Showing posts with label grammar. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grammar. Show all posts

Friday, January 21, 2022

Media Are a Plural (Noun [So is "Data"]): On Not Making the Job Easier for Right-Wing Propagandists

     In his flawed, old, and still-totally-essential study, The True Believer (1951), Eric Hoffer talks about devils and their ideal number for politics and propaganda.

It seems that, like the ideal deity, the ideal devil is one. We have it from Hitler—the foremost authority on devils—that the genius of a great leader consists in concentrating all hatred on a single foe, making “even adversaries far removed from one another seem to belong to a single category.” When Hitler picked the Jew as his devil, he peopled practically the whole world outside Germany with Jews or those who worked for them. […] Stalin, too, adheres to the monotheistic principle when picking a devil.  […] (§ 67)

This is a bit of an overstatement, but useful: If your goal is demonization, it's best to have a conglomerate target, where your audience won't get confused and/or resistant with thinking up exceptions. If your target for demonization is "the Jew," the people you want to move aren't tempted to think of Jews (plural) they might know who are not demons. 

    Nowadays, most of us don't talk of "the Jew" or "the Black" or "the White Man" (although you can still hear a Canadian Jew use the last term in THE APPRENTICESHIP OF DUDDY KRAVITZ — now streaming! — from 1974); and this is progress. We still, though, too often lump together large and disparate groups and talk about "the Americans," for example, in ways too casual for discussing the neighbors as actual people in an actual "the neighborhood."

    And many of us talk and write about "the media ... it," a singular.

    First off, an old, Leftist magazine like The Nation just isn't the respectable Right-wing National Review, much less Fox News or Rupert Murdoch's UK tabloid The Sun; and none of them are Pravda under Stalin or Sports Illustrated — or graffiti or movies or talk-radio.

    More relevant here, keeping "media" a plural makes it just a little bit harder for demagogues and their operatives to lump the media all together, demonize them as an It — and get the demagogues' True Believer followers to believe only the demagogues and their operatives.

    "Data" is more subtle. Hoffer talks about how an effective mass movement in its active phase — think of a very large cult, on the move — takes a potential True Believer and makes him (mostly males at this stage) fanatically loyal to the cause. One technique is "
interposing a fact-proof screen between him and reality
" (§ 43). But this is for the hard-core and usually requires doctrine and indoctrination. 

    For us in the United States in the 2020's, conscious evil doctrines — though serious — may be less of an immediate threat than just a general impatience with facts and impatience with a scientific/critical attitude and approach to the world. This gets complicated, including how cold and alienating the facts of the human condition in the universe. One simple thing, though, is that people would be less pushed toward impatience if they didn't hear about a singular "data" from which "Science" makes clear, consistent, and rarely-changing pronouncements. In the messy real world, workers in various sciences work with varying sets of data to try to make sense of those (plural) data. New and different data: different hypotheses, different advice (and, yes, I'm thinking about CoViD-19 and complaints about inconsistency and changing rules/advice). 

    So plural for "data," please, and let's use "Science" pretty rarely and for one way humans ask questions of the universe — a philosophical sort of thing — and "sciences" when getting to the nitty-gritty of dealing with something as complex and very messy as a pandemic.


Thursday, May 11, 2017

Editing Note on "Bad News Letter": Firing James Comey

External Memorandum



FROM: Richard D. Erlich, Pedant in English Emeritus

TO: Hon. D. J. Trump et al., White House

SUBJECT: Note on "Bad News Letter": Firing James Comey

IMMEDIATE ATTENTION!


At least one sentence needs to be rewritten before the letter gets any publicity. "While I greatly appreciate you informing me, on three separate occasions, that I am not under investigation, I nevertheless concur with the judgment of the Department of Justice that you are not able to effectively lead the Bureau."

This is President Trump's sentence, yes? In any case, I suggest replacing it with «The nation and I appreciate greatly your service; still, I concur with the judgment of the leadership of the Department of Justice that you are no longer able to lead the Bureau effectively.»

        * The Russia investigation has nothing to do with firing Mr. Comey (right?), so don't bring it up.

        * It's too personal and/or informal for the context to say, "I greatly appreciate you informing me"; the key thing would be the action, not the person, so that would be "I greatly appreciate" — or "I appreciate greatly" — "your informing me" (possessive with gerund: an "ing"-form acting as a kind of noun).

        * Whether the entire DoJ agrees with the move is something that can and will be argued and can't be determined, the DoJ being pretty abstract. You have documentation on the view of its two main leaders.

        * There's nothing ungrammatical about splitting an infinitive, but you needn't do so here, and reuniting "to lead" makes for easier reading and allows the sentence to climax with the important word "effectively."

        * Saying "not able" to lead effectively could imply he is not and never was, a bit of a rebuke not only to Mr. Obama — which works for you — but to the U.S. Senate who confirmed him; "no longer" avoids that potential problem.

This letter will be examined closely, and the current wording of this sentence is non-professional and rather blatantly neither written nor seriously reviewed by professionals. Your base audience won't care, but you have them anyway; potentially significant demographics among your opponents will at least sense the casual contempt and resent it: presumably the office of the President, to say nothing of the President's personal wealth, would cover editing. (As I like to say, "Everybody needs an ediotor.")


Of course, if the point is to piss off opponents, go for it.


