For many years there was a difference between being bored, tired and fed up. You would be bored and fed up with things, but you would be sick and /or tired of them. But a recent item in The Week told us of a centenarian who had taken up a temporary office role because he was "bored of retirement".
'Sick of' sounds all right (what about 'sick of the palsy' ?), though perhaps sick with the palsy might be OK. I have a feeling that I have also somewhere spotted a "fed up of", but I can't prove it just now. That, of course, would be barmy. If the idiom is to retain any sense of metaphor, remember that you can be fed (whether up or not) with food, but certainly not of it. The verbs 'bored' or 'boring' should probably be used with the preposition by. It bores you, so you are bored by it.
The same argument would suggest that you should be tired by things, not of them. But it's too late to hope for that, I am afraid. Anyway, aren't we all tired of pedantry ?
Sick and Tired of Pedantry ?
Wednesday, 6 February 2013
Thursday, 24 January 2013
The He/She/They Problem
We all feel we must be gender-sensitive these days. No longer can we use the male singular 'he' to represent any hypothetical person. We must'n't write "if one wants to travel to London, he will find it cheaper to go by coach"; or "when a person parks his car in the wrong place he may expect to pay a fine".
So we find, in a reputable British weekly magazine analysing tax contributions (as paid in the USA), the sentence "In reality, the average person receives far more than they paid in".
The average person isn't 'they' any more than 'he' or 'she'. Those who write a lot often have to get round this problem. Constant "he or she" or, for that matter, "she or he" is uncomfortable. One sound solution is to pluralise the subject: and write "Drivers who park their cars in wrong places may expect to be fined"; and "Those who want to travel to London will find it cheaper to go by coach"; or "On average, people receive far more than they pay in". Mind you, this requires fractionally more thought. But such sentences aren't harder to understand, and don't sound too long-winded. Or are they or do they ?
The He/She/They Problem
So we find, in a reputable British weekly magazine analysing tax contributions (as paid in the USA), the sentence "In reality, the average person receives far more than they paid in".
The average person isn't 'they' any more than 'he' or 'she'. Those who write a lot often have to get round this problem. Constant "he or she" or, for that matter, "she or he" is uncomfortable. One sound solution is to pluralise the subject: and write "Drivers who park their cars in wrong places may expect to be fined"; and "Those who want to travel to London will find it cheaper to go by coach"; or "On average, people receive far more than they pay in". Mind you, this requires fractionally more thought. But such sentences aren't harder to understand, and don't sound too long-winded. Or are they or do they ?
The He/She/They Problem
Some Cross Words about a Setter
You would think that folk who compose crossword puzzles professionally would have a pretty good grasp of their language. But sloppy clue-ing is very common in this field. "Well, as long as the setter supplies us with one a week", thinks the Editor, "we can't go far wrong. After all, it's not as though he's writing an article". Whether or not all editors themselves have a good grasp of language is itself a moot point: once upon a time an editor was one who read and checked all the text that was submitted to him/her; today a lot of solecismic* writing gets into print, as this blog is constantly bewailing**
However, when a reasonably well-educated reader of the Radio Times comes across the clue 'Verbal fury of American writer' (four letters), he/she (or let us write she/he this time) will think of terms like 'rage' or 'rant' ('curse' would have expressed 'verbal fury' well, but it's five letters . . .) It turns out that the solution has R for the first letter and T for the third, so the American writer being clued is clearly 'Roth' - and the term 'verbal' is (wrongly) intended by the setter to signify 'as we hear it' (ie Roth sounds like wrath).
But 'verbal' does not mean 'spoken' or 'heard'; it means 'in words'. The Latin verbum means a word, whether spoken or written. What the ignorant compiler intended was 'oral' or 'aural', respectively meaning spoken, from the Latin oro meaning 'I speak' (an 'oration' is delivered by mouth); and L auris meaning an 'ear'.
A letter or postcard (a bit old-fashioned now) or a telegram (who remembers them ?) has verbal content, and so have books, nameplates and emails. Messages transmitted by morse code or semaphore (I remember doing this in the Boy Scouts) are both 'verbal', because they spell out words. Telephone messages and public speeches are both verbal and oral: most advertisements and street names and inscriptions on tombs are 'verbal' but not (except telly or radio ads) oral. Sign language for the deaf is largely gesture, which, though non-verbal, non-oral and non-aural, can still convey a great deal.
The term 'oral' is much more specific. There are a few sounds from the mouth that are non-verbal, such as groans and whistles and tut-tuts and oohs - but most oral communication (apart, I suppose, from kissing) is a matter of the spoken word. It is heard 'aurally' (Latin auris = an ear). Spoken orally and heard aurally: it's a pity that the two terms sound the same.
Which brings us back to the American author (Roth) and the spoken word for fury (wrath). They may sound the same when spoken orally and heard aurally, but verbally they are quite, quite different.
* Not in the dictionary yet, but perhaps it should be.
** The author of this blog knows very well that he can make mistakes, and often does. No need to remind him !
Some Cross Words about a Setter
However, when a reasonably well-educated reader of the Radio Times comes across the clue 'Verbal fury of American writer' (four letters), he/she (or let us write she/he this time) will think of terms like 'rage' or 'rant' ('curse' would have expressed 'verbal fury' well, but it's five letters . . .) It turns out that the solution has R for the first letter and T for the third, so the American writer being clued is clearly 'Roth' - and the term 'verbal' is (wrongly) intended by the setter to signify 'as we hear it' (ie Roth sounds like wrath).
But 'verbal' does not mean 'spoken' or 'heard'; it means 'in words'. The Latin verbum means a word, whether spoken or written. What the ignorant compiler intended was 'oral' or 'aural', respectively meaning spoken, from the Latin oro meaning 'I speak' (an 'oration' is delivered by mouth); and L auris meaning an 'ear'.
A letter or postcard (a bit old-fashioned now) or a telegram (who remembers them ?) has verbal content, and so have books, nameplates and emails. Messages transmitted by morse code or semaphore (I remember doing this in the Boy Scouts) are both 'verbal', because they spell out words. Telephone messages and public speeches are both verbal and oral: most advertisements and street names and inscriptions on tombs are 'verbal' but not (except telly or radio ads) oral. Sign language for the deaf is largely gesture, which, though non-verbal, non-oral and non-aural, can still convey a great deal.
The term 'oral' is much more specific. There are a few sounds from the mouth that are non-verbal, such as groans and whistles and tut-tuts and oohs - but most oral communication (apart, I suppose, from kissing) is a matter of the spoken word. It is heard 'aurally' (Latin auris = an ear). Spoken orally and heard aurally: it's a pity that the two terms sound the same.
Which brings us back to the American author (Roth) and the spoken word for fury (wrath). They may sound the same when spoken orally and heard aurally, but verbally they are quite, quite different.
