Amateur

My linguistically divided brain contorts and complains. It finds words, the essence of rational thought, on both sides of the barrier, reassuringly similar, and builds bilateral concepts, then discovers surface similarities are not enough. 'Peasant', universally pejorative in English, becomes 'paysan', the equivalent of the English yeoman as it crosses the channel, the tough hardy 'man of the land' who is the basis of agriculture, the independent spirit. Did the change come with the revolution, when the removal of the nobility allowed for the expansion of the lesser landowners, or does it date further back, to the Norman conquest and the denigration of those who spoke the older tongue? No matter; it exists.

Then the one I came to talk about: amateur. In English, it merely signifies something you don't get paid for, and generally carries a baggage of clumsiness, ineffectiveness. An amateur plumber is not merely not Polish, or polished; he is the sort who will cross pipes so your garbage disposal unit feeds directly out of your bidet. In French, the word has kept its links with 'amour'; it is someone who loves what he is doing.

Some of this carries across the boundary, obviously. An amateur of good food is not merely not a professional chef, but an enthusiast, a gourmet (ah, food goes deep enough that it has its own word; and amateur of books would be more difficult to classify as a bibliophile). I English I lost my amateur writing status when I actually sold a piece for money; whether I became any the less amateurish at this point is not clear but, as with an amatory amateur, losing one's literary virginity does not necessitate a sacrifice of passion. In French I can remain a professional amateur, which in English and Olympics, is a contradiction in concepts.

For concepts are the root of all this. If I'm thinking in French, I will think differently from the same brain organising ideas in English. If I attempt to do the same in German or Spanish my thoughts will be shallow, inconsequential, not through any fault of the language but because of my shortcomings. I can barely order a meal in either of them; what is my hope of considering philosophy?. My remaining language I once mastered but which is now sorely rusty, mathematics, resists translation. Though developed by men, it is hardly a human structure, too dependent on truth to be practical between men (and definitely impractical from men to women, or children). It lies there in my thought processes, but rarely offers a suggestion, puts up a concept for consideration.

It is likely my scribblings will never again achieve commercial success, so my loss of official amateur status has no more significance than a lady accepting a gift as a complement for an enjoyable night, but I trust that, even if there are future payments, I will always maintain the passion side of organising words into never before generated patterns.