The Semantic Problem- In the Beginning Was the Word W WRITING BEGINS in a mystery and ends in a conundrum. At least the first half is true, for who can understand the way a word operates? Even to phrase the problem is to make it sound like some ancient, unanswerable mystery—rather like the questions King Solomon asked but never expected to answer. He wondered about the way of a man with a maid, but not the way of a word with a man-although he knew that much study is a weariness to the flesh and he knew that of the making of books there is no end. But no doubt he would have asked about words if he had thought to do so. And if he had lived late enough in history he would have asked what song the sirens sang and what name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women, both primarily verbal problems. It is a nice question whether we can even approach the word problem in its essence, for we think in words, and we cannot employ an object to investigate itself. The whole technique of scientific investigation is that we isolate the thing under-study and attempt to understand it in terms of other things which are similar to it. What can we compare a word to? Not to a thought, for it appears pretty clear that a thought is a word. Not to any kind of artifact, for an artifact is concrete, susceptible to physical instrumentation, while a word is abstract and wholly dimensionless. Not to esthetics or morality, for words themselves may constitute an esthetic experience and it is impossible to conceive of a nonintellectual morality, not subject to verbal codification. So again we equate the thing studied with the instrument of study. Another nice question relating to words is the problem of which came first, thought or language. In this matter many theorists live happily in the midst of two mutually contradictory theories, as do the physicists in the matter of the nature of light. If abstract thought is impossible without words, it is clear that in the beginning, indeed, was the word. But if the general concept of man developing from matter to mind is true, thought must have preceded language. Among the most significant bits of evidence in the dispute is the recognized fact that the most ancient languages are, by and large, the most sophisticated. It appears that schoolboys in the city of Ur in the time of Abraham had to learn a much more complicated language than students in English classes learn today. If earlier, cruder languages existed as steppingstones in one long sweep upward to the sophisticated ancient languages known to exist, they must forever remain only a guess, perhaps an educated guess, perhaps merely a mistaken one. Crude, inexact languages such as exist today among uncivilized peoples cannot be used on either side of the argument, since such languages may be "debased" as well as "primitive." Indeed, we can observe the process of erosion, of debasement of language, on every side, and one need only compare Old English with Modern English to see its effect. But back to the lines. We loiter too long in the pleasant fields. In the favorite words of military instructors of new recruits, "You're not here to have a good time. You're here to work, work, work!" Words Plus Syntax Equals Written Communication Sometimes it is helpful to oversimplify a problem in order to see its most elementary components. If we do this to the problem of effective writing, we find that there are only two things to worry about. Jonathan Swift put it thus: "Fit words in fit places." When good words are put into relationship with each other in such a way as to make a good sentence, the result is good writing. Conversely, only two things can go wrong with writing: Either the words are ineffective, or the construction is. From this most elementary and practical point of view, then, what are the characteristics of words which most often inhibit their effectiveness, and what characteristics give them the power we all know they can, at best, possess? Even at the elementary level, the problem can get quite complicated; but it is our purpose to stick to the most solid and useful of the many principles involved. Specific Words and General Words Words are like circles. Some of them circumscribe a small, precise area; some sweep majestically about an entire continent of meaning. This is as true of verbs as of substantives. Each time we use a word in the first rank of sentence elements (that is, words above the level of conjunctions, articles, prepositions, etc.), it is as if we were drawing a circle on a map so that the observer can spot exactly what we wish him to see and study. If we wished to make a comment on Grinning Skull, Montana, we would be foolish to draw a circle loosely around the entire northwest United States. But that is exactly what is done over and over again in Government writing. Let us approach it in another way. You remember from your schooldays being taught the difference between specific and general words. Perhaps the teacher put the word "fruit" on the blackboard and then asked the class to name as many kinds of fruit as it could think of. Each was listed, and the point was made that the word "fruit" embraced the whole kit and kaboodle. Then the point was made: Use general words only if you want to include every possible specific meaning which may be embraced within them. Use specific words if your meaning is specific. A simple and logical principle, yet how often violated! Indeed, George Orwell, the late, distinguished British essayist and novelist, says in an article on the writing done by British civil servants that the difference between exact writing and jargon is largely the difference between the specific word and the general word. Earlier, we noted that jargon is anything which diminishes the exactness of the subject and the verb in a sentence. It has no more useful tool for doing so than the general word, the word which appears to say something but which actually draws so large a circle as to make it impossible to determine where, exactly, the focus of interest lies. What does this sentence really say? "It appears likely that this proposal, if adopted, would have a measurable effect on our operations." Do we know any more after reading that than we did before? Do we not already realize that any action whatever, if remotely relevant, would inevitably have a "measurable effect" on operations? "Measurable" may mean anything from sizable and obvious to tiny, almost imperceptible. "Effect" may be anything from striking benefit to serious detriment. It is as if the writer were to point to a map of the United States, encircle everything east of the Mississippi and say, "Now, I want you to drive to this point and wait until I come." We must recognize, as always, that the man who wrote "measurable effect" may not really have had anything exact to say. The sentence may not be meant to communicate a thought but only to disseminate a fragrance, as it were, to suggest that the writer is on the job, that he has kept the flow of paper moving smoothly. Take another instance. Some months ago I received a letter which began: "In response to your recent communication, the following informa tion is supplied in the hope it will serve your needs." It came from an organization with which I communicate frequently, and I knew at once (or thought I did) what letter of mine they were talking about. But it became quickly apparent that something was wrong. I could not see how anything in their letter responded to anything in mine. After two readings I realized that the "recent communication" they referred to was not a letter but a telephone call I had asked my secretary to make. In other words, "recent communication" is too large a circle. It encloses any type of verbal contact, oral or written, within the last 6 months. It is a general phrase inadvisedly used to describe a specific object. All the writer of the letter had to do was say "your secretary's telephone call Tuesday morning" to make his meaning exact. In this particular instance the specific word or phrase is longer than the general, vague one. Usually the reverse is true, so that in being specific we also achieve economy. It is both quicker and more exact to say, "You can throw this report away if you have no use for it" than to say, "In the event no utilization of this material is desirable or possible, disposal of it in an appropriate manner is herewith authorized." The Art of Making "Nonstatements" If you ask me to tell you where you can find a useful discussion of the infinitive, let us say, and I reply, "It is believed that an investigation of certain available and appropriate informational sources will produce the data which is requested in your recent communication," then I have made a "nonstatement." I have used words in such a way as to say nothing. And yet there is all the appearance of a meaningful assertion. It takes considerable practice to use language in grammatically complete units and yet say nothing at all. Unless we are very careful, some idea, even if a very faint one, will creep in. You may recall the popularity some years back of a certain radio comedian whose entire talent consisted of a capacity to make sounds as if he were talking yet to say nothing whatever. He raised and lowered his voice, he paused for emphasis, he enunciated particularly clearly when he wished to stress a “word”; but the syllables were meaningless. His best trick was to stop people on the street, announce that he was a roving reporter, and then ask them a series of "questions," consisting of nonsense syllables until the very end. Then he would say, without any change in the tone of his voice, "Now don't you think that would be an excellent thing for the President to do?" And 9 times out of 10, the honest citizen would reply with passionate conviction, "I certainly do!" |