Double Negatives

What determines class? I would say it’s the language. If you have to summon every ounce of your will power not to wince when someone uses a subjunctive wrongly, you are probably middle class.

What about double negatives?

The litotes is of course a figure of speech, unique, I think, to English, whereby an affirmative is expressed using a negative. When this figure of speech is employed while speaking or writing, one uses double negatives. Two wrongs might not make a right, but, in figurative speech, two negatives, one succeeding the other, make a positive. Or do they?

Why would one want to use double negatives to express a positive? Why not express the affirmative with the boldness of a teenager parading lardy mid-riff and traumatised naval? Why be mealy-mouthed when you want to express something positive?

The litotes use the double negatives as understatements, not infrequently, in an ironic manner. Many a times, though, you feel that the double negatives are employed in a way that makes the responses ambiguous at best. What does the answer “Not too bad” to the question “How are you?” convey? Does it mean that the person is feeling “good”? Or does it mean that the person is feeling bad, but not to a great degree, as suggested by the adverb “too”?  Are there degrees of badness, then, from moderately tolerable to immoderately tolerable (also known as intolerable)? The answer is often delivered with a smile. What does that mean? Is the person phlegmatically surviving whatever badness that is afflicting him with quiet fortitude, showing commendable self-restraint in the face of great adversity, which would send many others to the Samaritans? It probably reveals nothing more than an enchanting ignorance of figurative speech. In other words, it is something which the people say, without giving it much thought, comfortable in the knowledge that the person asking the question isn’t really bothered about the state of your wellbeing and is making the inquiry as a nicety. That’s what polite, middle-class people do when they meet other nice, middle-class people.

I am currently reading Rebecca Gowers’s excellent Horrible Words—A Guide to the Misuse of English, in which Ms Gowers feels obliged to devote an entire chapter to the double negatives. In it I came across an interesting example of double negative. The sentence is quoted from an article which appeared in the Guardian (why does this not surprise me?) and goes like this: Few doubt that certain views pervade, and practices persists, but even fewer will own up to holding or following them. The sentence leaves you nodding your head in admiration at the linguistic dexterity of the author.

Often, the double negatives are used, not as understatements but, to emphasise a point, like Al Johnson, who announced in the Jazz Singer You ain’t heard nothing yet, folks. This, I think, is not a standard use of the double negative. Rebecca Gowers gives another example; of Louis Armstrong, who declared: The music ain’t worth nothing if you can’t lay it on the public. What was Armstrong trying to convey when he said ain’t worth nothing? If you use the rule of litotes, you might conclude that ain’t worth nothing means worth everything. But Armstrong follows it with if you can’t lay it on the public (that’s the third negative in the sentence). So, using the litotes mathematics, you will conclude that Armstrong was saying that music is worth everything if you can’t lay it on the public. But that does not make much sense either, because you get the feeling that what Armstrong is saying is the opposite of what you might take him to be saying (if you apply the standard rule of litotes to the sentence): The music ain’t worth anything if you can’t lay it on the public. Does this imply that Armstrong was simultaneously using another figure of speech, irony, conveying the exact opposite of what he was saying? The same goes for Al Johnson’s declaration in the Jazz Singer. What Johnson is telling the audience is that the folks haven’t heard anything, yet when he says You ain’t heard nothing yet. Armstrong, arguably (or should it be unarguably?), was a great jazz singer; but was the Pops’s grasp on the figures of speech as firm as his grasp on the trumpet? I don’t know. Armstrong was perhaps using the double negatives in an unorthodox manner to emphasize a point. Or, maybe, he didn’t know what he was talking about. Or, he did know what he wanted to say, and chose to say it, out of ignorance of the litotes, in a manner that Simon Heffer, in Simply English, described as vulgar. Or, Armstrong didn’t give a tinker’s cuss about what Rebecca Gowers charmingly refers to as “the gripers” thought about the misuse of English, and deliberately used the double negative in this manner to express his contempt for the purists and their dogmas. Or, Armstrong said what he said without giving much thought to what he was saying; it was a slip of the tongue. We shall never know. Armstrong died in 1971 and is not available, now, to explain.

This kind of use of double negatives, in a non-standard manner, usually for emphasis, is more often heard or read, in my experience, in American English. This was noticed and commented upon by Henry Mencken, the great American satirist, cultural critic and scholar of American English, in his book The American Language. Mencken, who once said he was inspired by the “argot” of the streets of Baltimore, considered phrases such as I don’t see nobody, or I couldn’t hardly walk as examples of vulgar American English. (Mencken died in 1956. Had he lived longer, I would not have thought he would have been impressed by the lyrics of some of the iconic songs that came out in the subsequent decades: I can’t get no satisfaction (Rolling Stones) or I don’t need no education (Pink Floyd)).

