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Nation shall prescribe unto nation

11 Jul

‘I’d have gone for “visionnaire” myself. I’m glad we didn’t get “auralooker”:

Historian Nick Kapur’s fascinating Twitter thread about the BBC’s Advisory Committee On Spoken English and its influence on modern speech reveals just how close we came to referring to anticyclones as “halcyons”, but also offers an illuminating insight into what prescription in language really means.

Because of course, there is not one kind of linguistic prescriptivism: there are two. One opposes all language change and all neologism, and attempts to conserve current norms as an eternal standard. But the other seeks to deliberately modify language: not to reject new words, but to invent them, and to influence speech and writing to go in new directions – such as the campaigns to popularise Ms and Mx as neutral  honorifics. It is this second kind of prescriptivism, which one might call activist or progressive prescriptivism, that Kapur is tweeting about here.

The story begins, he relates, in 1926, when Lord Reith sets up a committee to help resolve one of the many problems a pioneer national broadcaster has to solve: how should you pronounce certain words on air? (This group, the Advisory Committee On Spoken English, still exists today, doing very similar work to help BBC broadcasters). Then in 1935, faced with the question of what to call users of the new media of the day – television –  a new sub-committee was set up, not just to advise on pronouncing words, but to invent some new ones. Led by the Anglo-American man of letters Logan Pearsall Smith – an eager language reformer – the Sub-Committee on Words generated the alternatives listed above to start the debate (although it eventually rejected all of them and recommended “televiewer”, subsequently shortened to “viewer”.)

After that, the sub-committee remained active, and widened its remit to mass-produce new words for broadcast far beyond the new industry’s immediate needs, eventually becoming so extravagant and implausible in its inventions that an exasperated chairman of governors closed it down in 1937. But by then it had created several terms – “roundabout” for the road junction, “serviceman” for members of all the armed forces, “art researcher/art historian” to replace the German word “kunstforscher” – that are now commonplace in modern English.

The impression descriptivist scholarship frequently gives is that language is an unknowable stew of errors, localisms, homophone confusions and misreadings, prone to unpredictable change. The emphasis, or the cultural preference, often seems to be bestowed on the unwilled variations to language, not the willed ones. But Kapur reminds us that English is also highly susceptible to the approaches of those who have a design on it, from Edwardian grammarians like Fowler to equalities campaigners to spelling reformers like McCormick at the Chicago Tribune. There are words and conventions in many registers of modern English that were created deliberately by people who wanted to see them catch on and took the opportunity to make it happen.

Sometimes, of course, prescriptivism is institutional, and benefits from that privilege. It might be justifiably argued that the BBC’s committee, as a quasi-official body proposing usage for the nation’s only broadcaster, was in a very strong position to succeed, particularly as it was inventing terms for then-unnamed phenomena. But the Academie Française, which is attempting to do for French today almost exactly what the BBC committee did for English in the 1930s – and from a similarly state-sanctioned position – is greeted with widespread indifference and derision for its efforts.

And in any case, innovative prescription does not need an official platform to succeed. This blog has discussed at length the extent to which Fowler’s suggestions have influenced modern formal and legal English, but Fowler himself was no state official, nor did his books bear any government imprimatur (although Churchill is said to have recommended Modern English Usage to his staff after it came out). His books were a success because, then as now, there is a sustained public appetite for advice on how to engage with formal English. (Indeed, given the existence of a generation of professional linguists who consider it their role to observe rather than advise, the field for such material is possibly clearer today than it was then.)

This is not to say the process is easy: frequently, big innovations just don’t catch on.  There is no doubt that some of the committee’s ideas, like some of Fowler’s, are much worse than others: for example, one member apparently felt it desirable to create a shorter term for “inferiority complex” (“inflex”), and another proposed “yulery” as a collective term for Christmas festivities. The point is not that Fowler or the committee were always “right” about what they proposed; the point is – at least sometimes – that they were successful.