* Not in the dictionary yet, but perhaps it should be.
** The author of this blog knows very well that he can make mistakes, and often does. No need to remind him !
Some Cross Words about a Setter
Wednesday, 2 January 2013
Rough Archaeology
"We can't find out how Rome ruled without resorting to violence" said a presenter on a BBC archaeological programme. It seems as if BBC researchers may be getting desperate.
The statement presents us with a nice little example of ambiguity: some other language enthusiast may already have coined the term 'structural ambiguity', but I offer it here, because this remark about historical research does not contain within itself any clue as to its own structure. It might be the BBC's 'we' who need to resort to violence in order to learn a little more about the empire of Rome; or it might refer to Rome's own problem of how to rule peacefully.
But we are not stupid, are we ? So we look to our own common sense for the answer that the statement itself fails to provide. A pity, though, that we probably have to discard the fascinating alternative: a trilby-hatted, gum-chewing researcher poking his gat into the ribs of an Italian professor, demanding a quick answer - and no messing.
Rough Archaeology
The statement presents us with a nice little example of ambiguity: some other language enthusiast may already have coined the term 'structural ambiguity', but I offer it here, because this remark about historical research does not contain within itself any clue as to its own structure. It might be the BBC's 'we' who need to resort to violence in order to learn a little more about the empire of Rome; or it might refer to Rome's own problem of how to rule peacefully.
But we are not stupid, are we ? So we look to our own common sense for the answer that the statement itself fails to provide. A pity, though, that we probably have to discard the fascinating alternative: a trilby-hatted, gum-chewing researcher poking his gat into the ribs of an Italian professor, demanding a quick answer - and no messing.
Rough Archaeology
Sunday, 23 December 2012
Agony Aren't
How many sides has a paragon ?
Let’s start with the Pentagon, USA’s centre for national defence. Aerial views confirm that its plan is five-sided. Pente being Greek for 5. Hex is Greek for six - and so on, up to dodecagon (Greek dodeka = twelve) - and no doubt on and further upwards virtually for ever, though by the ancient Greek method of reckoning the term for a figure with (say) 125 sides would appear to have almost that many letters in it..
The paragon sounds as if it ought to be related, but no. The term paragone is Italian, but thought to be derived from another Greek term par-akone, literally ‘along-polish’, referring to polishing or sharpening with a whetstone, or testing with a touchstone (Gr akone); thus implying something polished, or a perfect example.
As for agony, it is derived from the ancient Greek agon, meaning an assembly - especially one gathered to watch sporting contests.. Thus it could also mean the contest itself, whether in sport or in battle. Striving, in fact. And strife came to imply painful effort. Ask competitors in the Olympic Games whether or not their efforts involved any agony.
Agony, agony aunts aren’t: indeed, their aim is to relieve it.
Agony Aren't
Let’s start with the Pentagon, USA’s centre for national defence. Aerial views confirm that its plan is five-sided. Pente being Greek for 5. Hex is Greek for six - and so on, up to dodecagon (Greek dodeka = twelve) - and no doubt on and further upwards virtually for ever, though by the ancient Greek method of reckoning the term for a figure with (say) 125 sides would appear to have almost that many letters in it..
The paragon sounds as if it ought to be related, but no. The term paragone is Italian, but thought to be derived from another Greek term par-akone, literally ‘along-polish’, referring to polishing or sharpening with a whetstone, or testing with a touchstone (Gr akone); thus implying something polished, or a perfect example.
As for agony, it is derived from the ancient Greek agon, meaning an assembly - especially one gathered to watch sporting contests.. Thus it could also mean the contest itself, whether in sport or in battle. Striving, in fact. And strife came to imply painful effort. Ask competitors in the Olympic Games whether or not their efforts involved any agony.
Agony, agony aunts aren’t: indeed, their aim is to relieve it.
Agony Aren't
Monday, 17 December 2012
These rule is made to be broken, aren't it ?
The BBC was, once upon a time, a paragon* of correctness. But correctness is apparently out of fashion. According to some commentators, the BBC has broken its own rules about the way its Team of the Year Award was recently decided: they didn't stick to their own prescribed guide lines.
Never mind the main matter at issue, though. What this pedant regrets are the terms in which it was publicly justified. "This criteria . . . " started an official BBC explanation. And in case you believe this might have been just an accidental misprint in the report, you will find a further explanation a few lines later, starting "The criteria was amended . . ."
Nowadays we often hear or read of 'this data' **. But data and criteria are both plurals, of datum and criterion respectively. Datum (a term borrowed from Latin) means 'something given', as we pointed out in an earlier post in this blog: so data means 'things given'. Criterion (a point on which a judgement is made) is borrowed from Greek, and the plural is criteria. (Please don't tell me I should have written "The plural are criteria". That might make sense in another context - though it isn't easy to think of one on the spur of the moment - but certainly not here.)
* (How many sides has a paragon, you may ask).
** Not to mention 'strata' and 'media'. See post of 24th November.
These rule is made to be broken, aren't it ?
Never mind the main matter at issue, though. What this pedant regrets are the terms in which it was publicly justified. "This criteria . . . " started an official BBC explanation. And in case you believe this might have been just an accidental misprint in the report, you will find a further explanation a few lines later, starting "The criteria was amended . . ."
Nowadays we often hear or read of 'this data' **. But data and criteria are both plurals, of datum and criterion respectively. Datum (a term borrowed from Latin) means 'something given', as we pointed out in an earlier post in this blog: so data means 'things given'. Criterion (a point on which a judgement is made) is borrowed from Greek, and the plural is criteria. (Please don't tell me I should have written "The plural are criteria". That might make sense in another context - though it isn't easy to think of one on the spur of the moment - but certainly not here.)
* (How many sides has a paragon, you may ask).
** Not to mention 'strata' and 'media'. See post of 24th November.
These rule is made to be broken, aren't it ?
Thursday, 29 November 2012
Gentry and Gingerly
In the Dictionary Corner of this week's Radio Times, 'Countdown's Lexicographer' tells us that our term 'gingerly', meaning [in my definition] 'cautiously, carefully, warily', is related to the words 'gentry' and 'gentlemanly', being derived from an Old French term gensor, a form of' the Latin verb genitus meaning 'born'. Why this Lexicographer is so certain is not clear. Eric Partridge, in his important volume 'Origins' only goes so far as to say that 'gingerly' probably comes from Old French genchor, the comparative of gent [= well-born]. To proceed gingerly is thus to walk warily - perhaps with the mincing step of a self-conscious gentleman. (Who said that gentlemen - even self-conscious ones - mince*, though ?) Perhaps they did in the eighteenth century, say, when they had to cross a filthy road.
