First of all, I need to admit to an inside joke. I think it immensely funny that I have chosen to review a book that is a collection of essays by a guy who originally aired said essays on a network famous for its book reviews. So in a way, I am now reviewing NPR, or at least a small slice of it. Were I more technically adept, I would do something truly nerdly and post these as podcasts each week.
Now then: the book I have chosen is the Way We Talk Now, Commentaries on Language and Culture, by Geoffrey Nunberg.(2001, Houghton-Mifflin, New York NY) They were originally featured on National Public Radio's "Fresh Air." I chose it for two reasons: one, I wanted a novel approach to the subject, one which was divided into easily reviewable chapters which would last me the remaining weeks of the semester and provide me with enough variety as to not bore myself or my two (or is it three now?) loyal readers; two, of the selections available at Barnes and Nobles, it was the one which both met my criteria and was the cheapest. [Remember that value is not measured in price -- Dickens was paid by the word, but should he have been? Tale of Two Cities is a much better read on the third or fourth go-round when you know what to skip.]
This week, I am just going to touch on the preface. (You should always, by the way, read the preface of any book. Most papers I wrote about books were better for my taking the time to read the preface. ) In his preface, Nunberg sets the tone for how you should read and think about his essays. He says:
"...it is sometimes more interesting to sneak up on words rather than tackle them head-on. That's the way liguists like to work: we fasten on some inconspicuous detail of usage and worry it until a crack opens and we can glimpse the hurly-burly going on outside."
He goes on to explain his joy in the work:
"[finding the] compelling minutiae [is like] happening on a Goya at a garage sale."
It is with this spirit that I will continue my reviewing next week with "A Few of My Favorite Words."
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Monday, October 10, 2005
tha ting 'bout spelin is, well, aks Bill bout is
Spelling. I used to do it. I used to be good at it. I am still enough of a perfectionist that I consider written material to be finished only when things are spelled according to the laws of current English (the exception being when things are misspelled for effect, such as my sophomoric jab at the lecherous boob that once dared to sit in my friend Tom Jefferson's chair.)
My ability to spell went downhill when I began to study French. To this day, I have to concentrate really hard to remember if words like "dance" are spelled with an "s" or a "c." So I use the spell checker. But I do not rely on it. Spell-check is a tool, not a miracle. I have always had a hard time getting this across to my students. I always prayed that someday they would get their/they're/there acts together. My biggest problem these days is that I am usually anxious to get something written, as I have precious few hours to write. So, my choices are either to get hung up on spelling and risk wearing out the backspace and delete buttons on the computer keyboard, or I can just plough on and edit later.
Do I think spelling is that important? It depends. On a sociological level, spelling seems to separate the educated from the masses, that is, you can sometimes determine someone's intelligence by their ability to spell properly. But there is a huge difference between those who cannot spell and those who choose not to learn. Case in point: I have a friend who is among the most intelligent, insightful and witty writers I have ever met. He is a librarian, and all libraries should be jealous of the one that got him. But for as long as I have known him, he has had issues with spelling. It is just part of him, and he has to work a bit harder at corrections in the editing phase.
Now, where spelling can make a obelisk out of a vertical pebble is in this next situation. This same friend wrote to a friend who was away at college. Now, admittedly, this UW guy was always told he was exceptionally smart (which he was) and sometimes could be a didactic pain in the neck. He decided to return this future librarian's letter to him covered in red circles indicating spelling errors. Granted, he was spot on as far as there being errors, but come on! This is a case of a spelling zealot going too far. Lucky for him, the librarian is the forgiving sort. But to my knowledge, it was years before he received another letter.
It is because of this orthographic tragedy that I am careful to distinguish among my students those who have spelling difficulties, and those who choose not to learn.
As for emoticons used in lieu of spelling, they are cute, I guess. I don't really use them except when I am conversing with someone who IS using them in an instant message situation. Diplomacy is a lost art -- people sometimes think they can say the most awful (but often truthful) things online as long as they follow it with an emoticon smiley face. I hereby challenge all who would stoop to such diversionary tactics to bring the berserker to the Allthing properly and in a manner that will get you elected chieftain of the village with mere words.