Usage remains the timeless, and the only, judge of current English. But usage does not simply adjudicate on terms that have risen up unbidden from the demos; it also sits in judgment on peri-statal prescriptions and private linguistic entrepreneurialism. Due process is afforded to all new words, whether they are accidents or designs. Linguists say that language is a democracy, and it is: a democracy in which, among other things, anyone is free to prescribe and see what happens.

Neutral News at Ten

24 Jan

Now this – this – is a news organisation that’s committed to impartiality:

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On Fleet Street, where the culture wars rage, no one is surprised that newspapers take sides in their use of language just as they do on their leader pages. But imagine the pressure to stay out of trouble if you’re writing the BBC’s style guide – the benchmark for judicious, non-partisan, inclusive journalism, paid for by all and bound by conscience to reflect all views.

How does it do? By and large, very well. In all areas where it can stay aloof, it does. It frequently links to the painstakingly fair current affairs briefings on the BBC’s Academy website, and it demonstrates a capacity to make distinctions and see both sides that is almost jurisprudential. Whether distinguishing a population from the militants that claim to represent them, or identifying both winners and losers when interest rates rise, it’s hard not to like a style guide that reminds you “not all Tamils are Tigers”, or that “good news” is “not to be used as a blanket term”. For example:

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But the problem for all style guides is that there are areas of political language where it is impossible to stay aloof, because the only terms in common use have become polarised. The BBC guide is more silent than it should be on some of these: there is no help for its journalists on the choice between “bedroom tax” and “spare room subsidy”, for instance, or whether it is fair to call George Osborne’s higher national wage a “living wage”, as he did. But there is at least one controversial area where it does offer guidance, to say this:

Abortion

Avoid pro-abortion, and use pro-choice instead. Campaigners favour a woman’s right to choose, rather than abortion itself. And use anti-abortion rather than pro-life, except where it is part of the title of a group’s name. 

At the left-leaning Tribune, this is not a difficult conclusion to reach. We readily dismiss the term “pro-life”: as the duty editor sometimes observes, “everyone’s pro-life”. Over at Fox News and the Daily Mail, the opposite view is taken and the phrase is in widespread use. So the decision for a BBC style guide editors must have been very sensitive. Indeed, forced to make the best of the bitter rhetoric that surrounds an angry issue, they might have opened themselves to an accusation of  bias. But what would be the alternative? Only to adopt the other side’s terms and opt for framing the debate as “pro-abortion” versus “pro-life”, alienating a different group of licence-fee payers just as much.

Judicious evenhandedness is an admirable approach to journalism, but the straight and narrow way has an awkward habit of narrowing to a point in the trickiest areas. Reading the style guide, it is impossible to doubt the BBC’s essential fairness and good conscience. But when there’s no middle ground, everyone’s forced to pick a side.

Two impossible things before Christmas

23 Dec

It’s been a long year, but this, as spotted by Guy Freeman on Horny Handed Subs of Toil would seem to be a delightful mistake of the dangling modifier variety:

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However, after living through a disorientating 2016, and having watched the heptapods in Arrival bend time into a circle, who knows?

Especially when this popped up in the Tribune subs’ queue the other day:

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Wait, hang on … who founded … ? I’m not sure even the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis helps us here.

Nonetheless, if this sort of thing carries on, we may have to contemplate the alarming possibility that traditional notions of time, space and grammar are outdated, that every event in our lives happens in parallel rather than in series, and that – most disconcerting of all – we may be about to simultaneously experience every December 25 at once. In which case, it’s more important than ever to say: Happy Christmas, everyone.

Invisible mending

8 Nov

“Most writers I know have tales to tell of being mangled by editors,” writes the esteemed academic John Gross,*

“… and naturally it is the flagrant instances they choose to single out – absurdities, outright distortions of meaning, glaring errors. But most of the damage done is a good deal less spectacular. It consists of small changes (usually too boring to describe to anyone else) that flatten a writer’s style, slow down his argument, neutralise his irony; that ruin the rhythm of a sentence or the balance of paragraph; that deaden the tone that makes the music.”

