What is another word for small letters?

Pronunciation: [smˈɔːl lˈɛtəz] (IPA)

Small letters, also known as lowercase letters, are an essential component of written language. They are the smaller version of uppercase or capital letters and hold significant importance in sentence formation. In addition to lowercase, they can also be referred to as minuscule letters, small caps, smalls, or non-caps. The term "small letters" may also be replaced by "smallcase" or "lower case." Using different synonyms for small letters can help add variety and diversity to writing while retaining the necessary grammatical conventions. Regardless of what they are called, small letters serve a fundamental purpose in communication and should be utilized appropriately.

Synonyms for Small letters:

What are the hypernyms for Small letters?

A hypernym is a word with a broad meaning that encompasses more specific words called hyponyms.

What are the opposite words for small letters?

The antonyms for "small letters" would be "capital letters" or "uppercase letters". Capital or uppercase letters refer to the larger letters used at the beginning of a sentence or for proper nouns. The use of capital letters is an important part of writing as it helps with clarity and understanding. Small letters, on the other hand, are commonly used for the main body of text and in informal writing. Understanding the use of both capital and small letters is necessary to effectively communicate in written form. Teachers often advise their students to pay attention to the use of small and capital letters for better writing skills.

What are the antonyms for Small letters?

Famous quotes with Small letters

  • Miracles are a retelling in small letters of the very same story which is written across the whole world in letters too large for some of us to see.
    C. S. Lewis
  • The miracles in fact are a retelling in small letters of the very same story which is written across the whole world in letters too large for some of us to see.
    C. S. Lewis
  • Her point of view about student work was that of a social worker teaching finger-painting to children or the insane. I was impressed with how common such an attitude was at Benton: the faculty—insofar as they were real Benton faculty, and not just nomadic barbarians—reasoned with the students, “appreciated their point of view”, used Socratic methods on them, made allowances for them, kept looking into the oven to see if they were done; but there was one allowance they never under any circumstances made—that the students might be right about something, and they wrong. Education, to them, was a psychiatric process: the sign under which they conquered had embroidered at the bottom, in small letters, —and half of them gave it its Babu paraphrase of One expected them to refer to former students as psychonanalysts do: “Oh, she’s an old analysand of mine.” They felt that the mind was a delicate plant which, carefully nurtured, judiciously left alone, must inevitably adopt for itself even the slightest of their own beliefs. One Benton student, a girl noted for her beadth of reading and absence of coöperation, described things in a queer, exaggerated, plausible way. According to her, a professor at an ordinary school tells you “what’s so”, you admit that it is on examination, and what you really believe or come to believe has “that obscurity which is the privilege of young things”. But at Benton, where education was as democratic as in “that book about America by that French writer—de, de—you know the one I mean”; she meant de Tocqueville; there at Benton they wanted you really to believe everything they did, especially if they hadn’t told you what it was. You gave them the facts, the opinions of authorities, what you hoped was their own opinion; but they replied, “That’s not the point. What do ” If it wasn’t what your professors believed, you and they could go on searching for your real belief forever—unless you stumbled at last upon that primal scene which is, by definition, at the root of anything.... When she said there was so much youth and knowledge in her face, so much of our first joy in created things, that I could not think of Benton for thinking of life. I suppose she was right: it is as hard to satisfy our elders’ demands of Independence as of Dependence. Harder: how much more complicated and indefinite a rationalization the first usually is!—and in both cases, it is their demands that must be satisfied, not our own. The faculty of Benton had for their students great expectations, and the students shook, sometimes gave, beneath the weight of them. If the intellectual demands were not so great as they might have been, the emotional demands made up for it. Many a girl, about to deliver to one of her teachers a final report on a year’s not-quite-completed project, had wanted to cry out like a child, “Whip me, whip me, Mother, just don’t be Reasonable!”
    Randall Jarrell

Word of the Day

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Synonyms:
Coitus Interruptus.