Unless of course you are meaning to be cute. Then by all means, don't be the blushing yellow head, lead with your grinning teeth! (those two smileys are my favorites, by the way -- that and the sheep!)
advertising is a field where, like the pirate's code, spelling is more of a guideline than a rule. You have your basics: Nite for night, rite for right (when not referring to a religious ceremony, that is), Dayz for days, etc. I once saw a billboard with the slogan R U Pregnant? I was struck by the fact that this only makes sense in English -- you cannot do this kind of substitution in other languages. Then of course you have your anachronistic spellings for effect: anything Ye Olde or Shoppe, etc. Some of my favorite typos or mistakes include the menu for the Peking House Chinese restaurant which used to read "Reking House" and the sign for the ferry to Washington Island that briefly, allegedly due to local urchin's tomfoolery, read "prices include sex."
(There is a great essay in the book I am reading, The Way We Talk Now, by Geoffrey Nunberg, which talks about advertising. I will save discussion of it until we get to the grammar-y bits later in this course. )
My favorite sign, however, is correctly spelled, but still one of those things that causes much rubbernecking and amazement for all who are new to Southern Wisconsin:
The Bong Recreation Area
(actually named for Richard I. Bong, a WWI pilot hero)
My ability to spell went downhill when I began to study French. To this day, I have to concentrate really hard to remember if words like "dance" are spelled with an "s" or a "c." So I use the spell checker. But I do not rely on it. Spell-check is a tool, not a miracle. I have always had a hard time getting this across to my students. I always prayed that someday they would get their/they're/there acts together. My biggest problem these days is that I am usually anxious to get something written, as I have precious few hours to write. So, my choices are either to get hung up on spelling and risk wearing out the backspace and delete buttons on the computer keyboard, or I can just plough on and edit later.
Do I think spelling is that important? It depends. On a sociological level, spelling seems to separate the educated from the masses, that is, you can sometimes determine someone's intelligence by their ability to spell properly. But there is a huge difference between those who cannot spell and those who choose not to learn. Case in point: I have a friend who is among the most intelligent, insightful and witty writers I have ever met. He is a librarian, and all libraries should be jealous of the one that got him. But for as long as I have known him, he has had issues with spelling. It is just part of him, and he has to work a bit harder at corrections in the editing phase.
Now, where spelling can make a obelisk out of a vertical pebble is in this next situation. This same friend wrote to a friend who was away at college. Now, admittedly, this UW guy was always told he was exceptionally smart (which he was) and sometimes could be a didactic pain in the neck. He decided to return this future librarian's letter to him covered in red circles indicating spelling errors. Granted, he was spot on as far as there being errors, but come on! This is a case of a spelling zealot going too far. Lucky for him, the librarian is the forgiving sort. But to my knowledge, it was years before he received another letter.
It is because of this orthographic tragedy that I am careful to distinguish among my students those who have spelling difficulties, and those who choose not to learn.
As for emoticons used in lieu of spelling, they are cute, I guess. I don't really use them except when I am conversing with someone who IS using them in an instant message situation. Diplomacy is a lost art -- people sometimes think they can say the most awful (but often truthful) things online as long as they follow it with an emoticon smiley face. I hereby challenge all who would stoop to such diversionary tactics to bring the berserker to the Allthing properly and in a manner that will get you elected chieftain of the village with mere words.
Unless of course you are meaning to be cute. Then by all means, don't be the blushing yellow head, lead with your grinning teeth! (those two smileys are my favorites, by the way -- that and the sheep!)
advertising is a field where, like the pirate's code, spelling is more of a guideline than a rule. You have your basics: Nite for night, rite for right (when not referring to a religious ceremony, that is), Dayz for days, etc. I once saw a billboard with the slogan R U Pregnant? I was struck by the fact that this only makes sense in English -- you cannot do this kind of substitution in other languages. Then of course you have your anachronistic spellings for effect: anything Ye Olde or Shoppe, etc. Some of my favorite typos or mistakes include the menu for the Peking House Chinese restaurant which used to read "Reking House" and the sign for the ferry to Washington Island that briefly, allegedly due to local urchin's tomfoolery, read "prices include sex."