Here at the Tribune, we are a “writer’s paper”: that is to say, we allow our senior writers – and especially our columnists – not just their own opinions, but their own style as well.  Of course, in theory we edit everything perfectly – we intervene whenever it is required, and keep clear whenever it is not – but to the extent there is an institutional bias, it is to be hands-off: not to flatten a style or ruin an argument for the sake of enforcing “good English”. So we are, one would hope, less likely than some of Gross’s targets to “pounce mercilessly on split infinitives … and all the other supposed offenses that are often no offense at all”.

But hands-off editing comes with its own set of hazards. Specifically, it can create a culture of under-intervention: we do basic editing, correcting spellings and checking dates, but perhaps decline to step in when a columnist has mixed a metaphor, or written a sentence so long that it provokes amusement on Twitter. In the worst cases, faced with something notably angry, funny, colloquial or emotional, we can become paralysed: confronted by a confessional tour de force or celebrity stream of consciousness, we freeze, run a spellcheck and send it through without doing the whole job.

So, bearing the countervailing risks in mind, where you would you step in, and where you would you step back, here?

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This is Laura Craik’s “Upfront” column in the Evening Standard’s ES magazine. She is a fashion and trends commentator who writes in a  chatty, informal style typical of that genre: even if you don’t know her, that much becomes immediately apparent when you read the copy. The tone and register are easy to grasp, and so are the editing parameters: you instinctively allow “mahoosive”, “yada yada”, the sentence fragments, or “Soz” in a way that you wouldn’t if they cropped up in a Telegraph editorial.

But I’m not so sure about “pontificating”. Given the context (“I say ‘rushed’, but really I’d been pontificating since May”),  I strongly suspect what’s meant is “prevaricating”. Even if the intended sense is something closer to “I’d been talking about it to everyone for months”, “pontificating” still isn’t quite right: it carries the sense of speaking (like a pontiff) from a sense of real or imagined authority, and the whole point of the piece is that the author didn’t know what to do. In a piece where nearly everything should be allowed to stand, this is something that needs to be changed: the one reason in 600 words not to step back and wave the copy through.

Intentional malapropisms are funny. Unintentional ones on the way to making a different kind of joke are just distracting. That’s where the kind of invisible mending that broadsheet subs do comes in. Tone is exclusively the province of the writer – there is a lot of truth in the columnist’s weary complaint that “it’s my column, not yours” – but sense and cogency are the business of the newspaper as a whole, and particularly the copydesk. Making a change like that doesn’t “flatten the writer’s style” but enhances it, by removing a distraction over which a literate reader might trip. Editors shouldn’t do too much, but we usually have to do something.

 

* Editing and Its Discontents“, in The State of the Language, edited by Christopher Ricks and Leonard Michaels (University of California Press, 1990)

Too chill for comfort

13 Sep

If you were looking for snark, the official Twitter feed of a major American-English dictionary might not be the first place you’d look. But, oh boy.

A few days ago, Gabriel Roth of Slate unwisely allowed his inner prescriptivist out for an airing after reading the following tweet from Merriam-Webster Dictionary:

Articulating the silent twinge that many editors and writers feel at the sight of descriptivism in action, he wrote:

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And then unexpectedly this reply, from the dictionary itself, appeared:

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Ouch. Owned. Or – to use the correct spelling of the word in this context – “pwned“. As a rueful Roth wrote later, “I find myself wistfully remembering the days when tweeting at brands was a safe, innocuous pastime”. And other responses to M-W’s intervention have been broadly favourable: the tweet was rude, yes, commenters thought, but also uncompromisingly truthful about the ineluctable nature of language change.

However, scrolling down through M-W’s Twitter feed, it emerges that this is not the only time it’s taken a bold line in such matters. Five days earlier, in similarly lively terms, it made the following observation:

Well, hang on. Yes, “enormity” can indeed mean “great size”, and has done for centuries. But, no, it’s not “fine”: currently, as a word, it’s totally skunked. As we discussed last month, “enormity” is hovering uneasily on the brink of a permanent change in meaning, but is still tending to drag its other meaning of “moral horror” into simple discussions about size. It’s a very tricky word to be employing at the moment; a while ago, for example, we saw fit to remove it from a news story about the heated subject of the Scottish referendum because of its overtone of opprobrium. It’s far from clear that, in these circumstances, a major dictionary should be recommending it quite so breezily. Authorities are looked up to; these things get taken seriously.