There are examples of double negatives using pre-fixes such as ‘ir’, ‘in’, ‘non’, ‘un’. We often read phrases such as ‘not insignificant’ or ‘not uncommon’, which do not jar our (at least my) sensibilities, although I think it is neither necessary nor particularly stylistic. They are what I consider to be straightforward uses of litotes to express affirmatives. You might wonder whether such use isn’t (or should it be ‘is’?) pretentious. Occasionally, however, you come across words, which throw you. Take irregardless, which, when it is used, appears to be used in place of the conventional ‘regardless’, and conveys the same meaning. Kingsley Amis, in his superb The King’s English (reviewed on this blog), railed against irregardless and described it as a kind of illiteracy. According to Merriam Webster’s online dictionary, ‘irreagrdless’ was popularised in American dialect in the early twentieth century, and spread over other parts of English speaking world. The dictionary informs that the word is not widely accepted and advises to use ‘regardless’ instead. For Rebecca Gowers, Amis, like Heffer, is a griper (she seems to use this word to imply that Amis and Heffer are pedants and fussbudgets, which is ironic, I thought, from an author who takes seventeen pages to discuss the difference between slipslops and malapropisms in her highly readable Horrible Words—A Guide to the Misuse of English). Gowers attempts to put forth her view, which, insofar as I can see, is ‘there is no need, really, to hyperventilate about these things, which have been going on for centuries’ by giving convincing examples which show that the words and word-usages scorned by the likes of Amis and Heffer have been in usage for centuries (though not frequent), and  not, as the "gripers" imply, relatively recent addition to the lexicon, say in the twentieth century, by the philistine. 'Brothel', for example, once meant prostitute, and not its current meaning (although, regarding ‘irregardless’, Gowers can’t go further back in time than 1865, and the example she comes up with is its American usage).

It seems to me that whether you will consider the use of a word or a phrase or an idiom or a figure of speech as vulgar or cultured will often depend on what appears right to your ears. It probably also depends on what you think is the correct use of the word. I will always baulk at using ‘irregardless’ (‘regardless’ would do very nicely, thank you), but the word does exist, though not so far in wide usage. It is also true that a catachresis, once it begins to be used in spoken and written language regularly, is no longer a catachresis (a point Rebecca Gowers makes convincingly).

Coming back to double negatives, I think I shall carry on using them (or, as Bart Simpson declared, “I won’t use no double negatives”) to express an affirmative in a figurative manner, and not to emphasize a point, the way many Americans do. Use of multiple negatives in a sentence is confusing, if not vulgar, and is to be desisted.

Bewitchment of Language

Philosophy is a battle against the bewitchment of our intelligence by language.

Ludwig Wittgenstein

Wittgenstein opens his Philosophical Investigations with the following excerpt from ‘Confession’ by Augustine, in which he, Augustine, describes the way in which he learnt language.

Cum ipsi (majores homines) appellabant rem aliquam, et cum secundum eam vocem corpus ad aliquid movebant, videbam, et tenebam hoc ab eis vocari rem illam, quod sonabant, cum eam vellent ostendere. Hoc autem eos velle ex motu corporis aperiebatur: tamquam verbis naturalibus omnium gentium, quae fiunt vultu et nutu oculorum, ceterorumque membrorum actu, et sonitu vocis indicante affectionem animi in petendis, habendis, rejiciendis, fugiendisve rebus. Ita verba in variis sententiis locis suis posita, et crebro audita, quarum rerum signa essent, paulatimcolligebam, measque jam voluntates, edomito in eis signis ore, per haec enuntiabam.

Augustine says, ‘When they (my elders) named some object, and accordingly moved toward something, I saw this and grasped that the thing was called by the sound they uttered when they meant to point it out.’ Augustine goes onto say that the more his elders pointed out objects with their bodily movements, he grew to learn how to speak in sentences and express desires.

Wittgenstein comments on this passage by saying:

These words, it seems to me, give us a particular picture of the essence of human language. It is this: the individual words in language name objects—sentences are combinations of such names. In this picture of language we find the roots of the following idea: every word has a meaning. This meaning is correlated with the word. It is the object for which the word stands.
Wittgenstein refers to this understanding of words as ‘ostensive’, for it “establish[es] an association between the word and the thing

We can only analyze concepts in terms of words. By the time one has reached the stage of thinking or reflection, one has learnt how to speak at least one language. A child [Wittgenstein argues] uses such primitive forms of language when it learns to talk. Here the teaching of language is not explanation, but training. An important part of the training will consist in the teacher's pointing to the objects, directing the child's attention to them, and at the same time uttering a word.

‘The ostensive teaching of words can be said to establish an association between the word and the thing. But what does this mean? Well, it can mean various things; but one very likely thinks first of all that a picture of the object comes before the child's mind when it hears the word. But now, if this does happen, is it the purpose of the word? Yes, it can be the purpose. I can imagine such a use of words (of series of sounds). Uttering a word is like striking a note on the keyboard of the imagination,’ says Wittgenstein.

