Do you speak politics? Can you string a whole series of political buzzwords together and mean, pretty much, nothing at all?
Politics-speak is the art of saying nothing, but with fancy words that sound impressive. At least, they sound impressive to some listeners. And it’s not only politicians who use them.
Often, it’s a case of the emperor’s new clothes—often, there’s nothing there at all.
For those who aren’t politics junkies, it may be useful to know that when a newspaper runs a story criticising an organisation (or a government), the organisation is usually given a right of reply. That reply often appears in full at the end of the critical article.
Those replies are great places to find political buzzwords. Or bromides, if you prefer. Gives you a chance to count them. Or to laugh at their absurdities?
Recently, I was stopped in my tracks over female language. Specifically French female language. And then I thought about English, and how different it is. Or is it?
What do I mean by “female language”? Well… I suppose I mean the words and phrases used to signify that we are referring to someone female rather than male. It’s an issue in French, because it’s a gendered language. In English, we’re increasingly moving away from gendered language. For example, we don’t talk about actors and actresses any more, just about actors. And in cricket, we have batters, not batsmen. In the fishing industry, we have fishers, not fishermen. Back before the war, the women who painted china were called paintresses. I can’t imagine anyone using that word now, can you? Or—pace Jane Austen—authoress.
The issue arose because, in the book I’m currently working on, there is a reference to a female examining magistrate in Paris. Now, the French for judge is “le juge” and an examining magistrate (the one who oversees the pre-trial enquiry) is “le juge d’instruction”. So far, so fairly OK. One would address such a magistrate as “monsieur le juge”. But what if he is a she? Continue reading →
Did you know that INTO and IN TO are not interchangeable?
Recently, I read the paragraph below in Jonathan Bouquet’s weekly column in the Observer. Jonathan Bouquet (a subeditor on the paper) is almost always on the side of the language angels, but this time…?
Oxford University Press has announced its shortlist for word of the year. Its choices are #IStandWith, Metaverse and goblin mode. The first two I am familiar with, but the last… completely stumped. I’ve never seen it or heard it. Apparently, it is “a slang term for a way of behaving that intentionally and shamelessly gives into and indulges in base habits and activities without regard for adhering to social norms or expectations”. I think it used to be known as slobbishness. (Observer, 27 Nov 2022)
The source of the definition is not specified in the column. It appears to be dictionary.com but the Observer (or Jonathan Bouquet himself?) has misquoted it. See my added red emphasis. The dictionary.com definition is actually:
Goblin mode is a slang term for a way of behaving that intentionally and shamelessly gives in to and indulges in base habits and activities without regard for adhering to social norms or expectations. (dictionary.com entry dated 7 Jun 2022)
Subeditors hanging head in shame? Oh dear.
One would have thought that such an august organ—the Observer was first published in 1791—would know better by now. But in the same edition, I read the following in an opinion piece by no less a person than Isobel Hardman, the Assistant Editor of the Spectator:
…more planning reforms are on the brink of failing, with ministers and whips alike expecting Gove to cave into rebels led by Theresa Villiers who want to make top-down housing targets merely advisory.
This [insert rant-worthy issue of choice] is an utter disgrace. It cannot continue.
How many times have you read an opinion like that, whether on front pages or editorial columns? And what is wrong with it?
Well, the obvious answer to the second sentence—It cannot continue—is a pantomime-style one. Oh yes it can! What’s more, it usually does. Even in the worst cases, like war crimes and invasions.
The meaning of “can”
The most common meaning of the modal verb “can” is “to be able to”. Hence it is obvious that “cannot” means “be unable to”.
And saying a disgrace “cannot continue” implies that it is impossible for it to continue, that it will be somehow stopped. (Possibly by magic?) Continue reading →
The other week, when I was reading the news online — I do occasionally use the internet, in case you were wondering — I came across an advert from a major UK bank. It may be one of the largest in the world, but it certainly is not the most educated. The HSBC advert (for it was they!) said, roughly:
The criteria for our offer is X…
Not an exact quote, but the subject of the sentence was the word “criteria” and the verb was definitely “is”. And I decided, on the spot, that I could never, ever bank with HSBC.
Even the authors in the Libertà hive know better. I mentioned it to dear Sophie on the telephone and I could hear her teeth grinding. Quite right, too.
Incoherent English? Yes, another bee in the Pedantique-Ryter bonnet.
Radio 4 Today programme in the dock for incoherent speech
In a short interval between my summer educational tours, I happened to be listening to what the pundits maintain is the UK’s “must-listen” political programme — BBC Radio 4’s Today. I heard an interviewer ask a question that was incoherent.
To save that interviewer’s blushes, I shall not repeat the actual words used. The question was roughly along these lines:
“As a supporter of the Rational Incoherence Party, I’m sure our listeners will want to know whether you would support policy X.”
Question: who is the supporter of the RIP? [Note: As far as I know, no political party admits to that name. Perhaps one of them should?] Continue reading →
Almost every writing tutor — including Sophie and Joanna of this parish — will tell aspiring writers that it’s a really good idea to read aloud during the editing process, in order to judge whether the manuscript needs more work. Basically, if you fall over your prose while trying to read it aloud, you haven’t got it right. Yet.
Apparently, we and all the other tutors are guilty of logocentrism. (Is that another of those incomprehensible words that Dame Isadora was ranting about, a few weeks ago? Maybe, but I haven’t been able to ask her, because she’s off in one of the wilder parts of the world, advising some government panjandrums about communication skills. I imagine her audience is still reeling…)
Language is a writer’s basic toolkit. Writers — novelists, playwrights, poets, lyricists, and all the rest — use words to trigger emotional responses or to paint pictures in the minds of their readers and listeners.
How can we fail to see layers of meaning in creations like these?
the wine-dark sea (Homer, Ancient Greece)
sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care (Shakespeare: Macbeth, 1606)
nursing her wrath to keep it warm (Robert Burns: Tam O’Shanter, 1790)
moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black (Dylan Thomas: Under Milk Wood, 1954)
