Specious

It is truth universally acknowledged that nobody likes being wrong. Even if you’re as goodnatured as the Dalai Lama, recognizing that you might just have interpreted something wrongly, assumed something unfoundedly, or judged someone unjustly, can be as painful as having your wisdom teeth pulled (and yes, that is a rather fortuitous pun - in the sense that it happened unplanned). However, it is a well-used cliché amongst teachers that if you’re not willing to be wrong, learning will be difficult for you. So while ‘getting it right’ is an obsession of many, ‘getting it wrong’ (and acknowledging it) might just be the best thing you can do.  

    ‘Specious’ has two distinct but related meanings, the first ‘superficially plausible, but actually wrong’, the second ‘misleading in appearance’, especially misleadingly attractive. It derives from the Latin noun ‘species’, which literally means ‘face’. The related adjective, ‘speciosus’ meant ‘good-looking’, and gradually the meaning shifted, until it came to denote ‘seemingly desirable, reasonable or probable, but not actually so’. The origins of this word seems to carry an inherent morality not to take things ‘at face value’. Which, anyone can tell you, is a bad bad thing to do.

     Nevertheless, it’s not seldom that when we take a closer look at our opinions and assumptions, we find that they are, in fact, specious. I still remember the embarrassment I experienced when I found out that I’d been pronouncing a word I thought I knew wrongly for years. As a person who is reasonably versed in all things wordy - if I allow myself a moment of vanity - this was hard to admit. Luckily, my peers who proved me wrong aren’t very in-your-face about it, which is comforting. If it were different, it wouldn’t be just humiliating, but also dangerous. The more people give you a hard time about your mistakes, the more you’ll be afraid to make them. Which can make it difficult to admit that you were wrong in the first place. And apart from excessive stubbornness, it’ll make you afraid to open your mouth. Which, unfortunately, is what frequently happens to me if I find out that I got something wrong. I get all red in the face, cast my eyes down and start mumbling incoherently. Then I shut up altogether, and it seems like for the foreseeable future my lips will be soldered together. 

    And I’m pretty sure that it’s not just me. Though it’s in my nature to be perfectionistic (which doesn’t leave much room for error), the western world often glorifies people who have ‘made it’. Very often, ‘making it’ is depicted as a something elusive and glorious, but while it’s easy to focus on the success-part of the story, it’s less glamorous to consider the other side, which consists of falling down. Many, many times. Whenever we hear inspirational stories, there may be mention of ‘the difficult parts’, but these are only mentioned in function of the subsequent victory, which is rendered even more impressive in the light of these difficulties. But being wrong, in its own right, is never really taken account of. 

    Luckily, I’m not the only one who believes that many of us are wrong about being wrong. Though it’s difficult to admit that your convictions are specious, it can be the most liberating thing in the world. I recently found a TED speech (TED being a channel of information which I continue to shamelessly use) which tackles the subject of ‘being wrong’. The speaker very astutely states that while we can grasp the notion that the human race in general is fallible, we don’t really believe it applies to us, in the here and now. Which is a problem, because ‘here and now’ is where we live, where we make decisions, where we act. Contrary to our continuous ‘feeling of rightness’, our beliefs don’t actually reflect the external world (how else would you explain the astounding number of people who disagree with you?). This innate human problem, which the speaker calls ‘error blindness’, is furthermore exacerbated by a cultural problem: we see that the people who achieve greatness, are the ones who are right about things. In other words: if you want to ‘make it’, you have to be right. 

    The rather obvious conclusion I’m working towards is this: there’s nothing wrong with being wrong. It would mean a big step for (western) civilization if we were just a little more aware of our own fallibility and a little less scared of a bruised ego. If we were more willing to be wrong about things, we’d communicate better, we’d think twice before making important decisions, we’d assume less and learn more. The specious nature of our convictions would more easily surface, and we wouldn’t feel the stifling amount of shame about that speciousness as we would nowadays. If we were to adopt such an attitude, we’d be more compassionate, less embarrassed and, on the whole, a whole lot smarter. What’s not to love?  

