#antanaclasis

[sankalpacipher]

विमुच्य सा हारमहार्यनिश्चया विलोलयष्टिप्रविलुप्तचन्दनम्। बबन्ध बालारुणबभ्रुवल्कलं पयोधरोत्सेधविशीर्णसंहति॥

Fragrance faded, fripperies fell, But fervor flared within. She folded fire in forest bark, Bound in dawn-hued tawny weave across her bosom, Where daybreak and desire both rose. What the Almighty sought in silence, She bloomed into being.

[englishlistwords]

Antanaclasis

noun

In rhetoric, a figure which consists in repeating the same word in a different sense: as, while we live, let us live; learn some craft when young, that when old you may live without craft.

In grammar, a repetition, after a long parenthesis, of a word or words preceding it: as, shall that heart (which has been thought to be the seat of emotion, and which is the center of the body's life), shall that heart, etc.

A figure which consists in repeating the same word in a different sense; as, Learn some craft when young, that when old you may live without craft.

A repetition of words beginning a sentence, after a long parenthesis; as, Shall that heart (which not only feels them, but which has all motions of life placed in them), shall that heart, etc.

The repeated use of the same word or phrase, but with a different meaning each time; a kind of pun.

[cassmorriswrites]

A World of Figures Series: The Rhetoric of Memes

A World of Figures Series: The Rhetoric of Memes

So y’all know how much I love rhetoric. I’ve decided to come back to the World of Figures series, which I’d sort of abandoned in favor of the Hamilblog on Patreon, so that I can explore some rhetorical concepts in more depth.

All memes work because of repetition. That’s their very nature. Memes can also be seen as a type of metonymy, a type of metaphor in which a symbolic token stands in for a…

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[flameintobeing]

taylor swift, queen of antanaclasis

[flameintobeing]

google has this feature where you google a bunch of words and for (at least) one of the words it finds synonyms and similar words as well as the specific word you typed. it's usually cool but hey, when i search for "antanaclasis" i'm obviously not searching for "hyperbole" pr "personification", and frankly it's inconvenient and just plain weird that that's what you're giving me

(in other news, it seems that i'm the only person on the internet interested in discussing taylor swift's use of antanaclasis in her lyrics. pwah!) 

[dibujaloentumente]

Conclusiones

“Pienso que concluir es una de cosas más difíciles que se deben hacer en la vida cotidiana. Las personas suelen concluir cosas a veces erradas porque no entienden en que se basan sus conclusiones por lo que deben cambiarlas para crear conclusiones reales. Concluir es necesario, es la única manera de saber si las cosas concluyeron bien, de otra manera  las cosas no salen como nosotros esperamos y no se concluyen como se espera.  A veces también, no esperemos sacar conclusiones cuando concluimos cosas que no son objetivas por lo que debemos replantear las conclusiones para poder finalizar algo o simplemente no concluir nada. Finalmente yo concluyo que concluir es difícil y necesario para sacar conclusiones de cualquier situación que se  llega a concluir en nuestra vida ”

By leio :) 

[wooingwithwords]

antanaclasis

antanaclasis n. (rhetoric) the stylistic scheme of repeating a single word or phrase, but with a different meaning Example:

Othello: Put out the light, and then put out the light.

Othello; Act V, Scene ii, Line 7

Meaning, of course, in the everyday words of murderers everywhere, "Switch off the lights and kill them." It's also in this line here. The Origins of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

Watchet is a harbour town than clings for dear life to the Somerset coast in England. Its Town Council and ‘Boarde of Tourisme’ would have us believe that Coleridge wrote The Rime of the Ancient Mariner while in this salty part of Somerset.

Apparently, he and William Wordsworth would go driving through the area in Coleridge’s Bentley. Chortling gaily, they would zoom through the leafy lanes, hang out of the windows, leer at girls, and occasionally, when they were stopped for cows to cross the weed-lined road, Coleridge would cheekily slap the arse of a saucy milk-maid.

One day, drawn by the stench of rotting seaweed and foul fishermen, they stopped off at Watchet Harbour. Wordsworth went for a pint in the local pub, ‘The Choking Bishop’, (it was a choice between that, ‘The Jolly Rogered Cabin Boy’, or 'The Spanked Monkey') where there was a wedding celebration going on. Coleridge sat down on a bench on the harbour-side with a bag of fish and chips. The bench and most of the harbour were spattered with the evacuated bowels of the town's plague of seagulls.

Gazing out across the muddily turbid waters of the Bristol Channel, smacked off his tits on laudanum, Coleridge threw what remained of his lunch at a gargantuan seagull, delved into his coat pocket, plucked out a battered Moleskine and a biro (stolen from the Travelodge, Taunton), and proceeded to write:

Oi, you, Wedding Guest! I’ve got a tale to tell; 'Tis about an massive seagull And a journey into Hell…

He promptly crossed this out and tutted. He wondered if a seagull would be menacing enough for his poem; even a seagull of the proportions of the one devouring what was left of the fish and chips, yea! even that one with the shrewd black eyes and look of intemperate malice.