Wednesday, May 10, 2017

Trump, Comey, and a Point of Grammar, a Point of Style

While I greatly appreciate you informing me, 
on three separate occasions, 
that I am not under investigation, 
I nevertheless concur with the judgment 
of the Department of Justice  that 
you are not able to effectively lead the Bureau.   * * *
 I wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors, 
— Donald J. Trump [to James Comey, 9 May 2017]  




Note the introductory clause to a key sentence in Donald Trump's brief letter firing Mr. Comey: “While I greatly appreciate you informing me [...] that I am not under investigation, [...]." On that clause: 

          (1) It's unnecessary. 
          (2) It's unsupported. 
          (3) It's part of a "shit-sandwich" structure of the traditional Bad News Communication, with a compliment near the beginning and an upbeat end to the letter: here reduced to "best of luck" at the very end. 
          (4) It's ungrammatical, or at least questionable for a formal document: the "you" should be "your," the possessive, giving "your informing me." Mr. Trump doesn't so much appreciate Mr. Comey as he does Mr. Comey's action in informing him that he, Donald Trump, isn't "under investigation" — if that happened, which is a question of fact, not language usage.  
           (To elaborate: The issue, in old-fashioned terms, is whether to use the possessive case ["genitive'] with an "ing-form" acting as a noun [a gerund], or the object case ["accusative"]. The venerable William Strunk and blessed E. B. White apparently suggested this test: "Do you mind me asking you a question?" or "Do you mind my asking you a question?" In the first possibility, the question would be if you'd be mildly bothered with me, in the second, it would be my action. In the Trump-letter case, it'd be «I appreciate you, because you informed me [...] that I am not under investigation» OR, what I think is the intention, «I appreciate your {act of} informing me [...], that I am not under investigation.» In informal usage, it would be perfectly correct to say, «Hey, Jimmy: I really like you letting me know the Feds aren't» — or "ain't" — «on my case.»)

Note also the final clause,  "[...] you are not able to effectively lead the Bureau." 
          Now, it's perfectly grammatical and generally okay to (unobtrusively) split an infinitive, but there's no particular reason to do so here; and keeping the infinitive together yields, "you are not able to lead the Bureau effectively." Usually, nouns outrank modifiers, but it would help drive home the point to climax the sentence with "effectively."

So let me bet a $100 monetary contribution to the ACLU that this sentence is a Trump Family writing contribution: Mr. Trump or his kinfolk or small circle of political operatives produced that one, with only minimal vetting — as in proofreading — by professionals (e.g., a word person other than Sean Spicer).    


Tuesday, March 24, 2015

Literally (Word Usage Literal and Figurative) [28 April 2013]

            I'm going to start out with a kind of disclaimer. Shortly I'm going to talk a bit about a segment on The Colbert Report and note that it's kind of fan-boy esoteric. Since I don't often write about The Colbert Report, my reference below might imply that there's something unusual about a bit of allusive complexity on Colbert, and I want to clarify that the segment I'll refer to is a tad more esoteric than the Colbert-ian norm, but not much; indeed the one I'll get to is barely in the same sport, let alone in the same league, as the awesome nerdocity of the first J. R. R. Tolkien-geek smackdown between Colbert and James Franco (5 April 2011). The Colbert/Franco scherzo and fugue on Lord of the Rings trivia reached levels of dorkoid esoterica I have never encountered, and I am a member of the International Association for the Fantastic in the Arts, have friends who have written books on Tolkien, and was named first faculty advisor (as the first chapter prank) by the Miami University Society for Creative Anachronism.


         That being clear — I've hesitated to comment on misuses of the word "literally" in part because Stephen Colbert said all that needed to be said on the subject — for some audiences.

         The occasion was one of the long series of Republican 2012 Presidential Primary Debates, one a couple weeks after President Obama announced the withdrawal of most US combat troops in Iraq. Candidate Rick Perry said in the debate that he'd return US troops to Iraq, lest we "see Iran […] move back in [into Iraq] at literally the speed of light." Colbert sensed the figurative blood in the figurative water and figuratively did whatever the technical term is for what sharks do when they take a big bite out of a thrashing, wounded prey creature: “The speed of light," Colbert quoted. "Not figuratively, literally. […] Folks, forget nuclear weapons. Iran has developed the warp drive. Those centrifuges were actually enriching dilithium crystals. And unless we stop them, Captain Mahmoud Ahmad-kirk-ejad will soon be getting it on with 72 space virgins.”

         To truly, if figuratively, savor this moment, it helps to know that there seems to be no way that matter in our universe can move as fast as or faster than the speed of light; as one version of the T-shirt has it "299,792,458 meters per second. It's not just a good idea, it's the law!" It also helps to know that science fiction writers fudge one way around the limitations of the speed of light barrier by invoking theories of a space warp where the shortest distance between two points in our universe can be through one or more higher dimensions so that a space ship at point A can get to point B in what looks like a speed faster than light.