As this blog has had occasion to remark before, people don’t require help with informal English. They speak it well. They do not seek the assistance of their editor friends when composing a tweet or posting on Instagram; but they do, sometimes, when updating their CV or writing to a solicitor. What they want is help with formal English: a register whose social significance they grasp, but one in which they perceive themselves not to be fluent.

This is when they turn to the dictionary: to be briefed on the meaning of a legal idiom, or the appropriate use of a word in their own reply: to find out, perhaps, whether “enormity” means what they think it means. But they are doing this at a time where one of the prime objectives of linguistics is the debunking of the prescriptive maxims about language that have been taught during last two centuries. An unsatisfactory dialogue has therefore developed between linguists and the public in which queries about the niceties of formal English are met only with assurances about the validity of informal English. For the last several decades, it seems, lexicographers have been talking about what’s changed in the language while their readers have been asking about what hasn’t.

The spirit behind this objective is democratic to a fault, and the efforts to expose the frailties of formal English are intellectually impeccable. But nonetheless, they are starting to amount to the total deconstruction of a dialect that many people still have no choice but to speak.

The ghosts of Fowler, Strunk and White still haunt the sphere of formal discourse. It is highly commendable that more modern authorities like Merriam-Webster should be getting involved in the conversation about usage. But burning a grumpy prescriptivist on Twitter? Waving off debate about a word in difficult transition?  That isn’t advice; it’s advocacy. Roth is right: counsel as blasé as this is just a little too chill for comfort.

The size and the horror

2 Aug

We held out for a long time, but it looks like even our resolve is weakening. Witness this exchange on the subs’ email list last week:

From the reader’s editor:

Hi
Can someone please tweak this: [appends link to article]
Style guide:
enormity
It might sound a bit like “enormous”, but enormity refers to something monstrous or wicked, such as a massacre, and is not just another word for “big”
 From a sub-editor:
I’ll have a look at this
From another sub-editor:

this is an odd one as our default dictionary Collins actually says it can be used informally to mean “vastness of size or extent

And then, from the website production editor, this:
I think it’s one of those words whose changed meaning is now used widely enough to possibly warrant a style guide tweak.
Have copied in the house style team for their view.
Best
OK, so we haven’t changed anything yet. OK, so we’re just taking views at the moment. But still, compare this willingness to be descriptivist with what we were saying about enormity two years ago, when an article was summarily corrected to remove any suggestion of bias during the Scottish independence campaign:
A front-page analysis of the Scottish independence referendum said: “With only 10 days to go, the rest of Britain finally awoke yesterday to the enormity of what is happening in Scotland.” The style guide states that enormity “refers to something monstrous or wicked, not big”. The writer was, in fact, referring to the scale and importance of the vote (“Nothing else now matters in British politics”, 8 September, page 1).

I thought then, and I think now, that the word is currently best avoided in either sense. It can’t be relied upon to deliver its old meaning, but nor, as witnessed above, have the prejudicial implications of that meaning been completely extinguished. It is well and truly “skunked“, as Bryan Garner would say.

But nonetheless, the direction of travel is obvious: the “immensity” meaning is starting to appear in major dictionaries, and, in the case of Merriam-Webster, as a formal definition of equal status with the others. More than one senior and discriminating Tribune writer is using the word in relation to size without batting an eye, despite what the style guide may say. And although it is unwise to try to prove anything that relies on context with a Google Ngram, compare the usage graph for “enormity of the crime” (i.e. repugnance) with the one for “enormity of the task” (i.e. immensity):

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Language changes so slowly that we perceive it to be static; we discover with bemusement that “awful” once meant “awe-inspiring” or that “egregious” once meant “eminent”, but we don’t perceive the same shifts to be happening today. Yet they are, and this is a clear example of a word conclusively changing its meaning in front of our eyes. It may still be too early to safely describe a band (as we already have) as “uptempo pop rockers destined for enormity”. But the day is getting closer.

