Category: Language Matters

Let’s take a moment to celebrate a word in our language that carries impressive power. It has a specific purpose and meaning, yet is also versatile, much like a pocketknife. The word is only.

It’s a handy word, a compact four letters, and we all use it with a clear definition in mind. But what makes it noteworthy is its function in making an idea clear. When the word only is expressed, it draws a line, establishes a border, and separates those within from those without. It can be humble in its job: a sign reading “Employees Only” or “Buses and Right Turns Only” is not taken as a shout or a threat, but as a statement of fact, casting no judgment on its reader; the unspoken response is along the lines of, “Oh. Okay.” And even if rigid enforcement is implied (“Members Only,” “Only Staff With Level 3 Clearance Beyond This Point”), again there’s no intention of raising the reader’s pulse rate. That task would be ably performed by an exclamation point.

(Word fun: the next time you see a sign, any sign at all, mentally add an exclamation point to the end and see the tone suddenly turn harsh: “Yield!” “Closed Sundays!” “Caution, Children Playing!”)

Unlike many words or expressions, only easily crosses linguistic barriers in most cases, with solamente, nur, or только performing identical roles in their respective tongues. And the word does have its synonyms in English, e.g. “simply,” “just,” “solely,” and the like. Some of these even add a subtle tweak to the meaning, as synonyms often do: “merely” or “exclusively” add a slight color to the concept. What makes only stand out is that it can almost always be substituted for any of these, er, substitutes with little or no loss of meaning. 

Is this a fussy distinction? It can be, but it does illustrate how precisely the word can alter the meaning of a statement. For an elaborate example, take a look at the following sentence:

He says that he likes her.

Now, create six new sentences by placing the word only in front of each existing word in turn. Six new ideas are expressed, and clearly “He only says that he likes her” makes a different point than does “He says that he likes only her.” It’s often a subtle distinction, but isn’t the goal of language to express subtle ideas in ways not just possible, but unmistakeable?

The example I used above is contrived, I admit, but it does show that only is versatile, because it can function as several parts of speech. It can be an adjective (“It was only a dream.”), an adverb (“He only slowed down at the intersection, but didn’t stop.”), and colloquially, even a noun (“My friends all have siblings, but I’m glad to be an only.”). What’s more, it can be a conjunction, and for this explanation I turn to our old friend The Webster’s New International Dictionary of the English Language (Second Edition, Unabridged). Here we find an impressive and elegant example of the lexicographer’s art, which I reproduce in full:

But for, or with, this sole limitation, hindrance, or exception; were it not for this one condition, namely;—an adversative used elliptically with or without that; as, I would come only that I am engaged.

In a different essay, I pondered the quiet importance of infrastructure in life, the universe, and everything. The word only is a small, perhaps even humble piece of the language, but its meaning is fundamental to our thought, and expressing ourselves without it for only a day would prove difficult. I wasn’t able to do so in that last sentence. 

For those who wonder about my choice of illustration: while conceiving and composing this piece, I found that “Only the Lonely” was playing itself continuously in my head. As a little salute to the great Roy Orbison, I share his photo with you.

Recently I heard an On the Media discussion of the Statue of Liberty, and how it’s embraced as a symbol by people of widely different political ideologies. It brought to mind something I hadn’t thought about in years, which is the Mother of Exiles’ appearance at the beginning of Franz Kafka’s first novel Amerika. After an opening which challenges Dickens for cramming exposition into a tortuous first sentence, Kafka presents a startling image, one that might be easily missed. Here is the first paragraph, in translation by Willa and Edwin Muir:

As Karl Rossman, a poor boy of sixteen who had been packed off to America by his parents because a servant girl had seduced him and got herself a child by him, stood on a liner slowly entering the harbour of New York, a sudden burst of sunshine seemed to illuminate the Statue of Liberty, so that he saw it in a new light, although he had sighted it long before. The arm with the sword rose up as if newly stretched aloft, and round the figure blew the free winds of heaven.

Yes, indeed. So, was this daring symbolism of a bellicose nation, or simply the author betraying that he had never seen even a photograph of his subject? As with most things Kafka, your guess is as good as your literature professor’s.

✥✥✥

The other notable thing about this novel is it’s final chapter, entitled “The Nature Theatre of Oklahoma.” That title itself is a word combination so counterintuitive that it might well serve as a computer password.