         This idea became canonical for a generation with the Warp Drive, especially on classic Star Trek, the series featuring William Shatner as Captain James Tiberius Kirk. It made sense in the 1960s. One way to get FTL (Faster Than Light) travel was to have a chapter explaining theories how it might be possible, as Arthur C. Clarke did in his novel of 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968). Another way was just to say, "Warp two, Mr. Sulu." If humans can break the Sound Barrier and go faster than sound at Mach 2 and 3 and all, it stands to whatever substitutes for reason while we watch a movie or TV show that going "Warp 2" or "Warp 3" will get us FTL. It's what Walt Disney called "The Plausible Impossible" (Disneyland 3.08, which is blocked on YouTube, so don't bother).

         And the Warp Drives on vessels on Star Trek were powered by "dilithium crystals," which have something to do with antimatter.

         Further, the President of Iran at the time was Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, and one set of Muslim beliefs has it that male martyrs to the faith will be greeted and serviced in Paradise by seventy-two virgins — morphed into "space virgins" by the old SciFi convention of "skify-ing up" a phrase by just putting "space" before all manner of words.

         Follow that?

         Enough members of Colbert's audience could that Colbert got a laugh, and the clip seems to be popular. So for some folks, for a while, a figurative stake has been put into the figurative heart of "literally."

         It's not enough, though, and it is too much.

         The Colbert routine isn't enough because of the limited demographics; it's too much for a number of reasons, starting with all my uses above of "figuratively."

         We use figures of speech all the time, including the hyperbole of "all the time." To say "figuratively" every time would, as the figure has it, get old fast.

         And the word in question, "literally," can get complicated.

         In the section on his "[…] Theory of Symbols" in Anatomy of Criticism (1957), Northrop Frye contrasts literary symbols that are descriptive and refer to things outside the text, and those that are what he calls literal. As the Wikipedia article has it, "To Frye, literal means nearly the opposite of its usage in common speech; to say that something 'literally' means something generally involves referring to a definition external to the text. Instead," in Frye's usage, "literal refers to the symbol's meaning in its specific literary situation while descriptive refers to personal connotation and conventional definition."

         Uh, huh. Even among those of us who continued to like Frye after the 1960s, this usage of "literal" never caught on. But no less a serious thinker about language than Northrop Frye used "literal" that way, and, if you go back far enough, he had a point. The Oxford English Dictionary's etymology for "literal" begins, "of or relating to literature (beginning of the 14th cent.), of or relating to the ‘letter’ of a text," — and only after the 1300s came to mean "of or relating to the ‘letter’ of a text, obtained by taking words and passages in their primary or usual meaning" — i.e., what we usually mean by "literal" and "literally": the words as they usually mean, not getting figurative (metaphorical, allegorical, mystical — fancy schmancy) on their figurative asses.

         Fairly recently, but long before the 2012 elections, some rhetorically daring people came upon the (bad) idea of using "literally" figuratively, as in the OED's definition 6.c, noting a colloquial literally, "Used in figurative or hyperbolic expressions to add emphasis or as an intensifier: veritable, real; complete, absolute, utter" and giving as their first example a quotation going back to a magazine article from 1857: "We hurried on to Baden Baden. Let no American send his son thither if he have any penchant for the card-table or the roulette. It is a literal hell." The OED editors immediately add that this usage is "Often considered irregular in standard English, since it reverses the earlier sense ‘without metaphor, exaggeration, or distortion’."

         No shit?!

         Baden Baden is a spa town in southern Germany, and it may've been a very sordid place in the 1850s. Still, it wasn't hell or even, literally, "a hell"; at worst, it could be seen as a very large "gambling hell," in the manner of, say, Las Vegas.

         Irregular usage, though, is no big deal, and no one should spend time attacking Northrop Frye for getting ingenious with "literal" or for anyone still using the phrase "gambling hell."  What is a big deal is "literally" as a hyperbolic intensifier. Nowadays we suffer from serious language inflation, and overstatement is becoming not just an issue of grammar but of politics and ethics.

         "He's literally as bad as Hitler" is figurative language; the figure of speech is hyperbole, overstatement — and unless that statement refers to a mass murderer on the order of Genghis Khan, Tamburlaine, Stalin, or Mao, the statement on its face — no argument necessary — is overstatement that's massive and bordering on the obscene. Matthew White gives for the death toll for World War II as some 66 million people and cites for "Who usually gets the most blame: the Axis, especially Hitler" (The Great Big Book of Horrible Things, p. [400]). Steven Pinker, in The Better Angels of Our Nature passes along as at least plausible, theories of "No Hitler, no Holocaust" and no Hitler, no World War II, at least not as the "hemoclysm" World War II became (208-9).

         "As bad as Hitler" — literally? Cut the crap. Figuratively.

Monday, March 23, 2015

Spelling Counts (also Punctuation, Word Choice, and Grammar) [6 Oct. 2013]

"I like cooking my family and my pets."
Use commas. Don't be a psycho." (Writing.com)

"NO RAGRETS" — Highly visible tatoo in We're the millers (2013)

             When I first started teaching back in the late 1960s, students would tell me with some regularity, "I don't need to know how to spell and punctuate; my secretary will take care of that." And I would ask, "And what makes you think you won't be the secretary, and happy to have the job?"

            Secretaries nowadays are a dying breed, and most people realize they're going to be typing (etc.) their own papers and presentations and all, but young folk still sometimes resist the idea that spelling, punctuation, word usage, and just idiomatic English — I taught English — are significant.