(There is a great essay in the book I am reading, The Way We Talk Now, by Geoffrey Nunberg, which talks about advertising. I will save discussion of it until we get to the grammar-y bits later in this course. )
My favorite sign, however, is correctly spelled, but still one of those things that causes much rubbernecking and amazement for all who are new to Southern Wisconsin:
The Bong Recreation Area
(actually named for Richard I. Bong, a WWI pilot hero)
Amanuensis: I was one, thank goodness I didn't have to spell it
[L. (in Suetonius) adj. used subst., f. denominative phrase a manu a secretary, short for servus a manu + -ensis belonging to.]
One who copies or writes from the dictation of another.
This word also comes from Wicked, a book full of great words I have never seen before. This one was curious to me as, given its definition, I WAS one at one time in my life without ever knowing it! And I have to admit, I find this highly disturbing. I recently had a conversation with two police officers, and during same used the previously featured CRS vocab word sycophant. They were so delighted to learn this word, which they were certain naught but a few on the force would understand; they devised great plans to use it, and use it often. Now, as a self admitted word geek, I would find it highly disconcerting to both be arrested AND to be deemed something by a term I did not understand. Perhaps your average member of the law-breaking proletariat would think nothing of it -- I know the drunk ones would care less.
I digress. As I was saying, I was, during that searching time post Bachelor's Degree when looming student loans haunt you, an amanuensis, or a secretary at a local law firm. I took dictation each and every day. Had the attorneys I worked for introduced me to clients as an amanuensis, I cannot imagine how different my days might have been. I furthermore cannot imagine a few of their partners being able to pronounce such a word, let alone knowing what it meant. I have to admit, however, that the last part of the etymology has a connotation that was part of my experience but that I did not appreciate all the time -- the idea of belonging to, like a slave. More than once I was made to feel like a second-class citizen by the other partners in the firm, a powerless entity behind a computer and a pile of files. During that time, I was also writing a collection of short stories about the experience. I have hesitated pursuing publishing because even though these do-hocks don't actually read, I would not want to get the ones I do like in trouble (or get sued -- let's face it: when has a lawyer been able to take the ugly truth and leave it the truth?) I always meant to do something productive with them before one of them that I actually liked died of the cancer that was eating away at him even then. He who hesitates is lost, alas, so I will add to this entry a little bit of that collection in his memory.
Here's to you, Tuna, from your old erstwhile amanuensis.
From So Bite Me, John Grisham, and Other Law Briefs
Chapter Five: Ambassador Flashy and the Guys I work for
(in this chapter I describe each of the partners. Here is a look at two of them.)
Victor almost ended up in the a*hole pile. He is an a*hole, but he’s one of those rare kinds that can be actually quite charming in a geeky sort of way. He once paid me the ultimate compliment. He said, “she knows things.” Coming from a man who professes to know everything, this was not to be taken lightly. He also introduced me to the Flashman novels. I would never have known about the details of the Boxer Rebellion, or smirked each time I saw the huge diamond on the British Crown Jewels Special on PBS if it hadn’t been for Harry Flashman. Had I met Victor when he was in his twenties, and I had begun working for him at that time, things would have worked out much better for us. As it is, he had little patience for an English major who masqueraded as a legal secretary, even if she was well-read. And I cannot say I blame him. He needed a secretary who didn’t need direction. You see, he was also getting, as he put it, cobra venom once a month for a week, then spending three or four days in bed recuperating. I know chemotherapy is supposed to lengthen the lives of cancer patients, but I am not sure it would be worth it. He had a way of announcing it when he went into the doctors office, telling the nurses to start milking the snakes, that made everyone else in the lobby nervous. They put a shunt into his vein right in the place where he used to shoulder his rifle, too. He scared Katie the receptionist half to death by showing her the blood stains on his shirt when he’d get back to the office.
Schmeeder was a class-A a*hole. He earned this ranking because he pretended to be a nice guy. He was a divorce lawyer. He had to smell people’s money before he took their case. It’s okay, really, because you have to be a class-A a*hole in order to feel nothing about dividing families for a living. As long as you pretended that there was no god but Schmeeder and he was his own damn prophet, things were swell. He didn’t know things. He knew about being an a*hole, and being a lawyer (or are those synonymous? Not sure yet) and a bit about division and multiplication (divide belongings, multiply hours times money). But he didn’t know jack about Flashy, or anything historical, or books, or popular culture.
