checker. The problem begins, Paterson argues, with words that are spelled the same and sound the same, but which carry wildly different meanings.
Paterson gives the example of administration, a word which in a medical sense means ‘to give a patient the appropriate treatment.’ A doctor might administer a course of antibiotics to heal stubborn infection, for example. However, if we think of government administration, the word seems to change meaning completely. Even the most optimistic voter would probably not consider the actions of the government to be on the same level as a doctor healing an illness. And what about all the other uses of the word administration? When a football club ‘goes into administration,’ they not only have to deal with bankruptcy, but they generally face a points penalty too. What’s ‘healing’ about that?
There’s no fixing this, of course – this is just the way the English language works, with different definitions jostling for space inside the same clutch of letters. Paterson argues that “we should remember to treat each one like a different note on the piano.” (2018, p.187) With that in mind, it’s useful to consider that even apparently straightforward words can contain many different and even contradictory definitions. Here are two of my favourite examples.
Sharp.
If we remove any concrete or context-specific definition and just focus on how the word sharp feels to us, we might think of something pointed, quick, and possibly unpleasant. As children, we are warned about the dangers of sharp objects, and receiving a sharp look is very rarely a nice experience. But even this fairly broad and uncontroversial conception of the word – a general feeling of sharpishness – can’t contain all the many definitions and context-specific uses the word has.
To a musician, sharp refers to a tone slightly higher in pitch than the previous tone. A G-sharp (often notated as G#) is a note one semitone higher than a G. In music, sharp loses all its connotations of unpleasantness or danger, and simply refers to a relationship between frequences. Tell a pianist to ‘make it sharp,’ and they’ll play the same melody shifted slightly rightwards. It might be bad to play something ‘too sharp’, but a song in the key of F# is not necessarily any more biting or pointed than one in F.
By contrast, if you ask a chef to ‘make it sharp,’ they’ll probably reach for the vinegar or the lemon juice, since in the culinary world sharp generally refers to the acidity of a dish. When we sip a Virgin Mary and exclaim, ‘ah, that’s sharp,’ we’re referring to the lime juice that gives the drink it’s distinctive tang. Tell your barber to ‘make it sharp,’ and they’ll line up your haircut with a razorblade. If you’re getting measured for a suit and you tell the tailor to ‘make it sharp,’ you’ll end up with trousers and a jacket with a smart and angular silhouette.
There might be some thematic crossover here – we might get a sharp suit and a sharp haircut before a job interview, for example – but for the most part, these represent completely different definitions and context-specific uses that just happen to coexist inside the same word. Let’s look at another very simple word that’s even more versatile.
Kick.
In the broadest possible terms, we might think of a kick as an unexpected and sudden action. It’s usually a surprise when we’re kicked out of the zoom room, for example. Indeed, this is the sense in which long-distance runners tend to use the word. To a runner, a kick is the last sprint – the final burst of energy needed to get over the line at the end of a long race. But, as we’re about to see, the word’s usefulness does not stop there.
To a tennis player, a kick is a serve that’s hit with a lot of of topspin. The topspin allows the ball to bounce high off the court surface, but kick serves are generally significantly slower than other types of serve. Far from being unexpectedly energetic, kick serves are usually considered safe and even a little conservative. You hit a kick serve when you absolutely need to make sure the ball goes in. A kick is a useful concept both to tennis players and to runners, but the meaning the word carries in the two sports are almost completely unrelated.
The picture only gets more confusing when we move away from the world of sports. A pregnant person might refer to the movement of their unborn baby as ‘kicking,’ but to a foodie, a ‘kick’ refers to how spicy a dish is. A recovering addict might speak of ‘kicking the habit,’ but when a drummer thinks of a kick, they think of the big bassy drum that keeps the rest of the band in time. As we’ve seen, a kick usually has the element of surprise, but a drummer (and the rest of the band) generally wants the kick to be as steady and as predictable as possible. My own favourite use of the word comes from old-school hip-hop and A Tribe Called Quest. ‘Can I kick it?’ runs the hook over a delightfully relaxed and grainy drumbeat. Here, the word implies the exact opposite of unexpected energy – it is slang for relaxing.
What does all this mean? Well, it means that words – even very simple and everyday words – are full of meaning and possibility beyond whatever context you might use them in. It’s worth bearing this in mind in your essays. Good essays generally start with a clear definition of the key words and concepts under scrutiny, and this isn’t just to fill space in the introduction. It’s important that both you and your reader use the same word to refer to the same thing. It isn’t just a matter of politeness, it’s vital to keep everybody on the same page. Stay sharp with your definitions and kick ambiguity out of your writing.
References
Paterson, D. (2018) The Poem: Lyric, Sign, Metre. London: Faber & Faber.