            In a way, they're not significant. Not when you realize that much of the time when people say, "That's not grammatical," they mean, "That doesn't conform to the rules in the prestige dialect" or "That's unfashionable." Much of the time it's a snob thing. And such trivial errors are obviously trivial when set against real problems in language like Orwellian twisting of words so ethyl alcohol consumed to get zonked isn't a drug and nerve gas is "a weapon of mass destruction" but cluster bombs are not.

            Still, there are readers who will get upset that I used a sentence fragment in the last paragraph but can accept without comment talk about "alcohol and drugs" and can have a beer in hand while demanding putting people in jail forever and ever for using  drugs; there are people who will get upset by my sentence fragment and Syrian civilians getting killed by illegal nerve gas, but not so upset if any foreigners get killed by legal high explosives.

            Sentence fragments can be useful, and I use them when I think they will be effective. However, I need to be conscious of when I'm using them and consider if I annoy more of my target audience with the sentence fragment than the point is worth. If it's a matter of indifference whether or not I use fragments, most of the time I can do it the way my (imagined) audience wants. Especially if I want to, say, move them to support legalizing marijuana or helping get peace in Syria — or wherever — without the US firing missiles at people.

            Anyway, back when I taught, I would tell my resistant students how MAD Magazine once ran a letter to the editor attacking MAD for its lack of intellectual sophistication. "The Usual Gang of Idiots" at MAD simply ran the letter as they received it, with "[sic]" after each misspelled word.

            Now whether or not the letter-writer could spell was irrelevant to his argument about the intelligence level of MAD Magazine. Ditto for punctuation and such. Still, what I recall is the three of four "sic's" and that the letter-writer not only didn't make his point but also looked ignorant, and a fool. That isn't fair; that wasn't fair; but it was an effective ploy on the part of the staff at MAD. (Satirists are not nice people.)

            "Proper" spelling and punctuation is the writing equivalent of actors' learning their lines. If you're an actor, and your friends' compliment you after a performance with, "Uh, well, you certainly remembered all your lines!" … you can be pretty sure your performance sucked. The same rule applies with spelling and punctuation and what we used to call "Basic Conventions": It's no compliment if people point out you got them right; just don't screw them up.
            For a more powerful if less exact analogy, getting the basic conventions right is like remembering to zip up after hitting the head before The Big Speech. Or for a more woman-acknowledging/unisex example, checking to be sure you aren't entering to the speech "trailing clouds of glory," and toilet paper.

            Trust me on this: Odds are that few people will remember your speech, but your friends will remember and remind you of your embarrassment long after they've forgotten the names of their grandchildren.

            E.g., a really great Shakespeare scholar taught the course I took on tragedy and one day delivered what I'm sure was a fine presentation on … well I've forgotten. What I do recall is that the class puritan had a front-row center seat, and that I was one of the teacher's "eye-contact people" but had to keep my head down because the guy next to me was speculating on whether or not the professor wore underwear (he announced that he saw none) and on possible reactions of Miss Cotton Mather in the front row looking at the prof at crotch level — and if I looked the professor in the eye I was going to crack up laughing.

            That's all petty and immature and, well, totally typical. That pettiness, though, is there, and writers must deal with it, and not just writers in English classes.

            My experience is that most English teachers are educated enough as scholars — and hardened enough as readers of student writing — to sweat the small stuff rather less than the somewhat-educated readers out in what is often called "The Real World."

            I now work on the periphery of the semi-real world of the film business, and I have met one producer with an absolute rule that the third or fourth spelling error he comes on in a script — he tosses the script. Yeah, the scriptwriter may be a Hemingway or a Shakespeare, but the odds are strongly against it, and producers get a lot of scripts and are looking for reasons to reject scripts.

            As I occasionally try to explain, readers of scripts understand the economics here. As Robert A. Heinlein is said to have said — it oversimplifies the quote but makes pithier what he actually advised, and more entertaining — «Don't revise unless an editor makes you.» Even as pulp writers of the mid-20th century had to minimize the labor they put into each manuscript, so with script writers: the economics of the situation mean that you shouldn't revise a script unless you can get it sold, and different readers will give you different "Notes," and different producers will have different demands.

            But little in spelling and punctuation is debatable, and it just looks bush-league and disrespectful if you don't even bother to run the spell check and get the sucker proofread before you send it in. Look, we know it's an early draft — but don't rub our noses in it.

            And quite frequently, "we" do know.

            Initial reading of most scripts isn't done by recent-immigrant studio executives from the early days of the talkies nor by over-schooled but undereducated MBA's that fit the current stereotypes. Initial reading is frequently done by over-worked, underpaid, female recent college graduates who are very good at what they do. Do not piss them off unnecessarily, and it will piss them off when an agent sends them what, on the level of the sentence, looks like an early draft by a high-school junior.

            Or, for the lumpen literati out there who don't have agents — or only small-time agents — the script will be read by someone like me: a friend of an Indie producer, a guy with free time and some education who does the first reading. More, exactly: a friend who does the first reading if the producer reads the first few pages and decides it deserves a reading at all.

            Similarly in other fields: There's a fair chance you'll be read by a twenty-two-year old who can't spell either and is occasionally unclear on the meaning of words s/he's heard a few times but hasn't read often in context because s/he doesn't read often.

            That's possible. It's also possible you'll get a very smart twenty-three year old with a good education who knows not to get hung up with spelling errors, but notices them.