Walter W Skeat, Professor of Anglo-Saxon at Cambridge in the late nineteenth century, thought that 'gingerly' came from a Scandinavian term gingla or gangla meaning to go gently or to totter. The excellent Encarta Dictionary (1999) tells us that the origin of 'gingerly' is uncertain. The latest Shorter Oxford English Dictionary agrees with our Radio Times Lexicographer (or, more likely the RTL looked it up in the SOED): but earlier editions of SOED admitted that it was 'of unknown origin'. So someone must have fairly recently discovered something new about this (hmm) serious problem.
The moral of all this seems to be that we have a few words in our vocabulary of which no one is quite sure what the origin is**. Perhaps the RTCL is right; we can't prove otherwise. But was she right to write of the [Old French] term gensor as 'a different form of [Latin] genitus ?
* Interesting footnote: 'mince' (from Latin minor = less, small) means to 'make small - so mincing steps are little, short ones. Compare our words minor, minute, miniature.
** Let's try again; 'of the origin of which no one is quite sure.' That's better.
All this blog-post is foolish pedantry, no doubt. But, in the words of a song that used to be sung by Deanna Durbin in the 1940s [?], "It's foolish but it's fun".
Gentry and Gingerly
Walter W Skeat, Professor of Anglo-Saxon at Cambridge in the late nineteenth century, thought that 'gingerly' came from a Scandinavian term gingla or gangla meaning to go gently or to totter. The excellent Encarta Dictionary (1999) tells us that the origin of 'gingerly' is uncertain. The latest Shorter Oxford English Dictionary agrees with our Radio Times Lexicographer (or, more likely the RTL looked it up in the SOED): but earlier editions of SOED admitted that it was 'of unknown origin'. So someone must have fairly recently discovered something new about this (hmm) serious problem.
The moral of all this seems to be that we have a few words in our vocabulary of which no one is quite sure what the origin is**. Perhaps the RTCL is right; we can't prove otherwise. But was she right to write of the [Old French] term gensor as 'a different form of [Latin] genitus ?
* Interesting footnote: 'mince' (from Latin minor = less, small) means to 'make small - so mincing steps are little, short ones. Compare our words minor, minute, miniature.
** Let's try again; 'of the origin of which no one is quite sure.' That's better.
All this blog-post is foolish pedantry, no doubt. But, in the words of a song that used to be sung by Deanna Durbin in the 1940s [?], "It's foolish but it's fun".
Gentry and Gingerly
Saturday, 24 November 2012
Data and Donations
The way we use words is not always 'rational': that is, we don't always take time to think about grammar or the best way of expressing ourselves. The words are just blurted out. It can be the same when we write - which is one of the reasons that editors exist.
A good sample of word-blurting appeared when a BBC reporter was speaking earlier this month about one or other of the recent high-level scandals. "They are blaming we in the media" he said. I think we can explain the faulty grammar by the fact that 'we-in-the-media' is a sort of composite noun, most often used as the subject of a sentence; and when a speaker wants to use it as the object it is very easy to just lift it in one piece and insert it wholesale into a sentence as the subject.
It is is a bit like our use of the Latin word data as a singular noun. "We have been given this data" many speakers and writers will now say, when they mean 'these data' - for the Latin term is plural. The singular 'datum' is very rarely found in English now, though the Ordnance Survey used it - and perhaps still do - to describe the basis of calculation of heights above sea level. The 'datum', or 'given' fact is the average or 'mean' level of low tide at Liverpool. So, 'given' this level as the basis of calculation, the top of Ben Nevis was estimated to be 4406 feet high. The plural term 'data' has apparently been used in English as a singular since the nineteenth century, when (so the Shorter Oxford Dictionary tells us) such use (or misuse) was 'rare'. Today it is so common as almost to be the norm: it has become a pseudo-scholarly alternative to 'information'.
Latin datum is the past participle of the verb do/dat-, meaning to give. The ancient Romans also had a noun donum meaning a gift, and another verb dono/donat- meaning to 'bestow', from which we get our terms 'donate' and 'donation'.
Data and Donations
A good sample of word-blurting appeared when a BBC reporter was speaking earlier this month about one or other of the recent high-level scandals. "They are blaming we in the media" he said. I think we can explain the faulty grammar by the fact that 'we-in-the-media' is a sort of composite noun, most often used as the subject of a sentence; and when a speaker wants to use it as the object it is very easy to just lift it in one piece and insert it wholesale into a sentence as the subject.
It is is a bit like our use of the Latin word data as a singular noun. "We have been given this data" many speakers and writers will now say, when they mean 'these data' - for the Latin term is plural. The singular 'datum' is very rarely found in English now, though the Ordnance Survey used it - and perhaps still do - to describe the basis of calculation of heights above sea level. The 'datum', or 'given' fact is the average or 'mean' level of low tide at Liverpool. So, 'given' this level as the basis of calculation, the top of Ben Nevis was estimated to be 4406 feet high. The plural term 'data' has apparently been used in English as a singular since the nineteenth century, when (so the Shorter Oxford Dictionary tells us) such use (or misuse) was 'rare'. Today it is so common as almost to be the norm: it has become a pseudo-scholarly alternative to 'information'.
Latin datum is the past participle of the verb do/dat-, meaning to give. The ancient Romans also had a noun donum meaning a gift, and another verb dono/donat- meaning to 'bestow', from which we get our terms 'donate' and 'donation'.
Data and Donations
Saturday, 29 September 2012
Critical Ramifications of Aggravated Panoplies
E'en Homer nods, occasionally slipping on a banana skin to reveal his Achilles' heel.
That is to say, even professional word-mongers sometimes use words or metaphors poorly. The term 'panoply', as I have mentioned in the related website (see at head of this blog), seems to have acquired spurious overtones of pomp and brilliance through its superficial resemblance to the word 'pageantry'. It really means 'complete set of weapons'*. Is this what Arnold Bennett intended when he wrote "Then a dark and elegant young man in full evening panoply appeared [in a dance hall] from the street"; or again, in the context of another social event, "The exit of Dr and Mrs Raste in full panoply . . . into the garden . . . took place at ten o'clock" ? No - I think Bennett was unaware of the meaning of the word: note how in both instances he uses the phrase 'full panoply': the word element 'pan-' already means 'full' or 'inclusive'.
* from the Greek word 'panoplia ' ('pan-' = complete and 'hopla ' = weapons). The translators of the King James Bible were interpreting St Paul's use of that word (if indeed he originally wrote in Greek) when they wrote "Take unto you the whole armour of God" - the breastplate of righteousness, the sword of the spirit, the shield of faith and so on.