Transmogrify

I’ve been looking at it for some days now, and I still can’t get my eyes of it. It’s an utterly alien concept, having your own work published. Wonderful, amazing, magical even, but very strange at the same time. I know it doesn’t seem like much: four pieces of my hand in a University student publication, but it feels like more than that. The thing which makes this different than the 53 blog posts I have published by now, is that it feels somehow more real. A blog is something you write and manage on your own. A magazine involves different steps, deadlines, third parties and buyers (which is a rather strange concept as well: people paying for the things you’ve written). It’s an arduous process, and while I’ve listened to a plethora of complaints from my editorial peers, all of them were pleased with the result. Seeing your own work in print isn’t something which happens every day, after all.   

    To transmogrify is used chiefly in a humorous way, and means ‘to transform in a surprising or magical manner’. The origin of the word is uncertain, but there are various speculations relating to it. One is that it’s a perversion (a mispronunciation or misspelling which got accepted over time) of ‘transmigration’ (which refers to the passing into a different body of the soul after death). Another is that it’s a humorous blending of ‘transfigure’ and ‘modify’. It seems that the transfiguration of ‘to transmogrify’ is quite surprising and magical in its own right. Which just tickles me silly. 

    The magazine (you can check out the website here; the electronic version of it isn’t published yet, but when it is I’ll leave a link here) is lying here next to me even as I type this. Now and then I reach out to feel the cover, thumb through the pages, feel the air move as a page turns. I stare stupidly at the words and the pictures. It’s pretty miraculous, when you think about it. One day you get a crazy idea. You get the crazy idea down on paper. The idea turns into a story. Fantasy becomes dream becomes ambition becomes plan becomes reality. The human brain is pretty amazing.

    How something as futile and evanescent as a thought can suddenly be transmogrified into a physical thing is to me one of the miracles of humanity. My idea was printed into a magazine. A magazine has three dimensions. It has weight. It is tangible. It takes up space in your bag. You can put it on the table. You can drop it on the floor. You can rip it apart if you want. You can leave coffee stains on it. An idea is such a singular and useless thing. Only when your ideas get bulk, they become useful.  

    Another guy who was pretty great at transmogrification was God. Though I don’t really believe in his existence, he is a pretty interesting thing to talk about - purely hypothetically, of course - especially when talking about creation. After all, God must have had some flimsy idea in his head, some kind of plan or ambition to start creating before he started. Unlike me, God was very practical. I’ve noticed that if I want to finish anything, I need deadlines. And while technically the Bible doesn’t say that God created time, he did make night and day, which conventionally are considered units of time. So assuming that God created time, and considering the fact that he finished the job in six days, one assumes that he must have been on some sort of a deadline. Practical guy he was, God. 

    And in the line of organically instigated time units, there is a process which happens four times a year which never fails to bring about some peculiar phenomena in human behavior. As spring starts to settle in (I apologize for my readers on the other end of the equator), the season for spring cleanings has started again. The sun stays in the living room just a little longer, and suddenly you see the spider thread that’s been waving at you all winter (whoring for your attention, no doubt). And the empty flower pot (the plant died because of insufficient irrigation). And the clutter of miscellaneous items which were allowed to wander about the house (they were moved a couple of times during winter to give you the impression of ‘tidying’). But as the golden rays start poking these items you become painfully aware that something should probably happen. And through a series of incomprehensible biological processes suddenly you take out the dust rag and a swab, and you say, ‘No more!’ Spring cleaning brings about a miraculous transmogrification in the household (not my household, mind you - my room is as messy as my strange associative mind). An astounding amount of trash gets thrown away (how did it get there, anyway?), the floors are scrubbed, every nook and cranny gets scrutinized by a critical (and often maternal) eye. As my maternal eye has hardly developed yet, I can’t say that the clutter bothers me as much (creative minds are rarely tidy, after all). I should probably get to it one of these days, though. Then again, maybe not. It could probably wait a little longer. Right?