            The semi-literates probably won't downgrade you for spelling right and getting your words to mean things within shouting distance of the dictionary definition. With literate readers, those spelling errors (and such) are trivial — but also like showing up to the interview with your fly open / trailing toilet paper caught in your shoe and panty hose.

            Zip your fly; check your hose and shoes; run the goddamn Spell Check; proofread each draft — and get your final draft proofread by someone competent you can trust.

            Spelling does count, and so do punctuation, word choice, and the other "Basic Conventions."

Everybody Needs an Ediotor

             I am not a big fan of copy-editors.

            On one occasion, relatively early in my career in the Ed Biz, I sent a letter to the "Commentary" section of The Chronicle of Higher Education, a letter coming in just over their 300-word limit. But there was an easy fix: I had the phrase in it "hold in contempt," and I just changed that to "contemn" and saved two words. "Contemn" isn't exactly a common word, but it's only two syllables, and it's not difficult to figure out in a context where it replaces "hold in contempt." Besides, "to dis(s)" hadn't been invented yet, and "to disrespect" hadn't returned to White English (according to The Oxford English Dictionary, "to disrespect" has been in and out of fashion since the 17th century); given those limitations, "contemn" was as accurate as I could get.

            The copy-editor (of course) changed "contemn" to "condemn."

            I was not pleased. "Condemn" would work in the sentence, but that wasn't what I meant to say; "contemn" was what I meant, and s/he could've just looked it up and see (1) it's a word, and (2) it was the right word.

            A bigger deal was when my co-editor and I were driven up the wall by apparently random changes by the copy-editor of "that" to "which" and "which" to "that" in an anthology of essays we were editing. We called the publishers and asked to talk to the copy-editor and were told they wouldn't put through that call. So we asked for her, or less likely his, name and were told they didn’t release that information.

            As the received wisdom of the time advised, we "got in touch" with our feelings about the copy-editor and guessed quickly why the publisher kept copy-editor names anonymous.
            I was in a department of English and asked around, and one colleague looked at the corrections (?) and said, "Oh — it's an East-Coast affectation."

            I replied with my usual, sophisticated "Huh?"

            And my colleague explained, "Remember the comment in Strunk and White" — Elements of Style (1918 f.) a classic writing guide — "that it wasn't a rule of grammar or anything like that, but it'd be nice if writers used 'that' with necessary, 'restrictive" modifying clauses and '[comma], which' with nonrestrictive clauses ….' As in, "The car hit the bump that jutted up in the street" as opposed to, "The car missed the dangerous bump, which jutted up in the street."

            Ah, yes, I remembered it well, that rule of thumb, since the one question I missed on some State-mandated high school grammar and punctuation test involved "that" and "which" and the misunderstanding by the test-makers that "useful advice" isn't the same as "a rule of grammar."

            Brits especially use "that" and "which" pretty much interchangeably, and the copy-editor had corrected the English of, among others, Brian Aldiss, who may not have had a college degree (perhaps not even a high school diploma) but did live in Oxford, England, and occasionally taught at the university they keep there: a guy who had already or was soon to write some notable fiction and scholarship, work with Stanley Kubrick and then Steven Spielberg on A.I.: Artificial Intelligence, and get letters after his name like "OBE" and "FRSL" ("Officer of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire" — no shit on the full title — and Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature), et bloody cetera.

            So I've had my complaints about copy-editors and had a fantasy or two about throttling them.

            Still, I mourn the passing of copy-editors and proofreaders; we, all of us, need them.

            For example …
.
            For example, I once wrote a letter that I signed with the relevant notice of my editing something or other, and very impressively, I'm sure, typed the job title as "Ediotor." I also once addressed one of my editors as "ediotor." It was a standard Freudian typo with me, for reasons that should be fairly clear from what I wrote above: "editor" + "idiot" —> "ediotor," including when I was doing the editing.

            And my father before me could have used an editor/proof-reader on at least one occasion.

            He learned of it reading an amused note that came with shirts he'd ordered for his credit-clothing store. The note went something like, "Thank you for your order, although we were somewhat surprised you still wanted our product, given the opinion you expressed." Accompanying the goodly number of shirts he'd ordered was his order letter, where he'd omitted the "r" in "shirts."

            Nowadays, of course, we have few proofreaders and copy-editors but depend upon SpellCheck and AutoCorrect. So now our errors can still include "this" instead of "his" or writing "shits" when we mean "shirts" — "shit" is certainly a word I've taught SpellCheck — but also utterly random and/or grotesque mistakes.

            Here I'll leave the reader to fill in examples, since I've repressed the memories of most of them. What I find is that apparently The System decided that my "wrung out" — or the typo I made for that — wasn't acceptable, but "rung out" was fine; or is perfectly willing to refer someone to "seen 122" rather than movie "scene 122."

            More serious, of course, is if you don't check autoCompletion or autoFill of, say, an e-mail address and an important e-post that is supposed to go to one address goes to an address the intended recipient hasn't used for years, or a confidential note for "Mike K." ends up going to "Mike L."

            Well, and so forth.