What is the purpose of language? An obvious use is for communication. We also use language for thinking or reflection. Communication, thus, involves at least two parties—it is, one might say, the public use of language. Thinking, on the other hand, is a private activity and need not comprise entirely of language; one might use mental images while thinking. In theory, then, it is possible that the person can create his own rules, a sort of private language, where words may be assigned meanings different from those in ordinary language. When language is used for public communication you have to use the words in their conventional meaning. This brings me to another related question. Say, I am speaking to another person; (borrowing liberally from an example Wittgenstein gives in ‘Psychological Investigations’) say I am a builder and giving instructions to this person who is my assistant; say, I want the assistant to pass on to me stones or a beam or a slab. I shall then use words or sentences to convey to the assistant what I want. The assistant, if he fully understands what I am saying, will do what I am asking him to do. The communication can be broken down into several steps: firstly I have something meaningful to say; I use words—which are symbols— and sentences to convey the meaning to the assistant; the assistant understands something—he decodes the symbols—by the words and sentences he hears. The communication between the assistant and me is effective only if the assistant understands the same as what I mean.

Learning language, according to Wittgenstein, involves giving names to objects, to human beings, to shapes, to colours, to pains, to moods, to numbers, etcetera. Naming is something like attaching a label to a thing. One can say that this is preparatory to the use of a word. But what is it a preparation for? What do words in a language signify? Wittgenstein would have us believe that the words signify the kind of use they have. For the communication to be effective there ought to be an agreement that people will use the same words to have the same meaning. The built in rules of a language would go some way towards achieving this. When the words are used to stand for concrete things, there can be an unambiguous agreement about what they signify. However, when the words are used to express abstract concepts it may be difficult to build up an agreement. Hearing words, or looking at them in print, Wittgenstein says, is like looking into a cabin of a locomotive. He uses an interesting analogy to put forth his point. We may see handles all more or less looking alike. But one is the handle of a crank which can be moved continuously (it regulates the opening of a valve); another is the handle of a switch, which has only two effective positions, it is either off or on; a third is the handle of a brake-lever, the harder one pulls on it, the harder it brakes; a fourth, the handle of a pump: it has an effect only so long as it is moved to and fro. Therefore, when we say 'Every word in language signifies something' we have said nothing whatever; unless we have explained exactly what distinction we wish to make, unless of course we want to distinguish the words of language from nonsensical words such as occur in Lewis Carroll's poems.

Many of us have this idea, subconsciously if not consciously, that words have some kind of real, essential meaning. This assumption is fallacious. The same word may be used with different meanings in different contexts and connections. Take the word ‘Rascal’: it can be used to describe someone (frequently a child) who is playful and mischievous; or it can be used to describe an unscrupulous, dishonest person. So what is the real meaning of the word ‘Rascal’? I do not think that it has any real meaning. We can employ this word to perform different jobs in different contexts, and presumably the listeners would make a judgment about what is sensible for them to understand when they hear the word. Words can be used in very many different contexts and have so many different meanings that it may be argued that they do not serve any useful purpose as effective tools of thinking. If we consider the English language, the same word can be used as a noun or verb, or a noun and an adjective. Take the word ‘kind’, for example, which is used as an adjective and a noun, more frequently the former. Also, when used as an adjective it can sometimes have a moral connotation. When we describe someone as kind we could mean a variety of things: we might mean that the person is of generous, warm-hearted nature; or is showing sympathy; or is humane and considerate; or is forbearing; or is liberal; or is agreeable. Although the word used is the same—‘kind’—there are nuances related to the contexts in which the word is used, and, when we are talking, we emphasize the meaning by our voices, intonations, gestures etcetera. When we are writing, the function is partly served by the syntax and punctuation. None of the meanings, though, is an essential one. However, it does not mean that we can bounce off to the opposite extreme and use the words whichever way we choose, as that will increase the risk of being misunderstood and failure of communication. Even if you adhere to the position that there is no essential meaning to any word, it is a natural human tendency to hang on to something fixed in our thinking, and the majority of people will use a given word more frequently to convey a particular meaning. Wittgenstein gives an example: ‘Can I say "bububu" and mean ‘If it doesn't rain I shall go for a walk”? It is only in a language that I can mean something by something. This shows clearly that the grammar of ‘to mean’ is not like that of the expression ‘to imagine’ and the like.’