"Are there likely to be ramifications between the USA and the British Government following this decision ?" asked a BBC News presenter. I guess he meant something like 'complex repercussions affecting relations between the USA and Britain'. But 'ramification' (from Latin ramus = branch or twig) means (literally) 'making branches' or (metaphorically) what we might think of as 'knock-on complications' spreading in the pattern of branches and twigs. 'Ramifications between two nations' is nonsense.
And we are often told that a person in hospital is 'critical'. A critical illness is one the outcome of which has yet to be judged or assessed. A person may be 'in a critical condition' (ie in a condition of uncertain outcome). But to say that a person him- or herself is critical means something quite different: it means that they are criticising. And strictly speaking (which we usually aren't) the word criticise (from the Greek word krit-es meaning a judge) means to assess, or to use one's impartial judgement, with no implication of carping or complaining or disapproving. 'Crisis' (from Greek krisis) means a judgement, a deciding moment.
As for aggravation, let us once and (wishfully) for all explain that it derives from the Latin stem gravis meaning heavy, and means 'adding weight to'. We use it metaphorically and correctly in the phrase 'aggravated burglary', implying that it wasn't just simple burglary, but burglary with violence added to it. We could say that 'adding insult to injury' aggravates the injury by making it heavier to bear. We can say that pneumonia is 'aggravated' (or made more burdensome) by exposure to cold air. But for that excellent journalist Andrew Rawnsley to write about "the government's growing aggravation about Whitehall's inability to keep secrets" is nonsense*. In this instance, it is not the government that is becoming more burdensome, but its problems. And Rawnsley's misunderstanding of the term 'aggravation' is betrayed by his describing it as 'growing': the sense of 'growing' is built into the term itself (by the Latin prefix ad-).
* I think Rawnsley meant 'irritation'. But because the passage quoted comes from a report (in The Week) of Rawnsley's article rather than from the original itself (in The Observer), it is possible that the fault lies with The Week's editor who may have paraphrased Rawnsley's words clumsily. Incidentally, I am aware that this misuse of the term 'aggravate' has a long history: but that doesn't make it right.
Critical ramifications of aggravated panoplies
(First published on former website The Merry Pedant, Saturday, 22 August 2009)
That is to say, even professional word-mongers sometimes use words or metaphors poorly. The term 'panoply', as I have mentioned in the related website (see at head of this blog), seems to have acquired spurious overtones of pomp and brilliance through its superficial resemblance to the word 'pageantry'. It really means 'complete set of weapons'*. Is this what Arnold Bennett intended when he wrote "Then a dark and elegant young man in full evening panoply appeared [in a dance hall] from the street"; or again, in the context of another social event, "The exit of Dr and Mrs Raste in full panoply . . . into the garden . . . took place at ten o'clock" ? No - I think Bennett was unaware of the meaning of the word: note how in both instances he uses the phrase 'full panoply': the word element 'pan-' already means 'full' or 'inclusive'.
* from the Greek word 'panoplia ' ('pan-' = complete and 'hopla ' = weapons). The translators of the King James Bible were interpreting St Paul's use of that word (if indeed he originally wrote in Greek) when they wrote "Take unto you the whole armour of God" - the breastplate of righteousness, the sword of the spirit, the shield of faith and so on.
"Are there likely to be ramifications between the USA and the British Government following this decision ?" asked a BBC News presenter. I guess he meant something like 'complex repercussions affecting relations between the USA and Britain'. But 'ramification' (from Latin ramus = branch or twig) means (literally) 'making branches' or (metaphorically) what we might think of as 'knock-on complications' spreading in the pattern of branches and twigs. 'Ramifications between two nations' is nonsense.
And we are often told that a person in hospital is 'critical'. A critical illness is one the outcome of which has yet to be judged or assessed. A person may be 'in a critical condition' (ie in a condition of uncertain outcome). But to say that a person him- or herself is critical means something quite different: it means that they are criticising. And strictly speaking (which we usually aren't) the word criticise (from the Greek word krit-es meaning a judge) means to assess, or to use one's impartial judgement, with no implication of carping or complaining or disapproving. 'Crisis' (from Greek krisis) means a judgement, a deciding moment.
As for aggravation, let us once and (wishfully) for all explain that it derives from the Latin stem gravis meaning heavy, and means 'adding weight to'. We use it metaphorically and correctly in the phrase 'aggravated burglary', implying that it wasn't just simple burglary, but burglary with violence added to it. We could say that 'adding insult to injury' aggravates the injury by making it heavier to bear. We can say that pneumonia is 'aggravated' (or made more burdensome) by exposure to cold air. But for that excellent journalist Andrew Rawnsley to write about "the government's growing aggravation about Whitehall's inability to keep secrets" is nonsense*. In this instance, it is not the government that is becoming more burdensome, but its problems. And Rawnsley's misunderstanding of the term 'aggravation' is betrayed by his describing it as 'growing': the sense of 'growing' is built into the term itself (by the Latin prefix ad-).
* I think Rawnsley meant 'irritation'. But because the passage quoted comes from a report (in The Week) of Rawnsley's article rather than from the original itself (in The Observer), it is possible that the fault lies with The Week's editor who may have paraphrased Rawnsley's words clumsily. Incidentally, I am aware that this misuse of the term 'aggravate' has a long history: but that doesn't make it right.
Critical ramifications of aggravated panoplies
(First published on former website The Merry Pedant, Saturday, 22 August 2009)
Tuesday, 18 September 2012
'The Public Interest'
The title of this post is given inverted commas because it is the phrase that needs comment as much as the concept. In fact, we can't always be sure what concept the phrase 'public interest' is meant to indicate.
When a BBC reporter, speaking of the Duchess of Cambridge's problems with the paparazzi and the current court case, remarks that the matter is of 'over-riding public interest', it would appear that he is confusing two distinct meanings of the word 'interest'*. One (perhaps the meaning he is thinking of) is a state of mind, the capacity for being curious; an interest in politics or motor-racing or pop music - or royalty in difficulties. Of course it is not surprising that many Brits (not to mention others) are 'interested ' in the matter.
But 'public interest' is a quite different concept. It is almost a technical term, implying some close personal involvement with any matter that affects (for instance) our well-being or security or freedom or finances, or our rights or our obligations. 'Interest' in this context implies that any change in the system is likely to help or to hinder us, either as individuals, or corporately, or both. We stand to gain or lose.
When the phrase 'public interest' is used in a legal context, the issue is whether a court decision will harm or hinder the people as a whole. It is not a matter of whether or not people are 'interested'
in the ordinary sense.
I think the BBC reporter is confusing these two meanings. The cliché epithet 'over-riding' is not a helpful one, either. It is not easy, in this instance, to see what the 'interest' is thought to 'over-ride'.
* The original Latin word 'interest' was a verb, literally meaning 'is among' - suggesting actual involvement, being affected by some situation.
