![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Book review and response
Jun. 6th, 2005 01:26 pmWell, classes are out, which means it’s reading frenzy time. I admit
it—when it comes to fiction, I have almost no “standards”—I prefer
genre fiction (sci-fi, fantasy, romance, mysteries) to “serious
leeeteratoooorrrrre.” So far (10 days) I’ve read Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda: Destruction of Illusions, Visions (the first Babylon 5 book, which I had to get from a used book seller online [but hey, at least it’s signed!]), Deception Point by Dan Brown (pre-DaVinci Code), Hadrian's Wall : A Novel by William Dietrich, and The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency
by Alexander McCall Smith (which comes perilously close to being real
literature, but I figure it’s so short there’s some wiggle room). I’m
in the middle of three non-fiction books: 1215: The Year of Magna Carta by Danny Danziger and John Gillingham, Dress in Anglo-Saxon England (Rev.) by Gale Owen-Crocker, and Pretty Maids (the Secret History of the Grimm Fairy Tales) by Valerie Paradiz. There are piles of books on my bedroom floor, waiting for me to get to—the 9/11 Commission Report and rereading the first three books of the Camber of Culdi series are at the top of the list (pile?).
However, this isn’t about any of them. It’s about a book I read before Christmas, called Eats, Shoots & Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation by Lynne Truss.
In the interests of full disclosure, let’s just admit right up front that I’m a card-carrying member of the Grammar Police. I believe a good kick in the posterior is an appropriate response when people mis-use the words less and few. Omitting the comma before the “and” in a series is a sure way to get cuffed up side the head, and I am likely to fly into a homicidal rage when people misuse “myself” [and for those who know me and are interested in longevity, probably the best response is to forget the word even exists, at least when you’re around me]. I don’t have a whistle (a la Rose Gumbo of Rose is Rose), but one sure goes off in my head on a pretty regular basis because of things people say or write, and like Dicea, I was tempted to equip myself with a broad point permanent Magik Marker and a box full of comma, apostrophe, and semi-colon stickers to use on various appalling signage and bumper stickers.
ES&L is a great little book. It’s a little hardcover no bigger than a paperback, nice broad borders inside, and generously sized font, so when I say little, I mean it. It has a wonderful, breezy style but still manages to be just packed with content. If I’m an officer on patrol, Truss is a precinct captain, and she got there through smarts and a wicked sense of humor. When I finished reading the book I felt the way Arlen Spector must feel when he sees John McCain—not entirely alone in the universe. I just wish I could look at the subject with the same balance of passion and humor she does.
That said, the book led to some disquieting thoughts. Well, maybe not led to—perhaps it was more a reawakening than a discovery. One of the things she has to talk about in her book is the differences between British punctuation standards and American. They’re minor, but they are distinctive. For instance, Morguhn bristles when he sees phone numbers written out 123.456.7890 as opposed to (123) 456-7890. He describes it as “trendy internet crap.” Of course, the first way is how they have always done it in lots of other countries, including the UK. That whole comma thing that makes me grind my teeth is called “the Oxford Comma,” after the venerable (stuffy) institution of higher learning in Great Britain. Except, of course, in England that comma is not generally taught, but it’s the grammatical standard (if not the standard in use) in America. All of which highlights an important truth about grammar, spelling, and punctuation—it’s all a convention.
Let me quote myself, from my 2005 syllabus for English 1:
“Writing conventions are things like spelling; word use; and forms, punctuation, and grammar.
You may have noticed that I’m using the word convention, not rule. The reason is that most of the “rules” for English are things that people have “agreed” will be the way things are. For example, in American English, the agreement is to use the marks “…” for quotations, but in Britain they use ‘…’ instead. Here, cars have a trunk and a hood—in England the cars have boots and bonnets. Here, we go to the theater, but in London they go to the theatre. In America, the colors of the national flag are red, white, and blue. In England, red, white and blue are the colours of the flag.
But the conventions aren’t just different between countries. In Utica we go to the drinking fountain, but in Boston you go to the bubbler. In Utica you get a soda at the Nice ‘n Easy—in Buffalo you get pop. In an American newspaper you would talk about the movies Star Wars, The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi. In an American academic paper you would talk about Star Wars, The Empire Strikes Back, and Return of the Jedi.
Now, that doesn’t mean that just because I’m calling them conventions and not rules that they don’t matter. They do. Following the conventions tells readers that you are educated, professional, thoughtful, and respect the reader’s need to understand. Not following the conventions sends a message that the opposite qualities are true.”
Clearly I try to help my students understand that it's all a bit messy. Why is it messy, you may ask. Well, it's because language is alive. Vocabulary, punctuation, and syntax expand and adapt to include new experiences, new awareness, and the changing dynamics of who is using the language. (One of the things you learn in a history of language class is that changes in usage are usually driven by how adults choose to communicate with children.) That said, how do we know when the convention has changed to the point that the style books (which is what grammar handbooks are) need to change? At which point does zero tolerance for error become rigid adherence to an archaic convention? Language is a living, evolving thing (which is why letters from your mother are no longer closed “From your loving Mother, Mrs. George H. Bush”). For the academic French, it is easy: you find out what the Académie française says, and that’s the rule. It may bear no resemblance to what you hear on the docks in Marseilles, but at least there’s a “court of appeal.” We don’t have that for English, and I certainly don’t want one. It would probably end up being staffed by political hacks (so we’d all end up doing gov-speak and turning everything into acronyms, sounding like some cross between a West Wing episode and a Tom Clancy novel) or academic fossils (in which case no sentence would be shorter than 57 words). Or worse yet, the editorial staff of USAToday.