            I've argued before that "Spelling Counts"; that's still true, but nowadays one pretty much needs to know only how to spell approximately. If you use a computer, tools are available to check your spelling, to suggest spelling, and to define words for you to ensure that what you're correctly spelling is the word you want (e.g., I once wrote that I'd be discrete [ = "individually separate and distinct"] when I meant discreet [= "careful and circumspect"; there's a difference). What we need now is greater care and a good eye.
            And we can't always exercise that care for our own writing, and all of us have our areas of ignorance. If the writing is important, we need to get it checked.


            Now and then, anyway, everybody who writes needs an editor. 

Thursday, March 19, 2015

Grammatically Said ≠ Worthily Said, or Well Said (11 Aug. 2014)

           One day early in my career as an English teacher, a student at a tutorial on his essay said to me, "You know, for a guy so far Left in politics, you're a real conservative when it comes to grammar." I asserted in mostly mock indignation, "We are talking here, Sir, of a matter of style and rhetoric, and in cases of style and rhetoric, Sir, I am not a conservative; in such matters, I, Sir, am a reactionary!"

            I think he had ended not only a sentence but his opening paragraph with a preposition, and my complaint wasn't about grammar — a preposition is a perfectly grammatical thing to end a sentence with — but the stylistic point that he'd wasted a strongly-stressed climax position on a not-particularly-exciting function-word.

            Like most college-level English teachers, I had some training in linguistics and scientific grammar and had been perhaps especially fortunate to not have had writing rules shoved down my throat K-12, so I started teaching writing blissfully unaware that there was, e.g., some absolute prohibition against splitting infinitives (e.g., as I split "to have" above). I also didn't know that writers were forbidden to use "I" and got sincerely confused when my students wrote "It could be said that" when the normal construction is "I think."

            I ended up doing a little spiel on "It could be said that 'The moon is made of green cheese' — obviously, since I just said it." I noted that "I think" is pretty much an unarguable assertion — it'd be stupidly arrogant to tell you that you didn't think something — but "I think" is a handy locution and fine to use to hedge a bit (now and then) or, if stated emphatically, to give your take on some issue.

            My students taught me that "schoolmarm grammar" was alive and doing ill in 20th-century high schools, often enforced by instructors of both sexes who were younger, cooler, hipper, and otherwise less schoolmarmish than I. So I added a section to my initial class handout listing "Writing Superstitions (Corrected)" and once got a small group of my colleagues to take out an ad in the school newspaper offering cash prizes to anyone who could find a current academic style sheet that supported such rules.

            No one collected, although Stanley Milgram once indicated that an industrious researcher could have dug up an old Psych style manual that forbade "I" and "we" — and that was why his initial report on his once-famous experiments on obedience had many passive-voice/deleted agent locutions — but more on that below.

            For now I will just pronounce the formula that I am not now nor (to the best of my knowledge) ever been a grammar Nazi, if, for no other reason, I was and remain too much of an intellectual snob to show off such ignorance.

            Still.

            However.

            But — but however much I'm willing to mess around with odd paragraphing and sentence fragments and starting even paragraphs with conjunctions, I do get persnickety about the ethics and politics and lesser but still important implications of writing: rhetoric is the art of ethical persuasion, and far from everything grammatically said or written is worthily said or written. Or, more commonly, far from everything grammatical is sensible and well-advised.

            So this much in favor of one kind of language conservatism.

            Most basically and least grandly, language needs schoolmarms and grammar Nazis for a kind of inertia that new locutions have to overcome. It also needs satirists, who can be even more reactionary than the schoolmarms. Words like "mob" and "debunk" started out as neologisms, and they stuck with the language despite the purists because they are useful. Slang from the 1920's like "23 skidoo" and "the cat's pajamas" — whatever the hell those meant — are no longer with us and unmourned. Ditto for "hep" and, I suspect, its hardier ancestor and descendent "hip," and numerable-but-why-bother expressions that entered the gantlet of pedantry and satire, had a run, and then got cut down and buried.

            A bit more important — if still vocabulary, not yet real grammar — there was merit when my third grade, or so, teacher rhetorically asked a classmate who'd asserted love for ice cream, "Would you die defending ice cream?" As the Usual Gang of (Wise) Idiots at MAD Magazine pointed out, "'Love' is overrated," "'Like' is underrated," in a couple of senses. Using "love" when "like" is quite sufficient devalues the meaning of "love" and reinforces the tendency in modern American communication TO FREAKING OVER-HYPE AND OVERSTATE EVERYTHING!!! (And I'll throw in for younger readers: The people who communicate with you only on Facebook are barely your acquaintances, not your friends, not unless you can call them up and have them take you to the airport or emergency room.)

            Similarly with some distinctions both pedantic and significant.

            It sounds weird to my ear when people say that something "begs the question" when they mean "invites" or "raises the question." To me, "begging the question" is a logical fallacy I never really understood, and I don't know why normal people would use the expression. Still, the new usage is no big deal, and if "that begs the question" comes to mean "raises the question" and removes old-style "begging the question" from colloquial conversation, that's fine with me.

            It's a significant issue, though, if "disinterested" comes to mean just "uninterested" and eliminates "disinterested" as an quick way to say "not influenced by considerations of personal advantage." We need the concept of "disinterest" if we're to talk easily about, say, journalism: journalists can't and shouldn't be objective in dealing with human stories — viewing human beings as objects to be observed is a step on the road to horrors — but journalists can try to be fair and accurate and, well, disinterested. And demanding objectivity is another instance of FREAKING OVER-STATING EVERYTHING: if Fox News really were fair and balanced that would be quite sufficient; they needn't try for godlike, or demonic, distance and detachment.