'The Public Interest'
When a BBC reporter, speaking of the Duchess of Cambridge's problems with the paparazzi and the current court case, remarks that the matter is of 'over-riding public interest', it would appear that he is confusing two distinct meanings of the word 'interest'*. One (perhaps the meaning he is thinking of) is a state of mind, the capacity for being curious; an interest in politics or motor-racing or pop music - or royalty in difficulties. Of course it is not surprising that many Brits (not to mention others) are 'interested ' in the matter.
But 'public interest' is a quite different concept. It is almost a technical term, implying some close personal involvement with any matter that affects (for instance) our well-being or security or freedom or finances, or our rights or our obligations. 'Interest' in this context implies that any change in the system is likely to help or to hinder us, either as individuals, or corporately, or both. We stand to gain or lose.
When the phrase 'public interest' is used in a legal context, the issue is whether a court decision will harm or hinder the people as a whole. It is not a matter of whether or not people are 'interested'
in the ordinary sense.
I think the BBC reporter is confusing these two meanings. The cliché epithet 'over-riding' is not a helpful one, either. It is not easy, in this instance, to see what the 'interest' is thought to 'over-ride'.
* The original Latin word 'interest' was a verb, literally meaning 'is among' - suggesting actual involvement, being affected by some situation.
'The Public Interest'
Monday, 20 August 2012
An Excursion into Folk Etymology
A few hours ago I was looking up the meaning of the place-name 'Hinderclay' in Ekwall's Dictionary of English Place-Names, and got diverted to the name Hinderwell (North Yorks). It wasn't the meaning of the name that intrigued me, but Ekwall's use of a 19-letter word 'scandinavianisation'. "Ha-ha !" I chuckled to myself. "I bet that hasn't found its way into the Shorter Oxford English Dictionary". So I looked it up - and it had ! Does that show that the editors of the SOED conscientiously read through all their Oxford University Press publications trawling for unexpected words (perhaps one in every few hundred pages) ?
The two most likely explanations are (a) that in fact lots of people speak or write about scandinavianisation, but I hadn't realised it; or (b) that all major publications are now digitalised, so it only takes the press of a couple of keys on the OUP computer to bring the word on to their screen. I don't like Ekwall's term at all. To me it smacks of invasive superlatinisationality or even hypersymbolorrhoea. And of course Eilert Ekwall was a Scandinavian.
As for Hinderclay, I wanted to believe that it was the coinage of medieval farmers who found the local soil just to thick and claggy to plough. Ekwall didn't want to buy that one, but I rather think his own discursion on the matter is less than convincing.
An Excursion into Folk Etymology
Monday, 6 August 2012
Good-bye Again
Unfortunately I find that my pet blogging site, in its smartening and updating, seems to have deprived me of the facility for editing or adding to my older blogs. Very probably it is due to my own misunderstanding of the new system.
So I have had to create this new blog to extend my recent one titled Good-Bye !
It all arose from a consideration of George Bernard Shaw's wish to modernise English spelling to match pronunciation . Can't be done, George. Our pronunciations vary so much, whether from regional differences within the British Isles or throughout the world; or just through the kind of sloppiness in pronunciation to which we all contribute whenever we say 'Wensdy' for 'Wednesday', or 'unforch'n'tly' for 'unfortunately' or 'gradgel' for gradual or 'Feb'ry' for 'February' or 's'prise' for 'surprise' or 'Crismus' for 'Christmas'. Who would want to revert to 'cannot' for 'can't' or 'will not' for 'won't' ?
Actually (atcherly), the reasons for most of these changes are muscular. We say (and even write) 'improve' rather than 'inprove', or 'imbalance' rather than 'inbalance' just because it is much harder in each case to say the latter rather than the former. When we say 'in-' the lips remain open, but to start the syllables 'prove' or 'bal' they have to be closed. So we use an 'm' rather than an 'n' before a 'p' or a 'b'. Test it.
Good-bye Again
So I have had to create this new blog to extend my recent one titled Good-Bye !
It all arose from a consideration of George Bernard Shaw's wish to modernise English spelling to match pronunciation . Can't be done, George. Our pronunciations vary so much, whether from regional differences within the British Isles or throughout the world; or just through the kind of sloppiness in pronunciation to which we all contribute whenever we say 'Wensdy' for 'Wednesday', or 'unforch'n'tly' for 'unfortunately' or 'gradgel' for gradual or 'Feb'ry' for 'February' or 's'prise' for 'surprise' or 'Crismus' for 'Christmas'. Who would want to revert to 'cannot' for 'can't' or 'will not' for 'won't' ?
Actually (atcherly), the reasons for most of these changes are muscular. We say (and even write) 'improve' rather than 'inprove', or 'imbalance' rather than 'inbalance' just because it is much harder in each case to say the latter rather than the former. When we say 'in-' the lips remain open, but to start the syllables 'prove' or 'bal' they have to be closed. So we use an 'm' rather than an 'n' before a 'p' or a 'b'. Test it.
Good-bye Again
Surprise, surprise
Of all books on the English language, I find Eric Partridge's etymological dictionary Origins the most fascinating. This is because he groups together all words that are even remotely connected. You start, say, by looking up 'syzygy' (don't ask me why, but suppose you do), and he directs you to the word 'join'. Who would ever guess that the two terms have the same origin ? They haven't a single letter in common .
If, in your surprise, you look for an explanation, it turns put that the '-zygy' element is derived from Greek 'zeug-', and E 'join' (via French 'joindre') from Latin 'jungere'; and both of these from the ancestral Indo-European 'ieug-', which implies binding. Compare the related 'yoke' (English), 'yoga' (Hindi), 'junta' (Spanish) - and of course (ha-ha !) English junction and conjugal (both via Latin), zeugma (via Greek), joust and rejoinder (both via French).
By the way, 'syzygy' is a technical term in Astrology (meaning three celestial bodies in a straight line); Mathematics (a pair of things that are either similar or opposite); Zoology (meaning a suture of two jonts of a crinoid); and Prosody (meaning a combination of two different feet in one measure). Don't forget this: it may come in useful one day.
Surprise, surprise
If, in your surprise, you look for an explanation, it turns put that the '-zygy' element is derived from Greek 'zeug-', and E 'join' (via French 'joindre') from Latin 'jungere'; and both of these from the ancestral Indo-European 'ieug-', which implies binding. Compare the related 'yoke' (English), 'yoga' (Hindi), 'junta' (Spanish) - and of course (ha-ha !) English junction and conjugal (both via Latin), zeugma (via Greek), joust and rejoinder (both via French).
By the way, 'syzygy' is a technical term in Astrology (meaning three celestial bodies in a straight line); Mathematics (a pair of things that are either similar or opposite); Zoology (meaning a suture of two jonts of a crinoid); and Prosody (meaning a combination of two different feet in one measure). Don't forget this: it may come in useful one day.