    As illustrated, transmogrification can occur in various aspects of your life, and if it occurs, it’s almost always a (pleasant) surprise. As someone who happens to love surprises (yes, this is a hint), I can’t say that transmogrification is something I’d ever call a bad experience. Though I still don’t like cleaning. No sirree. Maybe God could help me out in that department, he being the practical person of us too. But I don’t believe in God. Damnit.  

Woolgathering

It may seem like an obvious statement that to write requires a lot of mental work. When it’s your job to sit behind a computer screen (or, for the pen-and-paper puritans among us, a notebook) and get stuff down on paper, chances are that your brain will put in a lot of long hours. Most of which probably won’t even make it onto the page. When I’m writing, for example, it’s not an unusual occurrence for me to speculate for five minutes about the use of adverb A in sentence Q, and how well that contrasts adjective D in sentence G, which is furthermore accentuated by the alliteration of the s-sound in sentence F. Such speculations are often as exasperating as they are necessary, however persnickety they may appear to be. But sometimes these speculations, fueled by my strange associative mind, are so flighty and whimsical that they hardly get me anywhere at all. At those times thinking will more likely impede productivity than aid it. The writing craft can be frustratingly paradoxical.

    ‘Woolgathering’ is a mass noun denoting an ‘indulgence in aimless thought or dreamy imagining’, more easily defined as ‘absent-mindedness’. Its origin seems transparent enough, but as with ‘to pigeonhole’, the obvious discrepancy between form and definition suggests an extra step in the semantic process. An extra step which usually involves a story. The story of ‘woolgathering’ finds its origin in rural England, where sheep moving and grazing freely in open fields will typically brush up against bushes that tear off and keep bits of wool from the animals. The rural poor in England would often wander about the countryside, collecting those pieces of wool; an activity which was simply known as ‘woolgathering’. Because that practice required erratic movements and produced very little of value, ‘woolgathering’ came to be used in a figurative sense, meaning ‘to indulge in wandering fancies or purposeless thinking’, or ‘to be in a dreamy, absentminded state’.

    Luckily, I don’t appear to be the only one who indulges in woolgathering now and then, and we have the English language to prove it. The remarkable amount of words which have either a definition or a connotation related to thinking, suggests that the English (or at least the ones who influence the language) are very much cerebral types. Verbs like ‘to ruminate’ and ‘to muse’ are some favorites of mine. When I’m in a more saturnine state of mind, ‘to brood’ is a well-practiced activity. ‘To ponder’, ‘to mull over’, ‘to contemplate’ and, fanciest of all, ‘to cogitate’, are all verbs which are all perfect descriptors of my mental activity. However, none seem quite so specific as ‘to woolgather’. I found the word while reading Virginia Woolf, and while I must’ve encountered the word before, only then did I fully notice it. Compared to fancy latinate verbs like ‘to cogitate’, it may seem like a silly little word, but it quickly became a favorite of mine. That I found it in a book written by one of the champions of stream-of-consciousness seems too wonderful to be a mere coincidence.

    But even though woolgathering seemed to work out fine for Virginia, it’s often a source of frustration for me. Insomnia caused by ‘analysis paralysis’ is not an uncommon occurrence for me, even though I know that trying to figure out things in the middle of the night will never ever ever work. My strange associative mind will often bring up matters which, under the cloak of darkness, seem to greater importance than they do in the light of day - for example: do penguins have knees? In these instances woolgathering is as debilitating as its definition makes it out to be. 

