It is not uncommon for me, in the course of writing a novel, to find myself gravitating to one word which I use unwittingly over and over. Skud. Cleave. Oneiric. Certain words, at certain times in my life, hold an irresistible appeal. I like the sound and look of them. I like saying them aloud.

I suspect that a love of words—individual words, as well as words combined in sentences and paragraphs and ultimately, stories—was the driving factor that made me become a writer. In junior high I set out to read the dictionary (I never finished it); in high school I wrote poetry that was often an effort to deploy a particular word; for years I have kept a series of chaotic notebooks in which I make notes about words I love and want to remember to use. My partner and I keep a list of various words that turn out to have meanings that are opposite, words such as cleave, which means both to split apart and to adhere closely.

So I was thrilled when I learned that Slate.com had published a list of words David Foster Wallace had circled in his dictionary. I can think of few writers with the linguistic virtuosity of Wallace, so it did not surprise me at all that he had studied the dictionary closely. I downloaded and printed the list, feeling like an acolyte on the road to enlightenment.

To my surprise most (or at least many) of his circled words do not excite me. They don’t have the heat and energy I seek in a good word. They don’t deliver a direct onomatopoetic punch. Many of the words on his list are Latinate words that speak more to the intellect than to the gut: appoggiatura, condonation, metagenesis. I tend to be drawn to the gutsier words originating in Anglo-Saxon roots. When I first saw his list I struggled with disappointment. I wanted ALL of his words to delight me. Why didn’t they?

I don’t want to put too fine a point on it: I certainly use my share of Latinate words, and his list contains many words that seem to be non-Latinate in origin (the English language has many tributaries). Consider for example (on his list):

skirl—verb, to play the bagpipe or the sound of the bagpipe

strickle—noun, a straightedge for sweeping off heaped-up grain to level of the rim of a measure, or an implement for sharpening scythes

moke—noun, slang for a donkey, a poor-looking horse, or a disparaging term for a black person

spavin—noun, a disease of the hock joint of horses
[NB: I am abbreviating these definitions hugely.] These words delight me on the basis of sound, but I can’t easily imagine using them.

Which brings me to meaning. What pleases me most is not only the sound and look of certain words, but also the happy convergence of powerful sound in a word that is highly utilitarian. Think of the following words:

swoon—a verb, to loose consciousness or enter a state of ecstasy, also a noun
caviling—verb, to raise trivial objections, also a noun
sessile—adjective, from biology, permanently attached, not freely moving

All of these words fit my criteria for being wonderful words. Not only do they sound good to my ear and on my tongue, they are also words I can put to use.

Periodically I teach a class called Deconstructing Style. One of the things I ask the students to do is bring in ten words each week that interest them, along with definitions and etymologies. They can be words the students do or don’t know, but they must be words that interest them. The lists are always hugely varied. Some students are drawn to archaic or occult words, others are drawn to the quotidian.

It strikes me that this is as it should be. DFW and I should not necessarily be fascinated by the same words, any more than my students should be. We want to keep this gallimaufry of words—with all their diverse etymologies and riveting sounds and suggestive associations—circulating. We want the English language to keep surprising us, and entertaining us, and pleasing us—and sending us back to the dictionary again and again.

Thank you, David Foster Wallace. I hope you know that you are a writer with whom I feel entangled.