He started again:

Oi, you, Wedding Guest! I have a tale to tell; 'Tis of a pterodactyl And a journey into hell.

No, nonononononono, thought Coleridge; that’s far too far-fetched by far.

A smell of stale beer and rank breath heralded the approach of Wordsworth who was staggering from the pub, muttering something about lonely clouds and a girl he’d met called Lucy Gray, but he stopped short in shock: "Fuck me! Look at the size of that seagull! It’s like a bloody albatross!"

Coleridge seemed suddenly filled with glee and once more scribbled in his notebook:

Oi, you, Wedding Guest! I have a tale to tell; 'Tis of a terrible albatross And a journey into hell.

Seeing the words scrawled down, he shook his head, still unhappy. He once again gazed seaward, trying to forget about the reek of rancid fish and fishermen’s armpits, and scoured the grey waves for more inspiration. His attention was distracted by a crusty and elderly fisherman with a glittering eye and a long grey beard, who emerged from a sea-ravished boat and lurched along the harbour towards three blokes outside the pub. "Oh, look," said Wordsworth, "It is an ancient Mariner…".

© Erroneous Histories, 2014

The statue of the Ancient Mariner, Watchet Harbour, Somerset, UK.

Ah! well a-day! what evil looks Had I from old and young! Instead of the cross, the Albatross About my neck was hung.

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

I know the bloody feeling.

[wooingwithwords]

antanaclasis

antanaclasis n. (rhetoric) the stylistic scheme of repeating a single word or phrase, but with a different meaning Example:

Othello: Put out the light, and then put out the light.

Othello; Act V, Scene ii, Line 7

Meaning, of course, in the everyday words of murderers everywhere, "Switch off the lights and kill them." It's also in this line here. The Origins of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

Watchet is a harbour town than clings for dear life to the Somerset coast in England. Its Town Council and ‘Boarde of Tourisme’ would have us believe that Coleridge wrote The Rime of the Ancient Mariner while in this salty part of Somerset.

Apparently, he and William Wordsworth would go driving through the area in Coleridge’s Bentley. Chortling gaily, they would zoom through the leafy lanes, hang out of the windows, leer at girls, and occasionally, when they were stopped for cows to cross the weed-lined road, Coleridge would cheekily slap the arse of a saucy milk-maid.

One day, drawn by the stench of rotting seaweed and foul fishermen, they stopped off at Watchet Harbour. Wordsworth went for a pint in the local pub, ‘The Choking Bishop’, (it was a choice between that, ‘The Jolly Rogered Cabin Boy’, or 'The Spanked Monkey') where there was a wedding celebration going on. Coleridge sat down on a bench on the harbour-side with a bag of fish and chips. The bench and most of the harbour were spattered with the evacuated bowels of the town's plague of seagulls.

Gazing out across the muddily turbid waters of the Bristol Channel, smacked off his tits on laudanum, Coleridge threw what remained of his lunch at a gargantuan seagull, delved into his coat pocket, plucked out a battered Moleskine and a biro (stolen from the Travelodge, Taunton), and proceeded to write:

Oi, you, Wedding Guest! I’ve got a tale to tell; 'Tis about an massive seagull And a journey into Hell…

He promptly crossed this out and tutted. He wondered if a seagull would be menacing enough for his poem; even a seagull of the proportions of the one devouring what was left of the fish and chips, yea! even that one with the shrewd black eyes and look of intemperate malice.

He started again:

Oi, you, Wedding Guest! I have a tale to tell; 'Tis of a pterodactyl And a journey into hell.

No, nonononononono, thought Coleridge; that’s far too far-fetched by far.

A smell of stale beer and rank breath heralded the approach of Wordsworth who was staggering from the pub, muttering something about lonely clouds and a girl he’d met called Lucy Gray, but he stopped short in shock: "Fuck me! Look at the size of that seagull! It’s like a bloody albatross!"

Coleridge seemed suddenly filled with glee and once more scribbled in his notebook:

Oi, you, Wedding Guest! I have a tale to tell; 'Tis of a terrible albatross And a journey into hell.

Seeing the words scrawled down, he shook his head, still unhappy. He once again gazed seaward, trying to forget about the reek of rancid fish and fishermen’s armpits, and scoured the grey waves for more inspiration. His attention was distracted by a crusty and elderly fisherman with a glittering eye and a long grey beard, who emerged from a sea-ravished boat and lurched along the harbour towards three blokes outside the pub. "Oh, look," said Wordsworth, "It is an ancient Mariner…".

© Erroneous Histories, 2014

The statue of the Ancient Mariner, Watchet Harbour, Somerset, UK.

Ah! well a-day! what evil looks Had I from old and young! Instead of the cross, the Albatross About my neck was hung.

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

I know the bloody feeling.