    But it doesn’t have to be so. Because while my nighttime mental wanderings are fairly useless, I am a great advocate of daydreaming. The typically glazed look my eyes get when I’m absentminded will warn my peers that I’m traveling again - to where, who knows? It’s often a mystery to myself. It’s not unusual for my mom to ask me ‘what are you thinking?’, and very often I can’t give her a straight answer - not because the information I’m mulling over is particularly private, but because my mental wanderings have such a flighty nature that there is hardly a theme to be discovered in them. But while woolgathering may not be a very productive habit when it comes to writing, it teaches us much about who we are. Is there a certain place, a certain thing, or a certain person your mind keeps sliding back to during unguarded moments? Are there patterns in your mental process which might be described as peculiar? Much like dream interpretation, trying to grasp the workings of your daydreaming mind is like reading in the dark. But even without advanced psychology there’s much to be said for self-awareness during moments of woolgathering. Personally, it has taught many things, both predictable and unexpected. Which means that I, for one, am an out-and-proud woolgatherer. How about you?

Eleemosynary

Apparently it is a typical for an INFJ to be involved in activism of some sort. Whether you’re talking about preservation of nature, animal rights or feminism, chances are that I’ll have an interest in this, though obviously not as active in every category. Ever since I could donate money to charity, I did. I still give monthly donations to Greenpeace and Oxfam, and if I weren’t a poor poor student I’d give a whole lot more. For obvious reasons I’m an avid supporter of gay rights, which automatically also makes me a feminist (though some people disagree with that line of thought). Suffice to say, I’m involved in a lot of things, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. 

    ‘Eleemosynary’ has a fairly vague definition; it’s an adjective which can either mean ‘relating to or dependent on charity’ or ‘charitable’. Via a string of linguistic thievery it ended up in English, first originating in Ancient Greek, where the word eleemosyne (ελεημοσύνη) meant ‘charity’ or ‘alms’. The root word is ‘eleos’ (έλεος), which means ‘pity’. The greek word was inevitably borrowed by the Romans, who used their word ‘eleemosyna’ to denote ‘alms’. Finally, this word morphed into the adjective ‘eleemosynarius’ in medieval Latin, meaning ‘pertaining to alms’. As in a more modern context one doesn’t usually utilize the term ‘alms’ anymore, it assumed its current definition.

    I’ve been interested in charity for a pretty long time. In secondary school, I and a group of friends were responsible for the weekly sale of the oxfam shop. We didn’t actually have a shop, though, and it was just a couple of kids selling chocolate and chips in an empty classroom during recess. It was usually very successful, considering the school didn’t have a snack machine (to encourage healthy dietary choices, one supposes). So while we were snug in an empty classroom (which was nice during winter months), all the other kids came to us for much-needed carbs and sugar under the pretext of eleemosynary sympathies. It was an arrangement which suited everyone. 

    I think the previous anecdote is a perfect illustration that eleemosynary actions are a lot of fun, apart from merely charitable. So I was thinking to myself: why not repeat such an exercise? Why not do something eleemosynary and get something out of it, too (you do, in any case - giving is receiving)? So I signed myself up as a volunteer for the regional organization for the blind. Why the blind, you ask? There surely must be more, less far-fetched eleemosynary causes for you to chase? Well, yes, but the reason why I chose to volunteer for ‘the blind’ (which is a collective name which I detest - after all, we don’t call ourselves ‘the sighted’, do we?), is because I’ve been working on a new project. This new project is an adult novel, and one of the main characters is blind. Which is curious considering I know virtually nothing about blindness, or how it affects your daily life. So I delved into research, which gave me some information, but I don’t feel quite comfortable  about portraying a blind character without having at least met a blind person. So this is an opportunity for me to show myself generous and giving, but to get something very valuable in return: experience. Which, even if you don’t have such a specific objective as I do, is something which should convince you to practice charity any day.  

    To stay within the theme of combining interests, recently a friend of mine pointed me towards a website which not only fulfills my eleemosynary tendencies, but also flatters my logophilia (i.e. ‘the love of words’; this word is non-existent, though I shall attempt to introduce it to the English lexicon). The site is called freerice.com, and is a brainchild of the World Food Program. The idea is simple: you get a word, for which you have four possible synonyms. For every right answer you give, you donate ten grains of rice to the World Food Program. Which is awesome. And terrific. And awesome. The levels range from 1 to 60, which offers you a range of words, some of which I had honestly never heard of. You can create an account to sign in and keep track of how many grains of rice you donated (though owners of a Facebook account can sign in by means of said account, too). It is, in other words, challenging, educational, entertaining, and eleemosynary. What more can you ask for? 