Surprise, surprise
Friday, 20 July 2012
Good-bye !
I am surprised that professional word-smith Bernard Shaw campaigned for a change in the spelling of the English language. He pointed out, quite rightly, that the way we spell is often bewildering to learners of the language - whether British or Foreign: his solution was that we should spell phonetically. My surprise is not so much that his suggestion is impracticable (it would require not only changing the spelling of thousands of English words, but also the symbols - letters or whatever - that are needed to represent them); but that he sems to have overlooked that fact of the inevitable continuous, if gradual, changes in the actual way we pronounce our words.
Our words (or the basic elements in them) are based on Anglo-Saxon - a language that centuries before the Norman conquest had evolved in pronunciation from continental and Indo-European languages, and who knows what even more primitive ones earlier still. Middle English is the name given to the form our language had taken round about the fourteenth century, at which period we started borrowinng words from French (itself a much evolved tongue based on Latin. In fact Latin itself had evolved over centuries).
Our Saxon forebears said 'mihte' in two syllables; we now say 'might', in one. Some spoke of 'wereled', others of 'woreld'; we say 'world'. They said 'worthscipe', whereas we way 'worship'. They spoke of 'seorewe'; for us it has become 'sorrow'. These variations are essentially the same words - it is just that the way they are pronounced has changed. Changing the spelling won't halt this language evolution.
But perhaps the biggest flaw in Shaw's plan is the undoubted fact that even if the spelling remains un changed, the pronunciation of words alters over the generations. The sound 'oi' in words like spoil and boil was sounded like 'eye' as recently as the eighteenth century: in the rhyming couplets of Alexander Pope those words were twinned with 'beguile' and 'pile'.
Think what happened to the greeting 'God be with you'. It was garbled over the centuries until it became 'Good-bye'. Today we may well say "have a 'pepmint" instead of wasting breathe on the three-syllable 'peppermint'. And only a week ago I heard a TV reporter or presenter distinctly say 'p'tickler' for 'particular'. I must say I rather like spelling it that way: is that what Bernard Shaw wanted ?
Good-bye !
Our words (or the basic elements in them) are based on Anglo-Saxon - a language that centuries before the Norman conquest had evolved in pronunciation from continental and Indo-European languages, and who knows what even more primitive ones earlier still. Middle English is the name given to the form our language had taken round about the fourteenth century, at which period we started borrowinng words from French (itself a much evolved tongue based on Latin. In fact Latin itself had evolved over centuries).
Our Saxon forebears said 'mihte' in two syllables; we now say 'might', in one. Some spoke of 'wereled', others of 'woreld'; we say 'world'. They said 'worthscipe', whereas we way 'worship'. They spoke of 'seorewe'; for us it has become 'sorrow'. These variations are essentially the same words - it is just that the way they are pronounced has changed. Changing the spelling won't halt this language evolution.
But perhaps the biggest flaw in Shaw's plan is the undoubted fact that even if the spelling remains un changed, the pronunciation of words alters over the generations. The sound 'oi' in words like spoil and boil was sounded like 'eye' as recently as the eighteenth century: in the rhyming couplets of Alexander Pope those words were twinned with 'beguile' and 'pile'.
Think what happened to the greeting 'God be with you'. It was garbled over the centuries until it became 'Good-bye'. Today we may well say "have a 'pepmint" instead of wasting breathe on the three-syllable 'peppermint'. And only a week ago I heard a TV reporter or presenter distinctly say 'p'tickler' for 'particular'. I must say I rather like spelling it that way: is that what Bernard Shaw wanted ?
Good-bye !
Friday, 29 June 2012
A Metaphorical Litany ?
This blog has often warned of the dangers, especially to those who speak or write publicly, of misunderstanding 'long' words.
The same might be said of metaphors. Metaphors liven up our language wonderfully - so long as their original significance is recognised. 'Skating on thin ice' is obvious enough; but what about 'sailing close to the wind' ? If we want use this kind of 'specialist' metaphor, then it's best to know just what the original meaning was.
So when a journalist wrote a few months ago of the troubles experienced by those working on the improvement and development of the Hospital at Cromer, in Norfolk, that they had experienced 'a whole litany of setbacks', had he (or she) any idea what that metaphor implies ?
Our English term 'litany' literally means a formulaic religious prayer, one that was (or is) repeated word for word to ensure in particular that no sins are omitted from the list of offences for which one is asking for forgiveness. Rather than try to remember all one's sins in a home-made prayer, it seems best to add one's personal signature, as it were, to the official list.
The church's word 'litany' is derived from the old Greek word lite (two syllables pronounced 'lit-ee') meaning a prayer.
True, the term implied an official list: but to speak or write of 'a whole litany' of setbacks' is to miss the whole significance of the word - the journalist was just seeking a fancy way of indicating that there were a whole lot of setbacks. The metaphor was being stretched beyond any intelligent comparison: but imaginative and appropriate comparison is what metaphors should be about; otherwise they die.
A Metaphorical Litany ?
The same might be said of metaphors. Metaphors liven up our language wonderfully - so long as their original significance is recognised. 'Skating on thin ice' is obvious enough; but what about 'sailing close to the wind' ? If we want use this kind of 'specialist' metaphor, then it's best to know just what the original meaning was.
So when a journalist wrote a few months ago of the troubles experienced by those working on the improvement and development of the Hospital at Cromer, in Norfolk, that they had experienced 'a whole litany of setbacks', had he (or she) any idea what that metaphor implies ?
Our English term 'litany' literally means a formulaic religious prayer, one that was (or is) repeated word for word to ensure in particular that no sins are omitted from the list of offences for which one is asking for forgiveness. Rather than try to remember all one's sins in a home-made prayer, it seems best to add one's personal signature, as it were, to the official list.
The church's word 'litany' is derived from the old Greek word lite (two syllables pronounced 'lit-ee') meaning a prayer.
True, the term implied an official list: but to speak or write of 'a whole litany' of setbacks' is to miss the whole significance of the word - the journalist was just seeking a fancy way of indicating that there were a whole lot of setbacks. The metaphor was being stretched beyond any intelligent comparison: but imaginative and appropriate comparison is what metaphors should be about; otherwise they die.
A Metaphorical Litany ?
Wednesday, 20 June 2012
That Deadly Trove again
Solecism: the technical term (used in our language since the time of Queen Elizabeth I) to denote wrong use of language. This assumes, of course, that there is such a thing as 'wrong use of language': there are those who deny it*.
