A little while back, I wrote of an instance of Freudian grammar, quoting a news report in turn quoting John McCain: “Asked if Gov. Sarah Palin has become a drag on his ticket, McCain said, ‘As a cold political calculation, I could not be more pleased.’” McCain’s placement of the introductory clause seems to identify himself as a cold political calculation, which was, I’m sure, not his intent. Though what indeed is the cold calculation? The decision-making behind the selection? The analysis of the decision-making (as in, “If I were now making a cold calculation of the selection . . ”.)? Or the person that was selected?
Granted, I present the latter choice as a cynical joke, but then again, let’s listen to the subject of the discussion—Sarah Palin herself—fall into the same grammatical trap with perhaps even stronger Freudian overtones:
After being found guilty on seven felony counts, I had hoped Senator Stevens would take the opportunity to do the statesman-like thing and erase the cloud that is covering his Senate seat.
I was alerted to this by a Fritinancy post, which eloquently addresses the subject of dangling clauses, particularly Palin’s. Read and enjoy.
When asked whether she and her husband had any more unusual names up their sleeves, the politician [Sarah Palin] said: ‘We did. We never got to get our Zamboni in. I always wanted a son named Zamboni.’
Her husband Todd, however, seemed less than impressed with the suggestion. ‘I don’t think that would have flied,’ he said.
What wouldn’t have “flied”? Zamboni the name or Zamboni the machine? This sounds a bit like Henry Ford naming his son after a car—the Edsel. (Yes, I know it was the opposite—Edsel the human came before the premiere of My Son the Car starring Jerry Van Dyke, or something like that.)
I’ll give Palin the gov a pass on the Zamboni name claim—it was probably a joke. (On the other hand, she characterized as a joke her comment in the pre-VP-selection days that someone would have to tell her what the vice president does—then subsequently proved that she really didn’t know in her odd description of job duties to young Brandon Garcia. So maybe we can anticipate a grandchild named Zamboni or John Deere or Ski-Doo at some point.)
But Todd, man! First dude! Get yer grammar on! Your grammar done slud off the trail!
On the other hand . . . What does a vice president do? “Not only are they there to support the president . . . ”
The vice president they? Plural? Is Sarah including Todd as part of the office, the way she included Todd in her Alaskan administration? We saw how well that little singular/plural misconception flied, now didn’t we?
I’m rooting for the Philadelphia Phillies in the upcoming World Series for any number of reasons that have nothing to do with logic, such as the fact that Shane Victorino is my Fantasy Baseball League center fielder. Philly might also supply an important outfield position in my Fantasy Language League: the out-of-left fielder, given a catchphrase that has quickly surfaced as something of an unofficial slogan of the team: “Why can’t us?”
The slogan was taken from a grammatically-challenged sports radio caller — yes, I realize that is redundant — and it has already grown so large that Scott Van Pelt reportedly dropped it on Sports Center last night [Thursday, 10/16.]
Such cultural phenomena lead—of course!—to T-shirts, which I’m quick to point you toward not because they promote inevitably-bad sports grammar but because proceeds are going to a good cause.
I can now imagine a Philly player coming to the plate—bottom of the ninth, two out, one man on—and thinking, “Why can’t us?” And after he wallops the walk-off home run, he circles the bases, taunting the opposing pitcher with the classic “All your base are belong to us!”
Which, I kid you not, is the name of my Fantasy Baseball League.
There’s bad grammar, and then there’s Freudian grammar. “Weighing three tons, I was lucky that I didn’t collide with the truck” is at the very least distracting, as well as potentially confusing. The truck weighs three tons, not me. I—svelte guy that I am—weigh in at just under half that weight, thankyouverymuch. That’s bad grammar (well, it’s not technically bad—it’s more a missed opportunity for effective writing through clear connection).
I shan’t look for more examples, either. But in case the precise use of will and shall confuses you, consider this 1900 visual guide presented by Motivated Grammar:
To me, this kind of looks like a Buck Rogers decoder ring, or a map of Dante’s Nine Circles of Hell. Check out the example in the upper left: “Because what must be will be” (the future’s not ours to see! Que sera, sera, which I believe to be the official elevator music between at least two Circles of Hell).
A thought inspired by the recent landfall of Hurricane Gustav and my far-behind-in-my-reading of James Lee Burke’s Last Car to Elysian Fields:
Years ago I attended a business convention in the city of Elision, Louisiana.
Elision is not the name of the city, though it certainly sounds like a good Cajun name—the convention was in New Orleans. Before I left, a colleague asked me, “When you’re down there, find something out for me. Is the city name pronounced with four syllables—new-or-lee-ans—or three—new-or-leens?”
On my return, I reported: “One: nawlns.”
Elision is the act of eliminating letters or syllables when pronouncing a word. Think of libary instead of library, wershester sauce instead of worcestershire sauce, dint instead of didn’t. (The opposite—inserting letters or syllables in pronunciation, as in sherbert instead of sherbet—might be known as “anti-elision” or “confusion.” And who the hell knows what it’s called in instances like Farve instead of Favre.)
And while we’re on the topic, I hereby declare today National Elision Day. Why today of all days? It’s Wensday, of course . . .
(And, oh yeah—Arlo Guthrie? He votes for three syllables:)
I’ve never broken a bone (he says, taunting Demon Jinx). Neither a fracture, nor a compound fracture—in increasing order of pain, I’m sure. In the context of this language discussion, however, splitting a bone likely is, for some, perhaps less painful than splitting an infinitive.