    My penchant for charity may not be shared by many. While I often still feel pity for the beggar-lady on the corner of the street, most of my peers tend to ignore her, as beggars are a common phenomenon in an urban area. But, superstitious as I am, I believe in karma. I believe that by doing a good deed, you’ll not only make yourself a better person, but you’ll make sure that good things come your way. So while my numerous eleemosynary actions are chiefly something I do because I feel like I have to do them - because I have a conscience and I can’t ignore certain things - they also bring me peace, as surely karma will repay me some day for everything I’ve invested in this world.  

Convivial

Ladies and gents, fellow word nerds, bibliophiles and grammar nazis; today is a historical day. Because today, you are reading, with your very own eyes, the fiftieth post in the history of this blog. It’s been quite a journey. I think, when I started out with this, I wouldn’t have believed I’d make it this far. But I did, and if it’s up to me I’ll write at least twice as much. But for now, I’ll raise my glass to you and blow out a virtual candle. Because in instances like these, I believe it’s traditional to celebrate. 

    Convivial can be used in a broad and narrow sense. In a broad sense it can be used in reference to an atmosphere or an event, in which case it means ‘friendly’, ‘lively’ or ‘enjoyable’. It can also refer to a person, in which case said person it considered ‘cheerful’, ‘friendly’ and ‘jovial’. Used in a more narrow sense, it immediately refers back to its etymology, which originates in (three guesses) the Latin word ‘convivium’, which means a ‘party’ or ‘festivity’. The word, in turn, derives from the verb ‘convivere’, which literally means ‘to live together’. If you see ‘to live’ in a really active way, it’s not difficult to imagine that cohabitation can result in the occasional shindig. As such, the word ‘convivial’ in the narrow sense refers to all things festive. 

    Everyone likes a good party. Whether you’re an outgoing type of person, or you like to stay in with a good book, I know few people who aren’t charmed by the promise of cake, liquor and good company. And even if you never want to drink again (due to the incident two years ago on new year’s eve when you accidentally - shut it, inner voice), parties are a good way to cut loose. As I’m one of those people who can be as silly and ridiculous sober as well as drunk, for me inebriation is no prerequisite for conviviality.  

    For some reason most birthday parties seem to take place in April. According to my dad this is because most couples start making babies during summer, which means that the months March and April know a higher birth count than other months. Either way, despite the convivial nature of these months - which I can only applaud - it’s rather unfortunate for my budget, which is always quite depleted by the end of April, even more so than after Christmas. It’s quite stressful to take care of nice and original presents for your best friend, your mother, your sister, your father and a whole bunch of other friends in such a short time span. Nevertheless, the stress of gift-buying is largely compensated by the conviviality during these festivities, so I’ll try not to complain too much.

    When I was a kid my birthday parties were very special occasions. Every year I had a themed party, and everyone invited had to dress up accordingly. I had a pirate party once, on which occasion a ragtag bunch of kids arrived at my place with towels on their heads and plastic eyepatches. On the agenda was a wild treasure hunt and an epic adventure on our glorious vessel (i.e. the couch adorned with an upside down squeegee with a rag over it - this served as sail). On another occasion I organized a Harry Potter party, and they arrived with cloaks and little wooden sticks. We read tealeaves and practiced palmistry. It was very mystical (or as mystical as a bunch of eleven-year-olds can get). The point being, of course, that my eleven-year-old self could throw quite the birthday bash. As I grew up and shenanigans like these were no longer considered ‘cool’, my party-throwing talents were somewhat less appreciated, but nevertheless I believe my propensity for conviviality is still what it used to be.