The ancient Greeks devised a word 'soloekismos' to describe the way that Athenian ex-pat settlers at a place called Soloi in Silicia evolved a dialect that the folk back home at Athens considered sloppy and inaccurate. So 'solecism' originally denoted 'bad Greek'. The Romans borrowed the word into Latin, and eventually it became used widely in Europe (among the middle and scholarly classes, no doubt) for any linguistic misuse, in whatever tongue, of grammar or pronunciation or vocabulary. It has also been used metaphorically for 'bad manners' - social solecisms, as it were.
So the concept of 'bad' English is centuries old. Which is why even good-natured pedants are entitled to complain if people who ought to know better - and that includes all those who use the English language professionally - speak or write of a 'trove'. This blog has moaned about this matter often enough.
Our English phrase 'treasure trove' was (and should still be considered, even when used metaphorically) a legal term adapted from French trésor trouvé, meaning 'treasure found'. Trouvé and 'trove' are past participles of verbs; 'trove' is not a noun.
So the Editor of Radio Times should not have sanctioned a reference by one of his staff to Bob Monkhouse's archival 'trove'. It's enough to make even the best-natured pedant squirm.
* "When I use a word", Humpty Dumpty said, in a rather scornful tone, "it means just what I choose it to mean - neither more nor less."
That Deadly Trove again
The ancient Greeks devised a word 'soloekismos' to describe the way that Athenian ex-pat settlers at a place called Soloi in Silicia evolved a dialect that the folk back home at Athens considered sloppy and inaccurate. So 'solecism' originally denoted 'bad Greek'. The Romans borrowed the word into Latin, and eventually it became used widely in Europe (among the middle and scholarly classes, no doubt) for any linguistic misuse, in whatever tongue, of grammar or pronunciation or vocabulary. It has also been used metaphorically for 'bad manners' - social solecisms, as it were.
So the concept of 'bad' English is centuries old. Which is why even good-natured pedants are entitled to complain if people who ought to know better - and that includes all those who use the English language professionally - speak or write of a 'trove'. This blog has moaned about this matter often enough.
Our English phrase 'treasure trove' was (and should still be considered, even when used metaphorically) a legal term adapted from French trésor trouvé, meaning 'treasure found'. Trouvé and 'trove' are past participles of verbs; 'trove' is not a noun.
So the Editor of Radio Times should not have sanctioned a reference by one of his staff to Bob Monkhouse's archival 'trove'. It's enough to make even the best-natured pedant squirm.
* "When I use a word", Humpty Dumpty said, in a rather scornful tone, "it means just what I choose it to mean - neither more nor less."
That Deadly Trove again
Monday, 4 June 2012
Comprehending Comprehension
We all utter accidental - or deliberate - solecisms (qv in blog of next date, above) in our spontaneous conversation. We may even commit them in letters, or, for a joke or for special effect, in text intended for publication. But on the whole it is reasonable to expect that in what we might call 'informative literature', what an author publishes should be written as 'correctly' as he or she can manage. Especially if he or she happens to have a degree in English.
I have just read an interesting and probably well researched book on the life of the Austrian composer Joseph Haydn, written over thirty years ago, but without much imagination, by such an author. The facts may well be accurately given, but the style is a trifle dull. But the author's training for an English degree should have ensured that he could not write ". . . the music [now in a library in Budapest]. . . comprises of La Marchesa di Nespoli . . . *"
"The music is comprised of . . . " would be grammatically correct but not suitable in the context; "The music comprises . . . " would also be correct. But "comprises of " is wrong".
Note also that 'comprise' (correctly used) is not the same as 'include', but is closer to the sense of 'consists of **''. It is this latter correct usage that probably accounts for the unacceptable phrase 'comprises of '.
Linguistically correct but geographically awry is the statement that in the 1790s Haydn "went with a boating party down the Thames from Westminster Bridge to Richmond, where they had a picnic on an island". But that is the kind of mistake that anyone (including this pedant) might make absent-mindedly.
Pedantry should not become just an excuse to pick holes in other people's speech or writing. If it is to shake off its bad name, it should be concerned with explaining certain characteristics of language as they have been in the past and as they are now, and why certain modes of expression are, in certain contexts, more appropriate than others. But you can't do this unless you make distinctions between various ways of expressing ideas, and this means quoting some inappropriate usages and explaining why they could be better re-phrased.
* The title of a musical, composition by Haydn.
** The term 'comprise' is derived (via French) from Latin comprehendere, signifying 'to grasp all together'.
Compare English words 'apprehend', 'prehensile'. The Latin 'com-' means 'with' or 'together'. Our term
'composer' consists of L 'com-' with L element pos- from the verb ponere meaning to place or put. So
Haydn was a person who put sounds together.
Comprehending Comprehension
I have just read an interesting and probably well researched book on the life of the Austrian composer Joseph Haydn, written over thirty years ago, but without much imagination, by such an author. The facts may well be accurately given, but the style is a trifle dull. But the author's training for an English degree should have ensured that he could not write ". . . the music [now in a library in Budapest]. . . comprises of La Marchesa di Nespoli . . . *"
"The music is comprised of . . . " would be grammatically correct but not suitable in the context; "The music comprises . . . " would also be correct. But "comprises of " is wrong".
Note also that 'comprise' (correctly used) is not the same as 'include', but is closer to the sense of 'consists of **''. It is this latter correct usage that probably accounts for the unacceptable phrase 'comprises of '.
Linguistically correct but geographically awry is the statement that in the 1790s Haydn "went with a boating party down the Thames from Westminster Bridge to Richmond, where they had a picnic on an island". But that is the kind of mistake that anyone (including this pedant) might make absent-mindedly.
Pedantry should not become just an excuse to pick holes in other people's speech or writing. If it is to shake off its bad name, it should be concerned with explaining certain characteristics of language as they have been in the past and as they are now, and why certain modes of expression are, in certain contexts, more appropriate than others. But you can't do this unless you make distinctions between various ways of expressing ideas, and this means quoting some inappropriate usages and explaining why they could be better re-phrased.
* The title of a musical, composition by Haydn.
** The term 'comprise' is derived (via French) from Latin comprehendere, signifying 'to grasp all together'.
Compare English words 'apprehend', 'prehensile'. The Latin 'com-' means 'with' or 'together'. Our term
'composer' consists of L 'com-' with L element pos- from the verb ponere meaning to place or put. So
Haydn was a person who put sounds together.
Comprehending Comprehension
Thursday, 31 May 2012
Military Hardware, not Mere Spectacle
Here we are with what appears to be another case of a mildly exotic word being misunderstood.
In a recent issue of Radio Times, a 'former corresponent of The Times' writes of a jubilee tribute by the Prince of Wales to his mother that "he concentrates on the intimacy of family over the panoply of state". We may dismiss the sloppy use of the term 'over' as mere journalese: but consider this 'panoply of state'.
