Giving names to things that seem random and unknowable changes how people see them: what was a blur becomes a set of distinct, recognisable forms. Once the sky's vapours had names, people could notice, compare and talk about them, which transformed their whole relationship with what was overhead.
A naming system works across borders only if everyone uses the same terms, so its backers insisted the names be kept in a neutral classical language and never translated. Translating them would split one shared vocabulary into many and destroy the founder's purpose.
A classification that explains the physical forces behind something while still leaving room for feeling can become a source of inspiration for poets and painters, not a rival to them. Artists took the new cloud names into poems and studies of the sky, answering the science instead of rejecting it.
A classification succeeds when its names seize the popular imagination and stick, not simply because it came first. Earlier cloud categories built on loose everyday adjectives faded, while a later set of crisp, shared terms took hold and is still used two centuries on.
Where a thing is too fleeting to measure, so that it breaks apart and vanishes as you watch, understanding has to come through words and stories rather than numbers. Such fields advance by finding a narrative order and a shared vocabulary, so language becomes the main scientific tool.