This brings me back to what Wittgenstein calls the ostensive definition of a word. The ostensive definition, according to Wittgenstein, explains the use—the meaning—of the word when the overall role of the word in the language is clear. Thus if I ‘know’ that someone means to explain a colour-word to me, the ostensive definition ‘That is called sepia (or beige)’ will help me to understand the word. One has to already know something in order to be capable of asking a thing’s name. But [Wittgenstein asks, rhetorically] what is it that one has to know? He gives an example to elucidate this further. ‘I am explaining chess to someone; and I begin by pointing to a chessman and saying: “This is the king; it can move like this,.... and so on.” In this case we shall say: the words “This is the king” are a definition only if the learner already knows what a piece in a game is. That is, if he has already played other games, or has watched other people playing 'and understood'. Further, only under these conditions will he be able to ask relevantly in the course of learning the game: "What do you call this?"-- that is, this piece in a game. We may say: only someone who already knows how to do something with it.’

To complicate the matter further, there are words, at least in English—possibly in other languages— which are used to convey similar or approximate meaning, for example, the two adjectives: ‘splendid’ and ‘ ‘resplendent’. It might be argued that the two words convey subtly different meanings. If we consult an expert about this, he might say that ‘splendid’, depending on the context in which it is used, can be used to express brilliance of colour, as in ‘splendid field of flowers’; or grandeur, as in ‘splendid costumes’; or admiration, as in ‘splendid achievement’; or praise, as in ‘splendid performance’. ‘Resplendent’, on the other hand is usually used to describe a striking or brilliant appearance; one would not use it to convey all the other meanings attached to the word ‘splendid’. If we ask a random sample of people the same question: what difference, if any, do they attach to the words ‘splendid’ and ‘resplendent’, and suppose the majority of the sample thinks that there is no difference between the two words and can be used synonymously, does it mean that they are wrong or are not properly educated (because they are unaware of the different meanings of the word ‘splendid’ which are different from ‘resplendent’)?

It would be safe to conclude that a reasonably valid distinction can be drawn between the majority use of a word, and its educated or expert use. And, since, the main purpose of language is communication, to depart from the majority usage is liable to lead to the failure of communication. This is not to say that the majority are always right, for example, if the majority of people believe that William the Conqueror landed in England in 966 AD, they are plain wrong and their thinking does not make it right. If, on the other hand, the majority thinks that a word is used to convey a certain meaning and use it in that way, then they are ‘right’, and it is their thinking and resultant action (i.e. using the word in a manner that conveys a particular meaning) make it right.

Are there then any desirable qualities one should attempt to adhere to while communicating, say, while writing? Should one be clear, precise, accurate and unambiguous in our writing? Some would argue that these are desirable qualities. (These would also be the people who would hesitate to label James Joyce’s ‘Ulysses’ a masterpiece.) It has also been suggested that any verse which carries these qualities cannot be considered, in any considerable degree, poetry. So, what is desirable? That would depend on the context and the task in hand, in other words. A relentlessly rational and cogent argument that leaves no one in doubt as to what the writer has in his mind may be desirable when one is debating or putting forth a case or attempting to give factual information. On the other hand, a novel, or a drama, that supplements the reader’s imagination may enhance the enjoyment one will get out it. The flip side of the coin is sometimes poems or plays are subjected to over-elaborate linguistic investigations and conclusions may be drawn which might not have been in the mind of the creator (as in ‘Waiting for Godot’.) There is a tendency to examine words minutely, as it were through a microscope, and pontificate on different meanings they might carry. The conclusions may be valid only if at least some people use the words in the manner in which a given usage of the word purports to describe reality.

So, what did Wittgenstein have in mind when he talked of the bewitchment of our intelligence by language? Sometimes a writer may deliberately (or should I say, ‘intentionally’? Is there a subtle difference between the two adverbs? Does ‘deliberately’ carry a slightly aggressive connotation—something done on purpose to irritate—whereas ‘intentionally’ is more neutral?) use language in a way calculated to evoke strong emotions that may override the intellect. I have utterly enjoyed novels where the force of the narrative and the accompanying emotions are so strong—for example some of the Tibor Fischer novels—that they make you ignore the fact that one can drive a schooner through the holes in the logic and consistency. However, I do not think this is the same kind of bewitchment Wittgenstein was referring to. A word, Wittgenstein says, has no meaning if nothing corresponds to it. He further clarifies (or confuses depending on your view) that the word ‘meaning’ should be taken to have been used illicitly if it is used to signify the thing that corresponds to the word. That, in Wittgenstein’s eyes, is to confound the meaning of the name with the bearer of the name. When Mr. N. N. dies one says that the bearer of the name dies, not that the meaning dies. And it would be nonsensical to say that, for if the name ceased to have meaning it would make no sense to say ‘Mr. N. N. is dead.’

