The worst thing in life is boredom.
I had an English teacher who forbade the class from ever describing anything as being ‘boring’. The other terms forbidden by Mr Carlos were: ‘nice’ and ‘can’t’. He used the latter term a great deal, especially when telling us we couldn’t use the word ‘boring’ and even though, he told us, there was no such word as ‘can’t’. “You can’t use the word ‘boring’ in your essays. Besides, it’s not a nice word to use. Get a thesaurus, if you have to.” This was the sort of thing he used to say.
At that time, when I was in his class, I felt an internal nod of approval at the lexicological fatwas of Mr Carlos. In my innocence (and unconsciously, I suppose) I assumed that Mr Carlos had every right to protect the English language by ensuring that certain words should be censored. Some words were not fit to continue and certainly was he not going to throw them a lifeline by ignoring their use or misuse by the likes of us.
Over the years, I uncovered the fact that the worst thing in life is boredom. The experience of boredom was not an uncommon fact of life. On reflection, boredom was a state of mind, a phenomenal, rather than noumenal reality. To listen to Mr Carlos droning on about forbidden words, did, indeed, induce in one a sensation of boredom. However, Mr Carlos, according to his own diktat, should not be described as being boring. Perhaps that was what he was trying to intimate. To describe a poem as being ‘boring’ said more about the reader than the read. It was incumbent on us to find something interesting even in the most tedious. To achieve this required effort, effort that, perhaps, he felt we were too reluctant to make.
I think Mr Carlos was defending himself rather than attacking a word. Mr Carlos, it was understood, lived on his own and, I began to feel, wished he didn’t. There was no Mrs Carlos. Someone said that once they had seen Mr Carlos hoovering his front room in just his underpants. It had been a Sunday morning. His shreddies were mauve.