            Similarly, if with fewer dangers, is forgetting the flippant reminder, "Media [and data as well] are a plural noun." It's not ungrammatical to lump together all the various media into one vast singular "The Media"; it is, however, misleading and unfair. There is no vast singular Media out there, and Fox News isn't The Daily Show or The Nation or The Atlantic or PBS or NPR or graffiti. And if you have ever dealt seriously with data, you know that they are often messy and sometimes contradictory.

            The examples about, though, are just words: vocabulary, not grammar — a general principle John McWhorter stresses in his provocative Our Magnificent Bastard Tongue: The Untold History of English. McWhorter raises a grammatical example I want to look at: using "they" as a gender-neutral, 3rd-person singular pronoun, as in "Each student should bring their book." This is my example and a somewhat loaded one; McWhorter gives examples from literary English that will sound unexceptional to almost any speaker of English. I give this one because I served on a committee of two assigned to make rule-writing by Miami University's Student Affairs Council more gender inclusive, starting with rules that had "The student … he (his)." On this issue, we declined to use "The student … they/their" or "he and she" or "his and her" or "s/he" or any such locution on the grounds that gender shouldn't be an issue at all since our rules shouldn't be talking about "The student" to start with. "The Student" is an abstraction, a type, and The Student never shows up in nature. Even with the homogeneous undergraduate student body of Miami U at Oxford — dismissed by Playboy, MUO folklore saith, as "male models and cheerleaders with straight teeth" — the people who showed up in class and on campus were individual students.

            Thinking in categories is inevitable if we're to think at all, and careful typological analysis can be useful; it's done in two of my favorite books: Eric Hoffer's The True Believer (obviously dealing with a type), and Konrad Lorenz's On Aggression, which deals with ideal models of behavior abstracted from nature and specifically identified as abstractions. Still, most of us are rarely very analytical and many of us get sloppy in our thinking and speech and writing; types easily slip into stereotypes, and stereotypical thinking is usually not useful and often much worse.

            (Imagine a transition here.)

            I'll end by returning to Stanley Milgram and "I" and "we" and the passive voice; for, verily, as much as any schoolmarm grammarian bashed knuckles for using "I," my MS-Word Grammar Check comes down with less violence but equal dogmatism on the passive voice. And here I'll somewhat go along with Word Grammar Check, however often I disobey its commands.

            Milgram should have avoided the passive voice in his initial article on "Behavioral Study of Obedience" (1963), as he was to come to avoid it in his brilliant book-length study Obedience to Authority (1974). The passive voice is grammatical in English by definition: there are rules in actual English grammar — the grammar we use to generate sentences — that transform active voice statements into the passive. Passive-voice sentences, however, are longer and come across as weaker than active-voice, so there are stylistic reasons to prefer the active voice, but the issue I want to look at is ethical.

            Somewhere in, I think, her monumental The Origins of Totalitarianism (1951), Hannah Arendt describes bureaucratic tyranny as government "in the passive voice, deleted agent." In modern tyrannies, people talk as if things just happen; "an edict comes down." During US military adventures in Vietnam, we were told — "The village was destroyed." The passive voice, deleted agent denies agency, denies responsibility.

            Milgram's experiments very much had to do with destructive obedience and with denial of responsibility. The ultimate occasion of his study was the obedience of German soldiers and others during World War II — many others — in slaughtering men, women, and children upon command.
            Milgram's experiments themselves raised ethical questions about deceiving subjects and pushing them to do, as far as they knew, awful things to a helpless man: inflict (they thought) increasingly high-voltage shocks, shocks that, if actually inflicted, could have killed the man.

            Milgram's presentation of these experiments may not be the last place in the world for the passive voice, deleted agent, but they are in that ballpark. And when I asked Milgram — in very bad taste on my part, at a party — why he'd used such locutions, the answer was that "That was how it was done."

            That was how it was done back in 1963, in a journal in psychology, whose editors, one would think, would have some command of the commonsense psychology that recognizes that human beings with human psyches do stuff. By 1974, the rules had relaxed enough that Milgram could write a book using "I" and "we" — and by the time MS-Word developed its spelling and grammar checker, the passive voice was to be eschewed.
                   (Although the Checker let me get away with "eschewed" where "avoided" would do the job — and still retain the little grammatical joke.)

            What the grammar Nazis are often complaining about is people not using the prestige form of the language and more often complaining about other people's not using the rules they worked hard to learn to obey. That's okay, so long as the grammar police aren't teaching English or copy-editing my writing or making children feel bad about their use of language. The word cops are, however, often misdirecting their efforts.

            There are still literal Nazis out there and other fanatics to be opposed, and if one's medium of opposition is language, they (sic) should be writing letters for Amnesty International and attacking instances of serious mischief in communication: the sort of significant offenses George Orwell attacked in an essay I'll recommend once again, "Politics and the English Language" (1946).

            And every now and then we language conservatives can attack a silly new expression or two and see if we can laugh it into oblivion. 

