Words are powerful, but their meanings aren't fixed

Owen Wister's 1902 novel The Virginian provided a template for the 'western' genre and one of its most iconic lines.

It was now the Virginian’s turn to bet, or leave the game, and he did not speak at once.

Therefore Trampas spoke. “Your bet, you son-of-a--.”

The Virginian’s pistol came out, and his hand lay on the table, holding it unaimed. And with a voice as gentle as ever, the voice that sounded almost like a caress, but drawling a very little more than usual, so that there was almost a space between each word, he issued his orders to the man Trampas: “When you call me that, SMILE.” And he looked at Trampas across the table.

Yes, the voice was gentle. But in my ears it seemed as if somewhere the bell of death was ringing; and silence, like a stroke, fell on the large room.

“When you call me that, SMILE.”

It is a long time since I read The Virginian, but that line has stayed with me. I remember that, before this incident, the narrator of the story is astonished by the way that the cowboys 'insulted' one another, using an obviously offensive phrase, always coyly abbreviated to just SOB in my edition of the book. He notes that the offense of the words is taken away by the humourous intent of the one using them. This is something we might take for granted in 2022, maybe not so much 120 years ago.

But it is an important reminder that the context in which words are used is just as important as the words themselves if we are to properly understand what they mean. Location in place, time and culture really matters. The greater the difference between speaker and hearer (or reader and writer) in any of these, the greater will be the opportunity for misunderstanding.