So, in the absence of some recognized body that would codify English, how do we know when the language has evolved to the point that the governing conventions have changed? It’s a question I struggle with every day, and struggle with especially during thirty weeks between August and June. What do you think, gentle readers?
However, this isn’t about any of them. It’s about a book I read before Christmas, called Eats, Shoots & Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation by Lynne Truss.
In the interests of full disclosure, let’s just admit right up front that I’m a card-carrying member of the Grammar Police. I believe a good kick in the posterior is an appropriate response when people mis-use the words less and few. Omitting the comma before the “and” in a series is a sure way to get cuffed up side the head, and I am likely to fly into a homicidal rage when people misuse “myself” [and for those who know me and are interested in longevity, probably the best response is to forget the word even exists, at least when you’re around me]. I don’t have a whistle (a la Rose Gumbo of Rose is Rose), but one sure goes off in my head on a pretty regular basis because of things people say or write, and like Dicea, I was tempted to equip myself with a broad point permanent Magik Marker and a box full of comma, apostrophe, and semi-colon stickers to use on various appalling signage and bumper stickers.
ES&L is a great little book. It’s a little hardcover no bigger than a paperback, nice broad borders inside, and generously sized font, so when I say little, I mean it. It has a wonderful, breezy style but still manages to be just packed with content. If I’m an officer on patrol, Truss is a precinct captain, and she got there through smarts and a wicked sense of humor. When I finished reading the book I felt the way Arlen Spector must feel when he sees John McCain—not entirely alone in the universe. I just wish I could look at the subject with the same balance of passion and humor she does.
That said, the book led to some disquieting thoughts. Well, maybe not led to—perhaps it was more a reawakening than a discovery. One of the things she has to talk about in her book is the differences between British punctuation standards and American. They’re minor, but they are distinctive. For instance, Morguhn bristles when he sees phone numbers written out 123.456.7890 as opposed to (123) 456-7890. He describes it as “trendy internet crap.” Of course, the first way is how they have always done it in lots of other countries, including the UK. That whole comma thing that makes me grind my teeth is called “the Oxford Comma,” after the venerable (stuffy) institution of higher learning in Great Britain. Except, of course, in England that comma is not generally taught, but it’s the grammatical standard (if not the standard in use) in America. All of which highlights an important truth about grammar, spelling, and punctuation—it’s all a convention.
Let me quote myself, from my 2005 syllabus for English 1:
“Writing conventions are things like spelling; word use; and forms, punctuation, and grammar.
You may have noticed that I’m using the word convention, not rule. The reason is that most of the “rules” for English are things that people have “agreed” will be the way things are. For example, in American English, the agreement is to use the marks “…” for quotations, but in Britain they use ‘…’ instead. Here, cars have a trunk and a hood—in England the cars have boots and bonnets. Here, we go to the theater, but in London they go to the theatre. In America, the colors of the national flag are red, white, and blue. In England, red, white and blue are the colours of the flag.
But the conventions aren’t just different between countries. In Utica we go to the drinking fountain, but in Boston you go to the bubbler. In Utica you get a soda at the Nice ‘n Easy—in Buffalo you get pop. In an American newspaper you would talk about the movies Star Wars, The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi. In an American academic paper you would talk about Star Wars, The Empire Strikes Back, and Return of the Jedi.
Now, that doesn’t mean that just because I’m calling them conventions and not rules that they don’t matter. They do. Following the conventions tells readers that you are educated, professional, thoughtful, and respect the reader’s need to understand. Not following the conventions sends a message that the opposite qualities are true.”
Clearly I try to help my students understand that it's all a bit messy. Why is it messy, you may ask. Well, it's because language is alive. Vocabulary, punctuation, and syntax expand and adapt to include new experiences, new awareness, and the changing dynamics of who is using the language. (One of the things you learn in a history of language class is that changes in usage are usually driven by how adults choose to communicate with children.) That said, how do we know when the convention has changed to the point that the style books (which is what grammar handbooks are) need to change? At which point does zero tolerance for error become rigid adherence to an archaic convention? Language is a living, evolving thing (which is why letters from your mother are no longer closed “From your loving Mother, Mrs. George H. Bush”). For the academic French, it is easy: you find out what the Académie française says, and that’s the rule. It may bear no resemblance to what you hear on the docks in Marseilles, but at least there’s a “court of appeal.” We don’t have that for English, and I certainly don’t want one. It would probably end up being staffed by political hacks (so we’d all end up doing gov-speak and turning everything into acronyms, sounding like some cross between a West Wing episode and a Tom Clancy novel) or academic fossils (in which case no sentence would be shorter than 57 words). Or worse yet, the editorial staff of USAToday.
So, in the absence of some recognized body that would codify English, how do we know when the language has evolved to the point that the governing conventions have changed? It’s a question I struggle with every day, and struggle with especially during thirty weeks between August and June. What do you think, gentle readers?