It was this last point that allowed me to have so much evil fun with Schmeeder and his feeble little mind. (I would have left him alone, but he treated every secretary there like dirt, so a stand needed to be taken.) Victor and I would debate the treatment of history in some movie or book, and Schmeeder would walk by and ask what we were talking about. “You wouldn’t understand,” I would think, but Victor would offer the topic anyway.
“The latest book on Lewis and Clark.”
“Oh,” Schmeeder would say, “the Civil War guys? I read about them once.”
Victor winked at me.
“Yeah, they stood astride the source of the Missouri and took a leak right after the battle of Bunker Hill,” Victor would add, and walk back into his office.
"I remember that part," Schmeeder said. “So you’re really into this history stuff,” he would then say to me, trying to seem cool.
“Yeah, when I am not busy with my squirrel taxidermy.”
“You majored in history, right?” This was time number four asking that.
“Yes, among other things.”
“So what should I look for when I take my wife to Europe next month, historically speaking?”
“Terrorists.”
Schmeeder looked at me, faked a chuckle, and walked away.
The above is fiction, but it is sitting almost on the lap of the truth. See now why I have to wait until they ALL die?
One who copies or writes from the dictation of another.
This word also comes from Wicked, a book full of great words I have never seen before. This one was curious to me as, given its definition, I WAS one at one time in my life without ever knowing it! And I have to admit, I find this highly disturbing. I recently had a conversation with two police officers, and during same used the previously featured CRS vocab word sycophant. They were so delighted to learn this word, which they were certain naught but a few on the force would understand; they devised great plans to use it, and use it often. Now, as a self admitted word geek, I would find it highly disconcerting to both be arrested AND to be deemed something by a term I did not understand. Perhaps your average member of the law-breaking proletariat would think nothing of it -- I know the drunk ones would care less.
I digress. As I was saying, I was, during that searching time post Bachelor's Degree when looming student loans haunt you, an amanuensis, or a secretary at a local law firm. I took dictation each and every day. Had the attorneys I worked for introduced me to clients as an amanuensis, I cannot imagine how different my days might have been. I furthermore cannot imagine a few of their partners being able to pronounce such a word, let alone knowing what it meant. I have to admit, however, that the last part of the etymology has a connotation that was part of my experience but that I did not appreciate all the time -- the idea of belonging to, like a slave. More than once I was made to feel like a second-class citizen by the other partners in the firm, a powerless entity behind a computer and a pile of files. During that time, I was also writing a collection of short stories about the experience. I have hesitated pursuing publishing because even though these do-hocks don't actually read, I would not want to get the ones I do like in trouble (or get sued -- let's face it: when has a lawyer been able to take the ugly truth and leave it the truth?) I always meant to do something productive with them before one of them that I actually liked died of the cancer that was eating away at him even then. He who hesitates is lost, alas, so I will add to this entry a little bit of that collection in his memory.
Here's to you, Tuna, from your old erstwhile amanuensis.
From So Bite Me, John Grisham, and Other Law Briefs
Chapter Five: Ambassador Flashy and the Guys I work for
(in this chapter I describe each of the partners. Here is a look at two of them.)
Victor almost ended up in the a*hole pile. He is an a*hole, but he’s one of those rare kinds that can be actually quite charming in a geeky sort of way. He once paid me the ultimate compliment. He said, “she knows things.” Coming from a man who professes to know everything, this was not to be taken lightly. He also introduced me to the Flashman novels. I would never have known about the details of the Boxer Rebellion, or smirked each time I saw the huge diamond on the British Crown Jewels Special on PBS if it hadn’t been for Harry Flashman. Had I met Victor when he was in his twenties, and I had begun working for him at that time, things would have worked out much better for us. As it is, he had little patience for an English major who masqueraded as a legal secretary, even if she was well-read. And I cannot say I blame him. He needed a secretary who didn’t need direction. You see, he was also getting, as he put it, cobra venom once a month for a week, then spending three or four days in bed recuperating. I know chemotherapy is supposed to lengthen the lives of cancer patients, but I am not sure it would be worth it. He had a way of announcing it when he went into the doctors office, telling the nurses to start milking the snakes, that made everyone else in the lobby nervous. They put a shunt into his vein right in the place where he used to shoulder his rifle, too. He scared Katie the receptionist half to death by showing her the blood stains on his shirt when he’d get back to the office.