In the first paragraph of the chapter, the main character reads a placard, one that I would love to have seen posted in the Sooner State where I grew up:

“The Oklahoma Theatre will engage members for its company today at Clayton race-course from six o’clock in the morning until midnight. The great Theatre of Oklahoma calls you! Today only and never again! If you miss your chance now you miss it for ever! If you think of your future you are one of us! Everyone is welcome! If you want to be an artist, join our company! Our Theatre can find employment for everyone, a place for everyone! If you decide on an engagement we congratulate you here and now! But hurry, so that you get in before midnight! At twelve o’clock the doors will be shut and never opened again! Down with all those who do not believe in us! Up, and to Clayton!”

The world, let alone Oklahoma, rarely sees breathless text such as this.

(This piece was originally created as a Facebook posting, but I decided it merited a space where it would visible as a whole, instead of just as opening lines with option to continue, an enabling concession to the “tl;dr” crowd.)

Not that anyone asked (which could be the opening words of almost every FB posting):

While I deliberately limit my time spent on social media, I do attempt to read a great many things while there, if only out of curiosity (an appetite I’d like to think is insatiable, or at least always a bit peckish). And I try to fight back against the algorithms which attempt to feed me only postings that are “compatible” by maintaining contact and occasional engagement with people whose views differ greatly from my own. Although this can cause temporary disturbance in my blood pressure, I do this to avoid the ideological inbreeding (a phrase I love from a history class long ago) that can arise by interacting only with people who march to the same drummer (and from an identical playlist) as I. After all, if I don’t subject my good ideas to the scrutiny of others, who will challenge my bad ones?

That said, I wish to point out some things that trigger my intellectual gag reflex, and cause me to stop reading and move on without regret:

1. Derogatory epithets. Whether applied to individuals (e.g. “Killary,” “Rump,” “Obummer”) or to groups (“sheeple,” “mouth breathers,” “libtards,” which is doubly offensive), I immediately lose interest in whatever that user has to say. Such terminology is not necessary for advancing anyone’s argument, and it’s disrespectful and unkind.

2. The phrase “you can’t fix stupid.” Firstly, I object to the use of that adjective in any context. You wouldn’t–and shouldn’t–attack a person’s physical impairment, so why would it be acceptable to attack an intellectual one? And secondly, I’ve spent over two decades professionally devoted to the notion that ignorance is 100% curable, even if some people resist or decline the effort needed to cure it. To write off anyone as being beyond help is an action I find insulting as a human being.

3. Anything that begins, “Nobody reads my posts,” or similar. I’ve sworn to eliminate passive-aggression from my emotional diet as much as possible, and while I sympathize with those who post and rarely receive responses to their shared thoughts, I won’t be shamed into taking a “li’l test” to boost someone’s ego. I’m much more amenable when someone asks for a joke, or a even an inspirational quotation, something that can benefit more than just the person fishing for it.

4. “Let’s fill the Internet with flags!” The day that my social media feeds are dominated by flags or other patriotic sentiments will be a frightening one, indeed.

5. Casual statistics. If a post tries to entice my attention with claims such as “98% will fail this quiz” or “95% won’t repost this,” then I move away with lightning speed. Either the numbers are totally fabricated, or there’s a database being compiled that I choose not to be a part of.

6. “Everyone share this, so we can make it go viral!” No. Hell, no. Even if I agree with your idea, I think that bombardment is ultimately self-defeating. What’s more, things that “go viral” tend to disappear quickly; if an idea is good, it will find a way to stick around.

7. Just about anything with “furious,” “shut down,” or “destroyed” in the title. Or, to be more specific, “[Individual or group No. 1] just did something and [individual or group No. 2] is furious about it.” No, thanks. Or just no thanks. The writer clearly wants to appeal not so much to my desire for information, but in equal or greater amount to my hope that someone I don’t agree with is hurt by that information. I’m not biting. It might have an appealing aroma, but the flavor of schadenfreude is ultimately bitter, and upsets my digestion. It has taken me a while to make that connection and learn to act accordingly, but I feel a lot healthier for it.

I come to social media looking for civil discourse, not war games. Sometimes I find it, and enjoy; otherwise, I try to supply some myself. It’s like bringing fresh fruit to a party where most of the other offerings are deep-fried. Even if you end up bringing most of it back home, you usually find that someone besides you took a serving, and was silently glad that it was there.