A name [says Wittgenstein] ought really to signify a simple. And, as is his wont, he gives an example, ostensibly to elucidate his point: the word ‘Excalibur’, say, is a proper name in the ordinary sense. The sword Excalibur consists of parts combined in a particular way. If they are combined differently Excalibur does not exist. But it is clear that the sentence "Excalibur has a sharp blade" makes sense whether Excalibur is still whole or is broken up. But if "Excalibur" is the name of an object, this object no longer exists when Excalibur is broken in pieces; and as no object would then correspond to the name it would have no meaning. But then the sentence ‘Excalibur has a sharp blade’ would contain a word that had no meaning, and hence the sentence would be nonsense. But it does make sense; so there must always be something corresponding to the words of which it consists. The meaning of a word, Wittgenstein concludes, is its use in the language. What then lies behind the idea that names really signify simples? Wittgenstein quotes Socrates [in ‘Theaetetus’] (who, it should be noted, is no easier to comprehend than Wittgenstein). ‘There is no definition of the primary elements--so to speak--out of which we and everything else are composed; for everything that exist in its own right can only be named, no other determination is possible, neither that it is nor that it is not..... But what exist in its own right has to be..... named without any other determination. In consequence it is impossible to give an account of any primary element; for it, nothing is possible but the bare name; its name is all it has. But just as what consists of these primary elements is itself complex, so the names of the elements become descriptive language by being compounded together. For the essence of speech is the composition of names.’

Something red can be destroyed, Wittgenstein says, but red cannot be destroyed, and that is why the meaning of the word 'red' is independent of the existence of a red thing. What Wittgenstein is saying here is if as a result of the way in which we use language lead us to form erroneous conclusions about reality, then our intelligence is bewitched by the language—it is akin to believing that since the word gryphon exists, there must also exist an animal represented by the word. The word exists, therefore the thing exists—that is the bewitchment of intelligence by language. While most of us will not be misled when it comes to believing whether or not mythological creatures exist, it might create confusion at more complex and abstract levels. Like the so called essential meaning of the word: simply because someone talks about the essential meaning all the time does not necessarily mean that there is one, and setting about finding it is going to be as futile as collecting sand in a sieve. The language—its words, the structure of sentences—influences the way we think. When we are watching, say, a musical, and decide that it is splendid, how do we choose the word ‘splendid’? Do we form an idea in our mind about the quality of the play, then search for the word from the repertoire at our disposal that would code the idea appositely; or does our knowledge of the word ‘splendid’, that is, its meaning, influence what we think? When a child learns a language, at the most simplistic, or primitive, level, Wittgenstein says, the following process occurs: the learner names the objects; that is, he utters the word when the teacher points to the stone. And there will be this still simpler exercise: the pupil repeats the words after the teacher--both of these being processes resembling language. We learn language by association, and form an idea of what the words, constituents of the language, signify. And this knowledge influences our thinking.

That is what Wittgenstein meant by bewitchment of our intelligence by language. I think.

Hopefully

Hopefully, the weather will do us a favour and it won’t rain over the weekend.

Hopefully, England will qualify for the Euro 2008. (They didn't, and Lord be praised! Can we now watch some cricket with its microseconds of excitement deliciously scattered over five days?)

Hopefully, the wine won’t let us down.

Hopefully, we’ll get tickets for the opera.

Hopefully, the meeting will proceed uneventfully.

Hopefully someone, one day, will visit this blog; hopefully someone will like some or more of the write-ups; hopefully someone might decide to leave a comment or two; hopefully, even if no one visits, I shall have the enthusiasm to continue blogging in a year’s time.

Hopefully gets my goat. I am developing a dislike for hopefully that is in danger of mutating into pathological hatred. Hopefully, I don’t like; I don’t like hopefully.

‘What’s wrong with hopefully?’ I hear you asking. Let me explain. Allow me to put forth my case.

When I say I don’t like hopefully, it’s not hopefully, strictly, that I dislike. Oops. . .walked into the trap, there, didn’t I ? Ignore, the previous sentence. I am human, after all; I am not perfect. (But I have the smartness to realise and humility to accept my mistakes.) Let me start again. When I say I don’t like hopefully, it is not hopefully that I dislike. That does not make sense either, does it? Let me have another go; hopefully, I’ll get it right the third time. I know, I know; some of the smart Alecks amongst you are smirking. I shall say no more other than refer you to the last parenthesis. I shall have a third go at what I am propounding, although, strictly, it is a second go. Oh dear! It is not going well, is it? I seem to have the knack of getting into a trap, getting out, turning around, and walking into the same trap. Let’s have a totally new beginning. (I am going to ignore the impish murmurs I can hear from the pranksters amongst you that new beginning is a tautology. It is not, always, in my view, and I shall say nothing more on the matter; I am not going to be waylaid into a discussion on tautology when what I am hoping to do is educate you hopefully, sorry, on hopefully. There! That is the correct usage: I said I was hoping to; I didn’t say hopefully, not, needless to say, because I am not hopeful, although I have never been of absurdly optimistic disposition either.) So, where was I? Oh yes! My position, so to speak, on hopefully. Let me begin by saying that I think it is a perfectly decent word. It has been used, I am sure, for a long time. Oxford English Dictionary records its first usage in the seventeenth century (and, no doubt, word-detectives, if they get wind of the fact that BBC 2, determined to reduce prescription use of sedatives and hypnotics, are intending to re-launch Balderdash & Piffles, will dig up even earlier usage of the word, which will send shock-waves amongst the language-wonks). There are instances, though I can’t think of any at the minute, when hopefully will do; nay, only hopefully will do. However, I shall humbly suggest that such instances, and my inability recall any as I write is a proof of it, if needed, are few. Certainly, OK, ignore the word, Indeed will be more appropriate in the context, given my position (metaphorical) on hopefully, the examples I have given above, the last one, you, at least those amongst you who have an eye for subtlety, will not have failed to notice, being my modest attempt at irony, are not of them, the instances.