Registered™

19 Jul

My iPhone is biometrically coded, offers encryption that baffles the FBI, and can connect me to global news and networks that defy the reach of political censorship. But it does want me to capitalise ‘Polaroid’:

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Digital freedom means many things, but apparently not the right to appropriate trademarks.

The extent to which registered trademarks enter common language, or “genericisation”, is one of the hard knot of editing issues, along with libel and legal reporting, where editors can really earn their money – high-stakes prescriptivism, so to speak. Lawyers representing dominant companies live in fear of their trademarks becoming nouns or verbs that define an entire market, not just  their clients’ products (see, for example, “googling”, “photoshopping”, “thermos”, “sellotape”, and once, long ago, “aspirin”). Once a word has “entered the language”, the courts are inclined to take that as a fait accompli and deny any further copyright infringement cases; so the lawyers have to act fast and early to prevent genericisation ever happening. They email, write, phone, demand corrections, suggest alternatives (Velcro likes you to say “hook and loop fasteners”). They are language change’s sharpest and best-resourced opponents.

And that’s why the Tribune’s style guide on the issue says the following:

trademarks (TM)
Take care: use a generic alternative unless there is a very good reason not to, eg ballpoint pen, not biro (unless it really is a Biro, in which case it takes a cap B); say photocopy rather than Xerox, etc; you will save our lawyers, and those of Portakabin and various other companies, a lot of time and trouble

The editor’s natural interest in enforcing distinctions chimes well with the lawyers’ determination to have them enforced, even if the legal vigilance gets a little grating at times. Portakabin, notably, used to send round a letter a week before the summer music festival season – long before any transgression had actually taken place – to “remind” editors that their clients did not provide the toilet facilities for Glastonbury, so on no account were festivalgoers to be described as using “Portaloos”. This would reliably cause the kind of grumbling, even among hard-nosed copydesk veterans, that one might almost have described as descriptivist. However, one can see the point: in court cases, one of the determining factors of a word being deemed to have entered the public domain is to what extent it appears in a general sense in media reports.

That said, it’s still not entirely clear what Apple is hoping to achieve with its suggestions on QuickType (as the predictive typing aid in iOS9 is called). As an experiment, I tried out Facebook Messenger with single-word nouns given as trademarks in the Tribune’s style guide.

Whenever it recognised the word (it didn’t in all cases), QuickType invariably suggested an initial cap, with the sole (and slightly baffling) exception of Jacuzzi (trademark of the company founded in 1915 by Giocondo Jacuzzi in Berkeley, California.)

But is that enough? As the style guide suggests, the best practice when trademarked words come up is to change them to a generic alternative – at least, better practice than scattering the copy with ™s and ®s. Is a capital letter, without more, enough to escape accusations of aiding genericisation? Is the fact that your operating system is suggesting a semi-proper noun less likely to annoy the lawyers, or more?

It might be argued that proposing some acknowledgment of copyright is enough to absolve you of blame; certainly better than offering a lowercased suggestion. But the best practice recommended to lawyers is to use the trademark as an adjective not a noun (“Xerox brand copiers”), and QuickType seems happy to suggest nouns. It may be that QuickType is following the dictionary practice of capitalising trademarked nouns when defining them; but dictionaries always quickly make clear that such words are trademarks, and QuickType does not.

In the end, the genericised fate of escalator, kerosene, laundromat and trampoline suggests that the battle – like nearly all battles against language change – may be futile. Certainly, Xerox have fought doughtily against “xeroxing” as a verb and kept their trademark protected: but there are many fewer photocopiers in today’s broadband-connected offices than there used to be, and it may be that the word will die out with the practice. But in the meantime, the letters will keep on arriving. And the lawyers aren’t the amateur grammar grumblers of the letters page: these people peeve for a living.