To conclude, I can’t guarantee that if someone took the time to examine my posting history they wouldn’t find me breaking my own rules. If that were to happen, I would not deny it; instead, I’d pledge to learn from my own mistakes, and offer others the same option in the spirit of improvement. Humanity, either individually or as a whole, is always under construction.

     When I first ventured onto the internet two decades ago, I soon learned that a jargon was evolving to describe activity in cyberspace; one term that had been repurposed was the verb to lurk. Originally having a somewhat sinister hue (“to lie in wait, as in ambush”), the word now described the act of visiting a place on the web (or Usenet sites at that time) without leaving evidence of the act, such as a response. This new definition still stands, and aptly describes what most of us do at most of the websites we visit. Indeed, the little counter on my main page is the only sign I have of visitors to my humble outpost, other than notes from a handful of you (always appreciated!) and the other counter showing that my url has been shared a few dozen times (many thanks!). “Lurking” does not apply, however, to another activity which has flourished in recent times; I refer to the act of speaking out (usually with provocative intent) while at the same time disavowing one’s own words.

A generic example of this might be a posting on social media along the lines of “Only true idiots could think that things are fine just as they are. Just saying.” That two-word tagline is the giveaway: with “just saying,” the writer is trying to unring the bell, to say, “Hey, don’t blame me for what you just read, I’m only the guy at the keyboard.” Even more absurd is the opening line sometimes used: “I’m just going to put this out here.” Really? That statement expresses as much commitment as the guy ahead of you at the stoplight who empties his ashtray out the car window.

When “just saying” was becoming more common in writing and even in speech, I brought the phrase to the attention of one of my English classes. Imagine, I said, that you’re at home one peaceful day when suddenly your living room window shatters. When you go outside to investigate, you find your next-door neighbor sitting on his porch holding a rifle. His response when you complain: “I was just shooting.” While it might be harsh to compare words to bullets, the analogy is sound; you are responsible for anything that you “just put out there.” To act otherwise is not only intellectually dishonest, it sends readers the message that you can’t be relied upon for loyalty to your own words, let alone to anything else. And that is a bell that knells loud and long.

To be sure, there are times when someone posts a seemingly innocuous comment and finds that it triggers a flame war. And sometimes an ordinary discussion can escalate into vitriol with just a few responses. But the key here is that a speaker/writer/poster should own their words. I remember once noting to a Facebook friend that a recently posted item directly contradicted one from that same person the previous day. The response was that both were posted for the purpose of sitting back and watching the arguments fly, so to speak. When I then pointed out that that was a textbook case of trolling, the reply was “LOL,” quickly followed by “I don’t know whether you’re joking or not.”

Am I making too much of this? If you’re still reading, you probably don’t think so. And in an election year that has brought discourse to new depths of immaturity and incivility, I feel bound as a functioning 21st-Century human being to strive for verbal integrity and clarity. I’m  willing to abide by the social contract of weighing the merits of ideas, rather than the merits of those who espouse them. But having said that, I also keep in mind that ideas originate and grow only through the effort of the people who champion them. Statements are never self-made, and words carry weight only if in turn someone shoulders the words themselves.

This is especially true when the intent is to attack. In the lore of Star Trek, one of the tenets of the Klingon culture is that it is dishonorable to kill without showing your face. The idea is that only a coward attacks with poison rather than, say a knife (or, better, a bat’leth). Likewise, a cloaked warship must make itself visible before firing weapons upon an enemy. Although, in the latter example, it could be simply a technological limitation that is rationalized to look like adherence to the honor code.

So, why do people engage in this stating and disowning of ideas? Aside from the few sociopaths who “want to watch the world burn,” I suspect that most people do this for the same reason as other passive-aggressive action: fear. The concept of being able to affect other people, even to inflict harm, without the risk of harm to oneself is a great temptation, especially to those who otherwise feel disempowered. Think of road rage. Or think (if you must) of the vile, hateful statements that fester in the comment sections of millions of websites. When people can protect themselves with a fake name and avatar, or a ton of glass and steel, they sometimes let their baser natures take control and try to reign supreme for a few miles or a comment thread. And anyone who challenges them risks getting flattened and abandoned for the buzzards. However, most social media (and actual live conversation) prevent the armor of anonymity, and so some people resort to throwing out their words and slamming the door, as it were. As if waiting and accepting feedback for statements takes courage.