Hopefully is an adverb; obviously; like obviously; exactly; like exactly . . .all right; I think I have driven home my point. And the last time I checked an adverb qualifies a verb, gives us additional information about it. So, if we take the first example, the weather, when it does us a favour, it does so hopefully! The wine will not let us down. And how will it not do that? Hopefully! How will we get tickets for the opera? Not by on-line booking; not by standing in the queue; but hopefully! How will the meeting proceed? It will proceed not only uneventfully, but also hopefully. That sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it; or doesn’t it? What, of course, each of the sentence is attempting to convey, is the speaker is hopeful of whatever that he / she is hoping would happen. It would be fanciful to assume that abstract concepts or inanimate objects are invested with emotions such as hope. Wouldn’t it be correct to say, say, We are hopeful, or, if that sounds cumbrous, Let’s hope, or With luck?

Sentence adverb. I knew someone was bound to mention this unwholesome twentieth century fashion, which, in the twenty-first, is becoming disturbingly widespread. A sentence adverb refers to not only a part of the sentence, but also a whole, independent, sentence or clause, which is implied. Thus, Hopefully implies It is to be hoped. Economical? May be. (Ungenerous, more like). Elegant? Certainly not. It jars; it irritates; its usage is silly; it’s semiliterate nonsense.

What did you say? Why am I persecuting hopefully? I am not persecuting anyone or anything, and even if I were, I wouldn’t do that hopefully. Oh! I see. Why am I persecuting hopefully? I see what you are getting at. There are hundreds of words, well, at least dozens of them, I agree, which people use routinely in the same way as hopefully. Why am I, as you have chosen to put, persecuting (although, persecute, if I may point out, has negative connotations, as if I am maltreating hopefully, I mean hopefully, which, I shall thank you to remember, is not my intention at all) just one? In my view none of the other adverbs, or sentence adverbs as some self-appointed language mavens might say, is misused as much as hopefully, although, I feel compelled to point out, since no one else, so far, has, that I have gone to some length not to use any in this what the Germans would, surely, describe as a ratiocinative Kritik (well, not ratiocinative, of course, unless they are proficient in English, which, some of them may well be). Indeed the misuse, and I am choosing my words carefully, is bordering on molestation. If I were hopefully, I would be seriously considering taking an injunction against these language-chavs. Also, I have to start some where, and I might as well do that hopefully, I mean with hopefully.

There are some dictionaries, including, disappointingly, The New Fowler’s Modern English Usage, which appear to be coming around to the view, one can’t help feeling not without a sense of resignation, that it is OK to use this once useful adverb in such a distorted manner on the tenuous grounds that more and more people are doing it. It is like saying if you are a teenager, it is OK to traumatize your naval with piercing and tattoo hideous designs on your lower abdomen with an arrow pointing south (or something subtle like that) because some other lobotomised juveniles are doing it; or it is OK to have sex with a donkey (or pig) if you live in Norfolk. It is not OK to abuse donkeys (or pigs or any members of anthropoidea), and it is not OK to abuse a language.

I urge you to follow the advice in the notice Edwin Newman reputedly put on his office door: Abandon Hopefully All Ye Who Enter Here.

Portmanteaux

I don’t like portmanteaux. I know there are many other matters which, it can be argued with some justification, are worth getting exercised about (sorry for the dangling preposition): Greenhouse gases, America’s ill-advised incursion in Iraq, unfair cast-system in India, unfair class-system in Britain, rise of ‘Islamism’ in some of the Islamic countries, anarchy in Congo, tigers getting on the verge of extinction, decline of Indian hockey and English cricket, trains not running on time, asylum-seekers demanding health care on the NHS, disappearance of the White working class in Britain, Homosexuals being allowed to marry, kids haring up all night on their mini-bikes disturbing neighbourhoods, fat women wearing hipsters, pizzas getting smaller in size, seventeen year olds yelling about how painful life is on ‘Top of the Pops’, young men and women with no discernible talent other than a willingness to show their private parts and ignorance on live programmes on national television becoming Z-list celebrities, and P-listed celebrities (presenters of television programmes) releasing DVDs of aerobics following childbirth purportedly to show how they managed to reduce their fat guts. But I get exercised about portmanteaux. You may want to point out, and some have done it, that I should get out more; that such concerns of the White Shoes should, and ought to, be ignored; that my life is either so empty or stress-free (or both) that I can think of no better subject than a silly morpheme few know and fewer care about (the dangling preposition, again; I can’t help it).

