To a teacher of languages there comes a time when the world is

In these words of Joseph Conrad, “To a teacher of languages there comes a time when the world is but a place of many words and man appears a mere talking animal not much more wonderful than a parrot,” we behold a lament and a revelation. The master of the sea and the soul speaks here of the danger that lies hidden in the heart of language itself: the reduction of speech to empty sound, the disintegration of meaning into hollow repetition. To one who spends his life among words, who instructs and drills, who bends his ear to grammar and syntax day by day, there comes a moment when the divine spark of language seems to fade, leaving only the clatter of syllables, the rattling of tongues, and the echo of voices no wiser than a parrot’s mimicry.

For Conrad, whose own life was woven from many tongues—Polish at birth, French in youth, English in mastery—this insight bore the weight of lived experience. He knew that the soul of speech lies not in the words themselves but in the fire that gives them breath. Without spirit, words are lifeless shells, fit only to rattle in the beak of birds. Thus the teacher of languages, dwelling long in the mechanics of verbs and the dusty corridors of dictionaries, may fall prey to despair: the sense that humanity itself, so proud of its speech, is but a creature endlessly repeating borrowed phrases.

Yet let us not take Conrad’s reflection as despair alone, but as a warning. For what is it to be human if not to rise above mere sound, to invest language with thought, with feeling, with the courage of truth? To speak is not merely to utter, but to reveal the soul. If we allow ourselves to forget this, we betray the gift that sets us apart from beast and bird. Consider how many today repeat the slogans of others, parroting the voices of crowds, politicians, or merchants, and imagine themselves wise. In that moment they fulfill Conrad’s vision: man as a parrot, resplendent in sound, barren in meaning.

History offers us examples both grievous and glorious. Think of the Roman orator Cicero, who warned that words without virtue are dangerous weapons, sharper than the sword. His eloquence was not mere polish; it was the breath of a man who believed in justice, who sought to defend the Republic. Contrast him with those flatterers of emperors who sang hollow praises, whose tongues gilded tyranny with false honor. One was a man, the other but a parrot. The difference was not in the beauty of their speech, but in the truth and courage that animated it.

In our own time, one might recall the tale of Malala Yousafzai. A girl of tender years, her voice was small against the roaring guns of oppression. Yet she spoke words born not of imitation but of conviction, words that pierced the silence of fear and stirred the conscience of the world. Such speech is the antidote to Conrad’s despair—it is proof that language can still be more than parrotry, that words can bear life, hope, and liberation.

Thus, O listener, take this lesson to heart: guard your tongue from emptiness. Do not let your speech become the lifeless echo of what others have said. Instead, let your words rise from your own understanding, your own encounter with truth. If you must repeat, let it be like the chanting of psalms, where each sound is full of spirit, not like the hollow mimicry of the cage-bound bird. Words must serve meaning; meaning must serve life.

In practical terms, seek silence before you speak. Reflect before you echo. When you read, do not merely memorize—wrestle with the text until it speaks to your soul. When you converse, do not chase cleverness, but speak from sincerity. When you teach or learn a language, remember that vocabulary is but the vessel, while wisdom is the wine that fills it. Above all, dare to think for yourself, that your voice may carry the mark of a human spirit, not the squawk of a parrot.

So let Conrad’s sorrow become our awakening. Let us walk in the world of many words, not as its prisoners but as its stewards, choosing speech that gives life. Then, when the teachers of languages grow weary, they will see not a world of parrots, but a world of men and women who speak with the fire of truth—and that, indeed, is a wonder greater than any bird of the air.