I feel no pain in splitting infinitives. In fact, I’m among the many to vigorously ignore this “rule,” which was thrust upon the language by admirers of Latin. Their thinking went something along these lines: Latin infinitives are single words, and you can’t split a single word, can you? (Umm, you abso-frikken-lutely can split single words.)
My continuing rant about split-infinitive persnickitors was rekindled when, while skimming The Online Dictionary of Language Terminology, I came upon an entry for a term I hadn’t heard before:
compound split infinitive
Definition: A split infinitive that has been split by a multi-word phrase.
Example: Try to never ever split your infinitives.
Three reactions:
I cheer the matched form and content. In the example, the infinitive is to split and the phrase that splits it is never ever.
I suggest that “splitting an infinitive with another split infinitive” would be a cuter but increasingly stupid definition of “compound infinitive.” (Example: “Mr. Brohaugh, I dare you to, with your unwillingness to glibly follow every grammatical edict, give a damn.”)
I sigh over the fact that the entry exists in the first place. Splitting infinitives is apparently so bad that if you do it with two words, the egregious indiscretion deserves a name unto itself. (And possible jail time!)
I just hope that, now that I’ve introduced some folks to the acceptability of even compound split infinitives, some persnickitor out there hasn’t begun thinking about introducing me to a compound fracture.
Heretofore, when encountering people who insist that data should take a plural verb, I have said “I presume, then, you feel the same about agenda“; I will now add stamina to my arsenal.
My own heretofore has rarely taken such a logical route. I like to confuse such insistent people, with a response more like “So, then, why don’t you insist on a plural verb for minutia, which is the plural of minutium?” I love the moment of quiet, the eyes darting back and forth. It’s a test of mettle—or mental stamins, maybe. The response is going to be a) silence; b) “I do use plural verbs with minutia“; c) “You’re full of shit.”
Answer a) speaks to the confusion caused by such Latin words as datum/data, stadium/stadia, graffito/graffiti, and balonum/baloney (well, maybe not the last pair). Answer b) speaks to the “depth” of their knowledge of Latin words, because . . . Answer c) is correct. Minutia is indeed singular, and minutium exists only in my mind as a contender for being the singular of baloney.
The word unique is sacred. Inviolate. Untouchable by human beings. Let us worship it in its perfect splendor! Perfection cannot be modified!
Well, so goes the chant of the persnickitors. If you want to see a spray of blood popping from foreheads not unlike the famed Bellagio fountain display, just announce aloud that something is “very unique” in just about any public place. “Every English or journalism major knows the word ‘unique’ does not take a modifier!” Which is something I didn’t make up, but quoted directly from a blog, inserting the exclamation point because I knew the blogger really wanted to use one, so I’ll take the blame.
Of course, this proscription is bull (read the title of this blog again). What if I say something is “almost” unique? It’s pretty distinctive, but it does share characteristics with another instance of same. Has not unique been modified? You can say “I almost won the game” even when I actually lost, so why can’t something fail to be one-of-a-kind? Or how about “remarkably unique,” “fascinatingly unique,” “preposterously unique,” “strangely unique,” “etceterally unique.” Modifications all. In fact, the little forehead-popping that I quoted above (assisting gallantly by my offered exclamation point) was inspired by a headline reading, “A truly unique collection.” This construction violates neither logic nor grammar, and not even what “every English or journalism major knows.” Consider this concocted extension of that quote: “This truly unique collection, as opposed to collections that previously laid false claim to being unique . .”
At worst, truly in my modification is redundant, in that the “as opposed to” phrase demonstrates contrast, so “A unique collection as opposed to . . .” Even so, truly serves as clarifier and intensifier.
What our persnickitor is objecting to is not modification but a specific type of modification—establishing degree of uniqueness. The cliche analogy, of course, is “Unique is or it isn’t, just like you can’t be a little pregnant.” On the other hand, how often do you hear the acceptable hyperbole that someone is very pregnant—that is, she is far along in her pregnancy, possibly about to go into labor at any moment, and . . . look at that . . . time for the cigars. Sure, “very pregnant” isn’t precise; what hyperbole is?
And with that, I’ll sign off (very off), because I don’t want to beat the subject until it’s morally, ethically, spiritually, physically, positively, absolutely, undeniably, and reliably, not merely, really most sincerely dead.
Persnickitors would have it that you might incur a pox upon your lineage should you use the word and (or but or because or . . . yes, or) to begin a sentence. Rhythm be damned. Meaning be damned. Flow of ideas be damned. Rules are rules! And if you go swimming within an hour after beginning a sentence with a conjunction, or you’ll get cramps!
That’s why I’m pleased when I encounter reason regarding the language, and, in the case of today’s post, reason refuting the conjunction superstition. Michelle at the Write or Wrong blog provides insight into the intent of the conjunction guideline, and guideline it is, and no more.
Before adding a comment to Michelle’s post, I zipped over the the Oxford English Dictionary online to double-check the definition of conjunction. In the grammatical sense, quoth the OED, conjunction means “One of the Parts of Speech; an uninflected word used to connect clauses or sentences, or to co-ordinate words in the same clause.” (Emphasis added.)
But (oops) because (oops) I love words, I lingered on the OED’s other definitions of conjunction—to the delight of the Unfortunate English author in me. The earliest meaning of conjunction in English was generic “joining.” This led to a couple of obsolete figurative meanings of joining first recorded in the 1500s, including “marriage” and “copulation.”
So, let’s amend the “rule”: Don’t begin a sentence with a conjunction . . unless you’re writing porn.
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author in me. The earliest meaning of conjunction in English was generic “joining.” This led to a couple of obsolete figurative meanings of joining first recorded in the 1500s, including “marriage” and “copulation.”
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