I should clarify at the outset, to avoid confusion, that by portmanteau, I mean portmanteau words and not a leather suitcase which opens into two hinged compartments. I have nothing against suitcases—coriaceous or un-coriaceous, hinged or unhinged. Indeed, when I travel I frequently take with me one or more hinged capacious suitcases to bring back cheap wine bottles, which, so that they don’t break in the travel, I wrap in underwear and socks. It is the portmanteau words that get my goat.

I am a reasonable man. I am not against all portmanteaux. I am not advocating a blanket ban on them. I am pleading for some perspective here. There are a few portmanteaux which, I agree, have become an integral part of our lexicon. Brunch, for example, or Workaholic, or motel. Workaholic is an interesting portmanteau. It is cobbled together from two words—‘Work’ and ‘Alcoholic’—to describe someone who is devoted to his work, for whom work takes primacy over everything else. You might even say that for a workaholic work has become an addiction—he has developed a compulsion to work (I am happy to announce that I am totally free of this affliction). However there is a subtle difference between the connotations of the two words. The word ‘Alcoholic’ is frequently said to convey disapprobation, which is not always the case with Workaholic, which, I have seen—or heard—or both—people using with a degree of admiration or envy, even. Linked to it is the portmanteau ‘Workaholism’, which I have seen being used in some magazines. Franchement! (As I have been told the French say to express their exasperation. If you find it too soi-distant, you can shrug your shoulders and exclaim ‘Puff!’) There are a few portmanteaux, which, like Workaholic, have found their niches: Bollywood, for example, made from Bombay (the capital of Indian film-making) and Hollywood, although, as Bombay has been renamed Mumbai, it should be Mullywood, or Mumliwood. Fanzine (Fan + Magazine), Camcorder (Camera + Recorder), Breathalyzer (Breath + Analyzer), Paratroops (Parachutes + Troops), Oxbridge (Oxford + Cambridge), Electrocute (Elctricity + Execute), Sexploitation (Sex + Exploitation) and Blaxploitation (Black + Exploitation) are a few portmanteaux that are so commonly used that we have ceased to think of them as such. Then there are portmanteaux such as Spanglish (Spanish + English) and Hinglish (Hindi + English), which are increasingly used to describe the influence of languages such as Spanish and Hindi on the English spoken by Indians and Latin Americans.

It can be argued that Workaholic serves some purpose in that it conveys a concept, albeit inelegantly, in one word and for which no synonym exists. Can one explain to me the point of portmanteaux such as Ginormous? This ugly word is gaining currency at a worrying speed. It is a blend of the words ‘Gigantic’ and ‘Enormous’. Now ‘Gigantic’ means something very large and extensive; and ‘Enormous’ means . . .err . . .exactly the same: something great in size. So what exactly is conveyed by ‘Ginormous’? When I asked this question to a colleague of mine he said that Ginormous is used to describe something that is way, way, off the scale in terms of size. When I pointed out to him that that is exactly what both the words mean—something that is outside of the normal range—he said that I was a pedant and that it was time I should concern myself with real issues such as third world poverty or what I could do to help the company achieve its vision (which would also enhance my chances of getting a promotion). Fantabulous is a silly portmanteau. This bastard word is created by forcing ‘Fantastic’ and ‘Fabulous’ to sleep with (or, to be more precise, on, or below) each other. ‘Fantastic’, in its adjectival form is used to describe something (or someone) that is ‘wondrous’, ‘superb’, or ‘remarkable’, especially when one wants to be appreciative, or ‘existing only in fantasy’, or ‘extravagant’. ‘Fabulous’ is used to describe something that is—you have guessed it—‘superb’, and ‘wondrous’—that is ‘fantastic’—or, occasionally to describe something that is ‘barely credible’ or ‘astonishing’. So when I hear people describing the ice-creams they are eating or some films they have watched or a song they have heard as fantabulous, I wonder wheteher they are ignorant of the meanings of these words, or the ice-cream (‘Ben & Jerry Chockchips (another portmanteau, damn it!’)) is so good and heavenly tasting to be barely credible. Gusstimate, apparently in circulation since the mid-nineteen thirties, is another unprofitable portmanteau. What possible purpose can be served by bringing together two words which have essentially the same meaning? It is a bit like Prince Charles’s sex appeal, or opening a school in Bronx: what’s the point?