Words Mean (1 Sept. 2014)


POLONIUS
[Aside.] […] Still harping on my daughter: […] I'll speak to him again.—What do you read, my lord?
HAMLET
Words, words, words.
POLONIUS
What is the matter, my lord?
HAMLET
Between who? (Hamlet 2.2.191-94)

            Many Americans get exercised over what they see and hear as violations of Good English. Fair enough: It's a God-given and Constitutionally-protected right to complain. Indeed, I suspect that the variety of sentences in the most ancient language that followed the variety: "Cave bear behind you!" was the rest of the likely meaning, "You idiot! I told you not to go into that cave. But would you listen …? Noooo!" Much of the time, however, those of us who complain about language usage complain about the wrong things.

            For example, there are people who'll be mildly or more upset that Hamlet says "Between who" and not "Between whom," and there was at least one editor who corrected Shakespeare's English in Richard III so that the villainous Richard says in one edition "To whom" and not what Shakespeare much more likely wrote, "To who".

            I'm going to keep harping on quite different issues, harping here on the occasion of two significant mistakes appearing in significant debates.

            One is in Senate Bill 967: Student Safety: Sexual Assault, passed by the California General Assembly and on the desk of Governor Brown for action before the end of September 2014. I'm sure I'll return to this Bill in later posts, but for now I just want to note that it includes a reference and a half to investigations of sexual assault where "alcohol or drugs were involved" (§ 1.2.C.8 [I think; numbering in legislation can get arcane]).

            Now, as a practical matter, two crucial issues with campus rape are first, identifying, arresting, charging, convicting, and putting in prison for lengthy sentences serial rapists; and second, and relevantly here, changing undergraduate folkways of alcohol use and abuse: specifically the logical (after its fashion) but dangerous "Get smashed, get stupid, get laid."

            I will stress again the phrase as a practical matter, as in as a practical matter, Black parents do well to instruct their sons how to act deferentially when confronted with cops, especially White cops; as in as a practical matter, Liberal or Radical Feminist parents do well to say to their kids of any sex, gender, color, sexual preference or whatever, "Like hell you're walking through that neighborhood in that outfit at this hour of the night!"

            Yeah, we are all free in much Libertarian and Leftish theory to wear whatever we want, and walk where we want; to get drunk out of our minds and pass out in the middle of a drunken orgy; to mainline Rohypnol while waiting for a date to return from the bathroom. Free maybe: free as many Libertarian and Black and Lefty parents will insist — when not advising their kids on what is prudent.

            So as a practical matter, it is important to limit reckless drug use by women and twinks and underage folk at campus parties, and the most important drug to limit is ethyl alcohol imbibed for the purpose of getting hammered.

            Talking about "alcohol and drugs" in such contexts is a really, really bad idea since the phrase implies that alcohol is not a drug and somehow not a potentially dangerous drug. When trying to limit sexual assaults, the phrase people should use is "drugs, especially alcohol."

            The second phrase I'll continue harping on appeared yet again in my local newspaper, and is repeated much of the time Americans argue about abortion and the large, contentious set of issues around abortion: "when life begins" — as in, "The crucial question in these issues is when life begins."

            Yet again, no, that is not the question, and it cannot be the question starting from a simple point of belief and fact in the Abrahamic religions and among anyone familiar with biology after, say, 1668, or at least after, 1859. Between the time of Francesco Redi and Louis Pasteur there was firm disproof and discrediting of the ancient theory of "spontaneous generation."

            As Genesis saith mystically and Redi, Pasteur, et al. demonstrated scientifically, life doesn't begin, it began, and has been passed on, each living thing reproducing "after its kind," except when you get mutations and such — but that's another argument.

            Once life got started it got handed down that was and remains pretty much that: no significant new life would get spontaneously generated because (1) getting life started seems pretty difficult to pull off, and (2) anything new and close to alive would very quickly get eaten by an organism more sophisticated, which would likely be the closest organism around.

            Abortion and the issues related to it do not have to do with what's living or dead or non-living but what is human or close enough to human that we should see he/she/it/whatever as a "person under the law," with a right to life.

            A fertilized egg, embryo, fetus, or baby — sperm and egg as well— are all living things. That's easy. When you get a person is difficult. So we don't want the figurative waters muddied by bringing in "When does life begin?" and we don't want the damnable arrogance of seeing things as alive only if they're human.

            They knew better than that in Biblical times, which is why there are strict rules about killing and eating animals but much less fuss about killing plants, and we know, or should know, that plants are alive (it has to do with what creatures have "the life-breath"). Indeed, "we" know nowadays — i.e., anyone with the education to already know or who has the time, skill, and resources to look it up — we know or can look up that way more of life on Earth is microbial than human and that most of the cells in and on our body are microbial, not human.

            We humans can and should privilege human life — I just chopped up carrots and lettuce and feel no guilt — but we should know that we are either special only because God said and say so, or we're not particularly special at all.

            It is indeed "common usage" to say "alcohol and drugs" and ask, "When does life begin?" "Alcohol and drugs," though, implies the lie that alcohol is somehow not a drug or that the only drugs that really count as drugs are drugs the State declares illegal. Questions about when life begins are either diversions or the arrogance of assuming that only human life counts as life.

            It is such issues that the "Word Police" need to get after. If we lose the "m" on "whom," it will be no big deal.