Panoply is a term derived from two elements of Greek: the 'pan' part signifies 'total' or 'complete' (Pan-Am means 'all-American'); while the 'oply' bit is from Greek 'hoplos' meaning a weapon. So the word 'panoply' correctly means 'complete weaponry'.
The 'complete weaponry' of state is surely not what the writer meant here. Almost certainly he was subconsciously thinking of the word 'pageantry', meaning 'formal or ceremonial display'.
He is contrasting family intimacy with public ceremonial grandeur, not with military armour. We could further comment that 'pageantry' (like 'intimacy') is an abstract concept; while armour and weapons are concrete. In the Bible St Paul, in his letter to the people of Ephesus, wrote "Put on the whole armour [Greek 'panoplia'] of God", and then went on to list (in metaphor) "the breastplate of righteousness", "the shield of faith", "the sword of the Spirit", and "the helmet of salvation". Concrete, not abstract; military hardware, not mere spectacle.
This misunderstanding of the term 'panoply' is fairly common.
Military Hardware, not Mere Spectacle
In a recent issue of Radio Times, a 'former corresponent of The Times' writes of a jubilee tribute by the Prince of Wales to his mother that "he concentrates on the intimacy of family over the panoply of state". We may dismiss the sloppy use of the term 'over' as mere journalese: but consider this 'panoply of state'.
Panoply is a term derived from two elements of Greek: the 'pan' part signifies 'total' or 'complete' (Pan-Am means 'all-American'); while the 'oply' bit is from Greek 'hoplos' meaning a weapon. So the word 'panoply' correctly means 'complete weaponry'.
The 'complete weaponry' of state is surely not what the writer meant here. Almost certainly he was subconsciously thinking of the word 'pageantry', meaning 'formal or ceremonial display'.
He is contrasting family intimacy with public ceremonial grandeur, not with military armour. We could further comment that 'pageantry' (like 'intimacy') is an abstract concept; while armour and weapons are concrete. In the Bible St Paul, in his letter to the people of Ephesus, wrote "Put on the whole armour [Greek 'panoplia'] of God", and then went on to list (in metaphor) "the breastplate of righteousness", "the shield of faith", "the sword of the Spirit", and "the helmet of salvation". Concrete, not abstract; military hardware, not mere spectacle.
This misunderstanding of the term 'panoply' is fairly common.
Military Hardware, not Mere Spectacle
Saturday, 12 May 2012
A Matter of Factors
I've often written that it is safer not to use 'long' or 'exotic' words unless you're really sure what they mean. Here's an example of a phrase that is neither long nor exotic, but still easily misused because the original context is overlooked.
The 'feel-good factor'. This term is a clever, fairly recent invention, intended to suggest an element in one's experience (such perhaps as sunny weather, good company, being flattered, or pride in one's nationality) that makes one feel good. A factor is by definition an element that affects an outcome. As a mathematical concept, it is a number that by multiplying or dividing (or being added or subtracted or whatever), changes the arithmetical outcome. By extension, it can be something else that affects an outcome (eg the weather, or someone's skill, or a windfall, or an accident, or sheer luck - good or bad).
So to write (as a contributor to a periodical recently did) "You won't get the buzz of applause . . . but you'll get a nice feel-good factor" shows that the author has misunderstood the term.. What he meant was just "you'll feel good". What originated as a piece of imaginative word-play (I wonder who coined the happy phrase ?) has now become a cliché. But factors are not feelings: you don't 'get'* them.
* Having written which, I expect to receive complaints: of course, someone will respond, you can get sunny weather, or you can get mumps: surely they can be factors that affect your life ? True: but I still insist that you cannot correctly talk or write of 'getting a factor'.
" Got any good factors lately ?"
A Matter of Factors
The 'feel-good factor'. This term is a clever, fairly recent invention, intended to suggest an element in one's experience (such perhaps as sunny weather, good company, being flattered, or pride in one's nationality) that makes one feel good. A factor is by definition an element that affects an outcome. As a mathematical concept, it is a number that by multiplying or dividing (or being added or subtracted or whatever), changes the arithmetical outcome. By extension, it can be something else that affects an outcome (eg the weather, or someone's skill, or a windfall, or an accident, or sheer luck - good or bad).
So to write (as a contributor to a periodical recently did) "You won't get the buzz of applause . . . but you'll get a nice feel-good factor" shows that the author has misunderstood the term.. What he meant was just "you'll feel good". What originated as a piece of imaginative word-play (I wonder who coined the happy phrase ?) has now become a cliché. But factors are not feelings: you don't 'get'* them.
* Having written which, I expect to receive complaints: of course, someone will respond, you can get sunny weather, or you can get mumps: surely they can be factors that affect your life ? True: but I still insist that you cannot correctly talk or write of 'getting a factor'.
" Got any good factors lately ?"
A Matter of Factors
Wednesday, 2 May 2012
Caution: Polysyllabicism operates here
"Caution: Operatives at work". So ran the announcement on the back of a heavy waste disposal vehicle that I found myself following the other day. In the old days the phrase was the straightforward "Danger, men at work". What, I wondered, is the difference between a man and an operative ? Easy - the term 'operative', like 'worker' is gender-neutral. It wouldn't sound right to say 'Danger, men and/or women at work', or 'Danger, workers at work', any more than it would sound right to say 'Danger, operatives operating'.
'Operative' and operation are derived from the Latin opus (singular) and opera (plural) - terms regularly used in English, especially in artistic and musical circles. To the Romans the term meant 'work', and we speak today of the works of Mozart or Tolstoy or van Gogh.
Perhaps* it is right to consider that waste disposal is an occupation as creative as writing an ode or a sonata. Conversely, we might** agree that it can take as much out of a person to write an ode or to perform a piano solo as it does to carry a loaded dustbin and hoist it up to pour the contents into the back of a truck. Only nowadays, of course, there is a powered hoist that automatically lifts the wheelibin up the back of the lorry and tips out the contents. So much easier for the refuse operatives. But - as yet - no such mechanical aid for the poor art operatives.
* I said perhaps. ** I said might .
Caution: polysyllabicism operates here
'Operative' and operation are derived from the Latin opus (singular) and opera (plural) - terms regularly used in English, especially in artistic and musical circles. To the Romans the term meant 'work', and we speak today of the works of Mozart or Tolstoy or van Gogh.
Perhaps* it is right to consider that waste disposal is an occupation as creative as writing an ode or a sonata. Conversely, we might** agree that it can take as much out of a person to write an ode or to perform a piano solo as it does to carry a loaded dustbin and hoist it up to pour the contents into the back of a truck. Only nowadays, of course, there is a powered hoist that automatically lifts the wheelibin up the back of the lorry and tips out the contents. So much easier for the refuse operatives. But - as yet - no such mechanical aid for the poor art operatives.
* I said perhaps. ** I said might .
Caution: polysyllabicism operates here
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)