It was Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, that eccentric Victorian better known as Lewis Carroll, who used the French word to describe blending of different words, in ‘Through the Looking Glass’, although he was not the first one to create new words by blending existing words. Herman Melville, in 1849, coined the derogatory Snivelization from ‘Snivel’ and ‘Civilisation’; and Anecdotage (Anecdote + Dottage), suggesting garrulous old age, was recorded in the 1820s. Carroll was clever, it has to be said, in his choice of the word that is itself a ‘portmanteau’ (Is it a double metaphor? I am not sure). In his famous non-sensical poem ‘Jabberwocky’, which featured in ‘Through Looking Glass’, Carroll disambiguated, and, in the process, coined several, what were at the time, neologisms, some or more of which have found their way into the English language. Carroll would, no doubt, allow himself a chortle to find that the portmanteau he first invented, a blend of the words ‘chuckle’ and ‘snort’, is still in wide use. Galumph is another word, first used by Carroll in ‘Jabberwocky’, which is still used, though not quite in the way Carroll meant it. I have, on occasions, come across Frabjous, a word Carroll first invented, and is apparently a combination of words ‘fair’, ‘fabulous’, and ‘joyous’. Finally, there is Vorpal, mercifully not used very often these days but you can find it in the dictionary, which means ‘sharp’ or ‘deadly’. Why these words entered the language, and not Frumious, which, as Carroll helpfully pointed out, was the combination of the words ‘Fuming’ and ‘Furious’, is a mystery. Old Carroll was probably having just a bit of fun when he wrote ‘Jabberwocky’, and was perhaps himself unsure of meanings and pronunciations of many of the words, all portmanteaux, in ‘Jabberwocky’, but, when the book and the poem became popular—the poem is taught in most primary schools— felt obliged to give explanations of what some or more of them meant and were pronounced. Much later Martin Gardner, in ‘Annotated Alice’, attempted an extended analysis of the poem and, by extension, all of its neologisms, which took the whole thing, as they say, a bit far.

There are websites devoted to portmanteaux where people are exhorted to tap their creative potential (!) and contribute portmanteaux. Some websites helpfully provide random pairing of adjectives and nouns, verbs and adverbs to encourage people to come up with fantastic (as in bizarre and strange) portmanteaux. Here is a list of some of the portmanteaux I have come across, which are so silly they are not worth commenting on:

Picture + Dictionary = Pictionary
Brad (Pitt) + Angelina (Jolie) = Brangelina
Cyberspace + Magazine = Cyberzine
Education + Entertainment = Edutainment
Talk + Marathon = Talkathon
Telephone + Marathon = Telethon
Beef + Buffalo = Beefalo
Clam + Tomato = Clamato
Plum + Apricot = Pluot
Cafeteria + Auditorium = Cafetorium
Man + Fantastic = Mantastic
Bad + Advantage = Badvantage
Animal + Male = Animale (why not Manimal?)
Begin + Initiate = Beginitiate
Brain + Intelligence = Braintelligence
Clap + Applause = Clapplause
Dream + Ambition = Dreambition
Derriere + Rear = Derrierear
Head + Administrator = Headministrator
Head + Adversary = Headversary
Hint + Intimate = Hintimate
Pain + Injury = Painjury
Saint + Intellectual = Saintellectual

Here is my own selection of pormanteaux which you don't see often being listed on websites devoted to them. Most of these, you will not fail to notice, belong to slang language, or should I say Slanguage? (Slanguage, I guess, is a double portmanteau as Slang itself is a portmanteau comprising as it does of 'Street' and 'Language'.) So here it goes: Custard. If you think it describes a dish consisting of milk, eggs, flavouring, let me tell you that it is in fact a portmanteau comprising ‘C**t’ and ‘B*****d’. Fugly is another one, which very nicely combines two adjectives: ‘F***ing’ and ‘Ugly’ (the first an informal intensifier that can be used to emphasize a variety of adjectives in a variety of situations), and creates a new word that can be used as both a noun and an adjective. What about F**kwit, a portmanteau that expresses succinctly, though perhaps not very subtly, the lack of respect for someone’s intellectual abilities? Or D**khead which conveys the same meaning. I prefer F**kwit which is gender-neutral, you can even say, politically correct, over 'D**khead' which you won't use to describe a woman when you want to succintly and pithily convey that you find her foolish, inept and contemptible. Fornatio could be a useful word that parcimoniously describes two type of sexual activities. How about Shagathon, when one wants to describe a prolonged sexual congress? Corpenad is not the non-sensical word it sounds. Comprising 'Corpulent' and 'Maenad', it is, I'll put it to you, a high-brow word (it shows, to those who care about these things, your expert knowledge of Greek mythology) that describes a well-fed woman who is in a state of frenzy (perhaps because of the delay in getting Big Mac Meal).

When I mentioned to a friend of mine my intention to post my fulmination against portmanteaux on this blog, he advised me to temper the diatribe pointing out that the word Blog itself is a portmanteau.