    So in the spirit of conviviality, I raise my glass to you, my loyal (or not-so-loyal-but-still-currently-reading-this) reader. Whether ploughing through the incomprehensible thickets of the English language or of my strange associative mind, you have bravely persevered. I would like to get to know all of you, so if you enjoy this blog, please do leave a comment, so we can communicate more efficiently (my telepathic abilities are woefully underdeveloped) through this virtual wall, Pyramus-and-Thisbe style (only with less bloodshed, hopefully). Either way, I’m not finished with this thing yet, so I’m afraid you’ll just have to keep reading. In the mean time... Celebrations!

Risible

To offer a bit of a counterbalance for the rather depressing nature of my last posts, here is a little pick-me-up. As not only crying can bring about an emotional release, in this post I will talk about the virtues of laughter. Unlike crying, laughing is usually associated with many pleasant memories and experiences, and just like crying, it brings comfort and brings people closer together.

    If a situation is risible, it’s likely to make you burst out in laughter. ‘Risible’ means ‘to provoke laughter’, and that usually by being ridiculous. It derives from the Latin word ‘risibilis’, which in turn derives from the word ‘risus’, which means laugh. Literally interpreted, if something is ‘able’ to make you ‘laugh’, it’s risible. 

    I put great stock in ridiculousness. It reminds me that the world may not always be as logical as I’d like it to be, but that there’s beauty in that all the same. Randomness is highly comical. I experience this everyday, when talking to people (random conversation openers or twists, as two of my best friends like doing), walking through the city, or enduring the frivolities of Belgian railways. Though not all of these instances are risible at the time, as long as you can laugh about it afterwards, I think some of these occasions can be highly entertaining. 

    And I’m not alone in this conviction. When following the poetry course I mentioned previously, the teacher (who was awesome) gave us the order to skip around the classroom. Just like that. I happily followed this order, and skipped merrily around the benches, thinking that just behind these thin walls some stuffy academic was buried in a old dusty book on a subject so recondite I couldn’t care less. I felt vaguely naughty. But overall I felt overwhelming glee.

    Apart from these instances of ludicrous entertainment, I have high standards for humor. I love sarcasm, irony, and not least of all, puns. The latter never fails to cause risibility, as humor can hide in the most unexpected of corners. Nevertheless, puns can also be as stupid and clichéd as my grandmother’s knitting set, and if I ever hear such attempts at humor, I will most likely roll my eyes. If I’m in a good mood maybe a chuckle can be arranged, but that’s about it. 

    Considering my love for humor, it’s weird that I’m not a fan of comedy, but for some reason I’ve never really enjoyed it, even if the comedian is really good. My kind of humor is situational humor, which arises from the moment itself, and originates in a quick mind and sharp wit. Sometimes such instances of humor arise consciously, sometimes not. My mom, for example, is usually only really funny when she’s not trying to be. Which, obviously, only adds risibility to the joke. ‘Rolling on the floor laughing’, as the saying goes, is a distinct possibility in these cases.

    Laughter, as has been proven time and time again, is very beneficial for both physical and mental health. This is based on the ‘relief theory’ by Sigmund Freud, who summarized in this theory that laughter releases tension. This explains why laughter is often used as a coping mechanism when you’re upset, angry or sad. Physically, laughter causes the dilatation of the inner lining of blood vessels and increases blood flow. It also reduces stress hormones such as cortisol and epinephrine, and produces endorphins which can relieve some physical pain. 

    In the light of all these health benefits, it’s not surprising that in recent years practices like ‘laughter yoga’ have become popular. Laughter yoga does not involve humor or comedy, but is based on voluntary laughter (as opposed to spontaneous laughter). When you force laughter long enough, it turns into genuine (and contagious) laughter soon enough. Laughter yoga is the only form of laughter not involving cognitive thought, and as there are no brakes from intellectual systems which normally cause risibility, you just keep on laughing. It’s a purely physical sensation, and I for one would love to experience it one day. 

    We all have things that never fail to make us laugh, whether it’s the antics of your best friend, the neighbor’s cat or the malapropisms of your little niece. And in an attempt to make this blog more interactive, I’d like to know: what tickles your funny bone? What is the one thing that never fails to make you laugh? If you can’t think of something right away, here is something risible which almost always gives me laughing spasms. Make ’em laugh.  