Schmeeder was a class-A a*hole. He earned this ranking because he pretended to be a nice guy. He was a divorce lawyer. He had to smell people’s money before he took their case. It’s okay, really, because you have to be a class-A a*hole in order to feel nothing about dividing families for a living. As long as you pretended that there was no god but Schmeeder and he was his own damn prophet, things were swell. He didn’t know things. He knew about being an a*hole, and being a lawyer (or are those synonymous? Not sure yet) and a bit about division and multiplication (divide belongings, multiply hours times money). But he didn’t know jack about Flashy, or anything historical, or books, or popular culture.
It was this last point that allowed me to have so much evil fun with Schmeeder and his feeble little mind. (I would have left him alone, but he treated every secretary there like dirt, so a stand needed to be taken.) Victor and I would debate the treatment of history in some movie or book, and Schmeeder would walk by and ask what we were talking about. “You wouldn’t understand,” I would think, but Victor would offer the topic anyway.
“The latest book on Lewis and Clark.”
“Oh,” Schmeeder would say, “the Civil War guys? I read about them once.”
Victor winked at me.
“Yeah, they stood astride the source of the Missouri and took a leak right after the battle of Bunker Hill,” Victor would add, and walk back into his office.
"I remember that part," Schmeeder said. “So you’re really into this history stuff,” he would then say to me, trying to seem cool.
“Yeah, when I am not busy with my squirrel taxidermy.”
“You majored in history, right?” This was time number four asking that.
“Yes, among other things.”
“So what should I look for when I take my wife to Europe next month, historically speaking?”
“Terrorists.”
Schmeeder looked at me, faked a chuckle, and walked away.
The above is fiction, but it is sitting almost on the lap of the truth. See now why I have to wait until they ALL die?
Animals vs. animals in the Abattoir
This word, abattoir, I found while reading Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West by Gregory Maguire. I highly recommend the book to Oz fans who are not so young or faint of heart -- it is an entertaining but heavy thinking read.
The definition, according to the OED:
[mod.Fr. f. abattre to strike down. See abate.] A slaughter house for cattle.
There was never a more appropriate definition -- in this book, there is a distinction made between animals and Animals, the latter being sentient, thoughtful, speaking and soulful beings who have a place alongside humans in society -- a position that is threatened by the usurping tyrant known as the Wizard of Oz. One of the main animal characters in this story is slaughtered in a fashion that is indeed a "striking down" -- he was on the verge of a major scientific discovery on the origins of how animals become Animals. This act is a major turning point for Elphaba, the green-skinned Munchkinlander who will become the Wicked Witch of the West, and also for Galinda, who changes her name (an elision of the vowel "a" after a syntagmatic/social change, i.e. everyone is mispronouncing it anyway) and becomes a witch herself years later.
Add to this the whole backstory of the REAL wicked witch, i.e. Judy Garland's mother, and the Wizard of Oz becomes more appropriate for A&E's Cold Case Files or a Lifetime movie than a family flick at Easter!
See what a little wordsmithing will do? The pen is mightier than the sword, but words are positively atomic!
The definition, according to the OED:
[mod.Fr. f. abattre to strike down. See abate.] A slaughter house for cattle.
There was never a more appropriate definition -- in this book, there is a distinction made between animals and Animals, the latter being sentient, thoughtful, speaking and soulful beings who have a place alongside humans in society -- a position that is threatened by the usurping tyrant known as the Wizard of Oz. One of the main animal characters in this story is slaughtered in a fashion that is indeed a "striking down" -- he was on the verge of a major scientific discovery on the origins of how animals become Animals. This act is a major turning point for Elphaba, the green-skinned Munchkinlander who will become the Wicked Witch of the West, and also for Galinda, who changes her name (an elision of the vowel "a" after a syntagmatic/social change, i.e. everyone is mispronouncing it anyway) and becomes a witch herself years later.
Add to this the whole backstory of the REAL wicked witch, i.e. Judy Garland's mother, and the Wizard of Oz becomes more appropriate for A&E's Cold Case Files or a Lifetime movie than a family flick at Easter!
See what a little wordsmithing will do? The pen is mightier than the sword, but words are positively atomic!
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