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“Parallel” is a poem that questions why our language had not been more creative when its words were originally put to print. Surely someone had to have realized the humour, or at the very least, the cleverness it would entail were “parallel” written instead as “paralel” or “parallell”. Dr. Spectacles clearly wanted to shine a light on this apparent oversight, or as he put it, this “offence to creative decency”.
Killing two birds with one stone, while I was with the Doctor discussing another poem entirely, I asked him his thoughts.
“We are not here to discuss that!” he scowled.
“I know, Doctor, but I am running out of time.”
“Very well,” he said, “but—I will be brief.”
“All right.” I agreed.
“How is ‘silent’ spelled, Seasoning?” he asked, leaning unsettlingly close and raising a brow.
“S-I-L-E-N-T.” I answered.
“And how is ‘made’ spelled?” he continued.
“M-A-D-E.” I said, wondering what his point could possibly be.
“And do we pronounce the ‘e’ at the end of ‘made’?”
“No,” I said, thinking for a moment as he removed his spectacles for a polish, “the ‘e’ is silent, but we need it there to differentiate its pronunciation from ‘mad’.”
“Very good, Seasoning,” he exclaimed, pulling back with a smile, pocketing his spectacles and clapping his white-gloved hands, “a meaningful and concise response. But—” he continued, leaning back in and reraising the brow, “why is there no ‘e’ at the end of ‘silent’?” he smiled widely through his coarse white beard.
“Well,” I contemplated, “there is no word with which it requires differentiation.”
“Ah, but would it not be a triumph of our language’s creative powers were we to add a gratuitous ‘e’ to the end of ‘silent’?” His eyes lit up, “Think about it Seasoning, how grand it would be when children, leaning to read English, come upon the word ‘silente’ and pronounce the ‘e’ at the end! Their teachers will say, ‘no that is a silente “e”, it is pronounced “silente”’!” he gazed at me all ruddy in the forehead, both of his brows now raised as he reproduced his spectacles and dawned them once more.
“Ok, Doctor, I believe I have enough material—you did say we would be brief—”
“What is that you have written there?” he asked, pointing down to where I was scribbling hastily in my notebook.
“What?” I asked defensively.
“‘Eyebrows’?” he demanded with a hoarse bark, “ ‘Eyebrows’? What other kind of brow does one have?”
I thought for a moment, but could not think of any other thing, human or otherwise, possessing a brow besides an eyebrow.
“None.” I said.
“Then why differentiate? Just call it a brow. I want you to change every instance where you have mentioned the word ‘eyebrow’ in your notes and replace each with ‘brow’ instead!”
“But you said I have complete license over what I write in the book, let alone my own personal notes.”
“Seasoning,” he said, closing his eyes calmly and looking toward the floor as he stroked his temples in a circular motion, “then please, do it as a favour, not as a demand.”
“Very well, Doctor, very well. Let us move on.”