Lachrymose

Though I sincerely hope the title ‘crybaby’ can’t be applied to me, I can’t deny that I sometimes like having a good cry.  Usually this occurs in the evenings, when I look back at the day and see some things which weren’t exactly as they were supposed to be. So much to my regret, my pillow sometimes has to sustain a lot of salt water. After which I have to turn it around or sideways, because sleeping in your own tears might be poetically interesting, but not very pleasant, on the whole. 

    ‘Lachrymose’ can apply to a person, in which case the person is ‘tearful’ or ‘given to weeping’. When applied to an object, the object is prone to induce tears which, in the conventional sense really just means ‘sad’. Lachrymose in its oldest form dates back to ancient Greek, where the verb ‘dakryein’ (δακρυειν) meant ‘to cry’. Like most Greek words, it was then borrowed into Latin, which changed the ‘d’ into an ‘l’. In the middle ages they also changed the spelling from ‘k’ to ‘c’ and finally to ‘ch’, after which the verb, through the usual mutations, was transmogrified into this wonderful adjective. 

    Though crying is generally considered not such a pleasant activity, I wanted to write a blogpost on it because I find it always helps me when I’m down-in-the-dumps. Nothing can be so paralyzing as to experience pain and sadness, and not be able to express it. And while various human beings have various ways to deal with pain, crying is one I prefer over all others.

    Recently I found out why that is. The human eye is in constant contact with the lachrymal gland, which produces not one, but actually three kinds of tears. First there are basal tears, which keep the eye moisturized and prevent dust from entering the eye. Secondly there are reflex tears, which appear when the eye is irritated by foreign particles, such as onion gas (aha! I finally know), tear gas or pepper spray. It’s only the third category which is associated with crying and weeping, somewhat unoriginally named psychic tears. They occur during strong emotional stress, which, as we know, doesn’t limit itself to sadness. The reason why I might be sometimes lachrymose is because the chemical make-up of these tears is different than those solely for lubrication. This means that when you cry, a whole range of hormones are released with your tears, which causes an emotional release.

    So yes, being lachrymose can be helpful, even though the experience is still pretty unpleasant. Whenever I cry in the evening I wake up in the morning with something which I might describe as a hangover. I usually have a headache (though not a pounding one), and my eyelids are swollen. Though the typical red eyes are usually gone by then, it’s not difficult to see that I’ve been crying. Which is often inconvenient, because the people around me can be sometimes exasperatingly considerate. Plus which, it’s not attractive. 

    Of course there are various gradations in the seriousness of crying jets. If you’re merely sniffling, one assumes your pain isn’t all that deep. Blubbering is already more serious, but still bearable. Weeping and sobbing is symptomatic of a high level of grief. But if you’re wailing or howling, your pain is very serious indeed, but the emotional relief is usually proportionately big.

    Then again, we mustn’t forget that everyone expresses pain and sadness in a different way, so the meaning of a sniffle or a blubber can mean many different things for many different people. There are social conventions, of course, which is why women and children are more easily forgiven for a lachrymose disposition than men. (A study shows that women cry between 30 to 64 times a year, whereas men cry between 6 to 17 times a year.) Again, these are stereotypes. Everyone has personal crying habits, and we should respect every individual in their preference or aversion to shedding tears. 

    Generally, I’m a little suspicious of people who never cry. Maybe that’s because I’m quite lachrymose myself (so maybe I’m a crybaby after all - so what?), and often cry at a good book or an emotionally charged movie. But the absence of crying on these occasions (or, perhaps, more serious occasions) doesn’t have to denote emotional frigidity. Nevertheless, I can say with certainly that holding your tears at bay, while admirable, isn’t always the best solution. Though it’s not the most pleasant or the most attractive way to channel your emotions, crying is something people have been doing for thousands of years. And for good reason, methinks. How about you?