My Christmas tree is chartreuse. It says so on its white cardboard box.
I was eighteen years old when I got this tree, and I didn't know what color chartreuse was. I thought it was some kind of magenta or maroon. Now I know better, but only because of this tree.
Just like that, a word gains meaning. I had seen chartreuse things before, surely, but I did not recognize them as such.
It is a miracle, the miracle of language, writ small by my Christmas tree. The meaning exists without the word, but it is not quite understood.
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