At one point during my childhood, I attempted to read the entirety of my sister’s Merriam-Webster. There was something so affirming about the notion that our vast universe of language could be contained within a single volume, patiently awaiting my discovery. If I remember correctly, I didn’t get terribly far before abandoning my efforts—all of the prefixes, suffixes, and abbreviations posed serious impediments to my ravenous hunger for words. Complete ones.

And truthfully, I had long forgotten about my childhood endeavor until this past weekend when I was attempting to generate naming options for a friend’s new venture. Reaching an impasse, I instinctively clicked on the dictionary.com link in my toolbar. I was immediately confronted with:

Which is when I had the startling realization that:

Online dictionaries are like Los Angeles. You have to know what you’re looking for in order to have a remotely positive experience.

Don’t get me wrong: the four seconds it takes to flip through the pages of a dictionary to locate a single word can feel three seconds too long in today’s era of instant gratification. But when you’re setting out to survey the landscape, to understand the possibilities, to browse—an empty search bar and blinking cursor can feel like a serious roadblock. One that warrants a detour.

I’ve since spent the past 48 hours getting reacquainted with Webster. I’ve coaxed him off of the shelf, dusted him off, and admired his handsome artifact-ness. The heft of his volume is both impressive and satisfying, his worn, foil-stamped cover safeguarding delicate onion skin pages. And that half-moon, die-cut index running along the edges? How clever!

And this doesn’t even begin to describe the rich conversations we’ve had, how much he’s managed to quietly teach me by offering up the inner workings of his mind for my perusal. Prelate? Enthalpy? Mao-tai? The options suddenly seem limitless; I’m now left wondering the extent to which I’ve stunted my own linguistic growth as a result of opting for virtual over paper, Convenience over Effort, Speed over Abundance. I suppose I can only apologize profusely for my negligence, and hope that dear Webster will agree to an entente cordiale from this day forward.