Maybe it does. We are afraid, not without cause, that information about us will be retrieved on line somehow and used for nefarious purposes. But fear of exposure though technology didn’t start with the internet. I remember about three decades ago, when a local radio station had recently converted to a listener call-in format, that a show host had to explain patiently to a caller that she did not have a right to, as she put it, “free speech without rebuttal.” She was upset, even shocked, that other people had openly disagreed with what she had to say on some subject, and felt disrespected by those callers and by the radio station itself. It never occurred to her that free speech extends to everyone in all directions.

Living in society is basically difficult, one of many reasons being that it is harder to build bridges than it is to burn them. Literally and figuratively, a certain amount of toughness is necessary for survival. Indeed, in many professions (politics and education come to mind) a thick skin is practically a job requirement. Diplomacy has to be a conscious effort. I’m proud to say that my alma mater, the University of Arizona, is a sponsor of the National Institute for Civil Discourse. The fact that such an organization even needs to exist could be seen as a sad sign of the times. But I prefer to see it as an expression of humanity striving not to eliminate differences, but to acknowledge them while reaching out, finding common ground, and celebrating ideas and the people who express them.

And I’m not just saying that.

 

#justsaying #trolling #civildiscourse

     Warning: a lengthy and occasionally pedantic gripe about a language usage peeve follows immediately.

I’ll get right to it: I truly despise hearing the phrase “The proof is in the pudding,” especially from otherwise careful or erudite users of English. It makes no sense, people. Now, I understand that many speakers are not in the habit of listening to their own words; years of getting blank looks after asking students to clean up their language has taught me that lesson. But if you consider English to be a precision tool (as I do), then you can understand how I see the use of this phrase as tantamount to using a blender in place of a wrench. It’s almost surreal.

Does a phrase have to make sense? Could it be that this is just a relic or fossil that once had a clear meaning, but has since outlived its vernacular? There is certainly precedent for this. I doubt that one person in ten who uses the seemingly random grouping “by and large” is aware that the phrase began as a nautical term, referring to a particular way to trim sails in relation to the wind. We take a lot for granted when we employ–or deploy–our language every day.

The linguistic evolution that produced this particular specimen is not hard to trace. (Am I overthinking the issue? You bet I am, and so are you for reading this. Deal with it and continue with me.) The original phrase runs thusly: “The proof of the pudding is in the eating.” The meaning is clear if you keep in mind that “proof” here cleaves to its older sense of “test.” We still see this meaning in phrases like “proving ground” or “the exception that proves the rule.” (Does the latter now make more sense to you than it did ten seconds ago? You’re welcome.) At some time, undocumented in history, a few words were pared from the hackneyed original, leaving in its stead a truncated-but-nonetheless-hackneyed landmine for English language learners. I don’t begrudge linguistic trimming; it’s a time-honored tradition, and over the centuries the process has given us regular verb forms, implied subjects, contractions, acronyms, ellipsis… Yes, like that. As our ideas became more complex and the language expanded to accommodate them, we found that shortcuts were desirable to keep us from running out of time and breath.

But a cause is not an excuse.

It’s one thing to lose bulk through exercise; it’s yet another to waste away by atrophy. One process lends the language agility and manageability, while the other zaps its potency, drains confidence, and practically begs to get sand kicked into its face. Yes, I’m evoking Charles Atlas here, and yes, I’ll stop.

Having said all this, I hasten to add that I do not expect at all to win this battle. “The proof is in the pudding” is but one isolated phrase in what could be a trend, a movement, an evolutionary wave. Doubtless somewhere, buried deep in a defended-then-abandoned doctoral thesis, a name for this phenomenon has already been coined in sparkling Latin. I’d propose reductio ad absurdum, but the rhetoriticians have claimed that bauble. And we’ll let Mrs. Malaprop keep her vintage eponym.

In the spirit of joining “‘em” when I cannot beat “‘em,” I now suggest a challenge: let us create some other phrases for common use, derived from familiar adages, proverbs, or other old soldiers of the Language Corps. In so doing, we must extract or alter two or more words, leaving behind a phrase that retains an air of timeless wisdom, while revealing at even modest inspection to have its life drained away.

Hmm. Perhaps we could call these “embalmed expressions.” I’ll begin:
• No use spilling milk.
• A stitch saves time.
• Don’t count your hatches.
• All ends in the well.
• Faulty stars lie in ourselves. (Nay, not even Shakespeare is immune!)

Forward the devolution!