He Fa on Auden

Halfway through a sentence, I stop to find a word. Someone may finish it for me, or turn to look at a watch. Auden's outfit happens to include a wristwatch, with the pale brown jacket sleeve ending nearby and a darker blue-gray collar beneath. I want the watch, for now, to stop hurrying us and measure how much patience a sentence receives instead.

Brevity is useful, of course. Listeners need not pass through too many digressions, and things proceed more readily. But excessive compression can delete the relationships, leaving only a string of words that sound correct. Saving two minutes at the beginning may cost an afternoon explaining a misunderstanding later. Language's costs cannot be counted only in speaking time; we must also count what listeners use to supply the unsaid parts.

He Fa's slightly slow face makes this pause less than elegant, like someone who has actually got stuck. I am willing to leave room for that unlovely moment. Practiced speakers organize themselves faster, but less practiced people may also have something worth hearing. If every hesitation is answered for them, conversation eventually contains only the voices best at controlling its beat.

Yet waiting is not an unlimited obligation. If one person circles forever, everyone else's time gradually leaves the room. We could first state the one point to discuss today, adding digressions as optional afterward, or admit that the thought is not clear yet. Both sides need to negotiate the rhythm. One person's patience cannot be made to prove another's profundity, and a watch cannot prescribe one speed for all.

I leave the wrist beside the cuff so time remains visible. Speaking more slowly is not necessarily more poetic; speaking faster is not necessarily more effective. The interval worth keeping is one that lets the other side understand, interrupt or continue, rather than merely set off my voice.