refuse to grant it-quite irrationally of course-the same seat in my heart as my mother tongue. Para 5:So,just to summarize where I have got to so far in terms of the relationship between language and thought by indulging in my own early experiences-the demolition of a one to one correspondence between word and object is the simplest useful byproduct of learning more than one language-and in my view this is a critical step towards truly internalizing the concept of tolerance,the acceptance of different styles and faiths.And although an early exposure to more than one language may have benefits with regard to fluency in both tongues,I think that too early an exposure actually detracts from the perception of the relationship between word and object as not being fixed and absolute Para 6:Also,it is not absolutely necessary to have a knowledge of more than one language to achieve this realization-after all,most languages contain words that are promiscuous in meaning (for example 'train')as well as many words that attach to the same object or concept- consider the words 'start'and 'commence',not to mention 'begin'.In the latter case,the subtle differences between these words serve the additional purpose of taking us towards the somewhat more advanced notion that language conditions experience. Para 7:For me however,it was not so much that the same object could be represented by an entirely different set of sounds as the fact that certain words in a particular language had no equivalent in others,that concretized for me the notion the language conditions experience.My father always told me (with a certain smugness)that certain Bengali words had no English equivalent-words such as abhiman which describes a sort of gentle tremulous reproachfulness or biraha which means separation from a lover,but also contains the sublime anguish of such a condition.Biraha is a beautiful word,and of extreme poetic convenience,but I wonder whether packing the complex pain of separation into one word does not actually confine us in some ways- channel us inevitably towards a state of intense heartache.Perhaps a more fluid alliance of words and concepts,even though it may be more cumbersome,grants more freedom to the individual. Para 8:I have offered here a very impressionistic,and not at all erudite discussion of how language can condition experience,or more properly how I became aware of this,partly through my exposure to a number of languages,partly through delving into the meanings of particular words.By the time I was in my early teens,this realization was firmly in place within me,but it was about this time that I became aware of another language that would change my life.This was the language of mathematics,and I fell in love with it for two reasons.One was its inherent beauty a beauty that stemmed from its economy and lack of ambiguity-the very tight association between symbol and meaning,the knife-edged clarity of each statement,the leanness of its form. The other reason I became enchanted with the language of mathematics was because of what you could do with it-how you could use it to make sense of our physical universe.I devoured books on classical physics with the same emotional energy as I consumed poetry and fiction,and to this day I maintain that science and art are fuelled by the same fire-that passionate urge to understand. There is a beautiful line in a picturebook called The Sea of Tranguility by Mark Haddon(whom many of you will know as the author of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime)-which is about a young boy obsessed with the moonlanding,and is set appropriately in 1969.The line isrefuse to grant it – quite irrationally of course - the same seat in my heart as my mother tongue. Para 5: So, just to summarize where I have got to so far in terms of the relationship between language and thought by indulging in my own early experiences – the demolition of a one to one correspondence between word and object is the simplest useful byproduct of learning more than one language – and in my view this is a critical step towards truly internalizing the concept of tolerance, the acceptance of different styles and faiths. And although an early exposure to more than one language may have benefits with regard to fluency in both tongues, I think that too early an exposure actually detracts from the perception of the relationship between word and object as not being fixed and absolute. Para 6: Also, it is not absolutely necessary to have a knowledge of more than one language to achieve this realization – after all, most languages contain words that are promiscuous in meaning (for example ‘train’) as well as many words that attach to the same object or concept – consider the words ‘start’ and ‘commence’, not to mention ‘begin’. In the latter case, the subtle differences between these words serve the additional purpose of taking us towards the somewhat more advanced notion that language conditions experience. Para 7: For me however, it was not so much that the same object could be represented by an entirely different set of sounds as the fact that certain words in a particular language had no equivalent in others, that concretized for me the notion the language conditions experience. My father always told me (with a certain smugness) that certain Bengali words had no English equivalent – words such as abhiman which describes a sort of gentle tremulous reproachfulness or biraha which means separation from a lover, but also contains the sublime anguish of such a condition. Biraha is a beautiful word, and of extreme poetic convenience, but I wonder whether packing the complex pain of separation into one word does not actually confine us in some ways – channel us inevitably towards a state of intense heartache. Perhaps a more fluid alliance of words and concepts, even though it may be more cumbersome, grants more freedom to the individual. Para 8: I have offered here a very impressionistic, and not at all erudite discussion of how language can condition experience, or more properly how I became aware of this, partly through my exposure to a number of languages, partly through delving into the meanings of particular words. By the time I was in my early teens, this realization was firmly in place within me, but it was about this time that I became aware of another language that would change my life. This was the language of mathematics, and I fell in love with it for two reasons. One was its inherent beauty – a beauty that stemmed from its economy and lack of ambiguity – the very tight association between symbol and meaning, the knife-edged clarity of each statement, the leanness of its form. The other reason I became enchanted with the language of mathematics was because of what you could do with it – how you could use it to make sense of our physical universe. I devoured books on classical physics with the same emotional energy as I consumed poetry and fiction, and to this day I maintain that science and art are fuelled by the same fire – that passionate urge to understand. There is a beautiful line in a picturebook called The Sea of Tranquility by Mark Haddon (whom many of you will know as the author of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime) – which is about a young boy obsessed with the moonlanding, and is set appropriately in 1969. The line is