With Barack Obama speaking eloquently of a promise of change, we’ll quickly hear a group of reactionaries fretting about one thing Obama said in his election night speech: enormity.
Those reactionaries are the folks I call the persnickitors, the ones whose blood pressure approaches geyser strength when they spot language use they consider wrong. Their certain target:
I know you didn’t do this just to win an election and I know you didn’t do it for me. You did it because you understand the enormity of the task that lies ahead. For even as we celebrate tonight, we know the challenges that tomorrow will bring are the greatest of our lifetime—two wars, a planet in peril, the worst financial crisis in a century.
“It’s not enormity!” they will spout. “It’s enormousness! What an egregious language error!” And indeed, enormity is regularly misused to indicate massive size when its actual meaning is “gross or monstrous offense or crime.”
But it is, after all, a time of change. I prefer that we use enormity in its most powerful meaning, yet I concede that the word’s meaning might very well be changing. Because it already has changed.
Enormous and enormity of course result from the same roots, meaning “outside the norm,” a figurative use of norm, meaning “a mason’s pattern.” The original meaning of enormity was, on the order of enormous, a less-harsh “something outside the norm.” And, by the way, one meaning of enormous in its original use was “outrageously outside the norm, monstrous, or shocking.”
So is using enormity to mean enormousness an egregious error? To many, it is. But to that many, I’ll also point out that egregious (in an ancient instance of e- prefixes having nothing to do with internet commerce or mail) comes from Latin roots meaning “outside the herd”—and it originally meant “remarkably good.”
The Republicans’ attempt to make the case that Barack Obama is hoity-toity and they’re hoi polloi has fallen under the sheer weight of the stunning numbers
That’s Maureen Dowd. Hoi polloi from the Greek literally means “the many.” Hoity-toity, a duplicative (think flimflam, dillydally, etc.) means, to put it informally, “all uppity and stuff.” And Dowd gets them both right.
Hoi polloi is often misused to mean the phrase’s very opposite—”the elite”—likely because of comparison or confusion with the similar-sounding hoity-toity. In an odd way, hoity-toity has experienced a similar reversal, though in the opposite direction. Hoity-toity, meaning “putting on airs” in a mocking sense, results from the verb hoit, which means, roughly, “to act the hoyden”—to be rude and boorish. Which is an accusation that the hoity-toity might be prone to assign to the hoi polloi.
(And if you persnickitors are going to grouse that “the hoi polloi” is redundant, bring it on. I’m ready for you.)
I’ve visited the Motivated Grammar blog here before. Intelligent posts, interestingly written. Plus, a dead-on informational page, simply titled “Arguments.” By way of introduction:
There are a lot of arguments bandied about as rationales for any given grammar prescription. Most of them are spurious, but a few have some merit. . . . the best way to refute a prescriptivist’s argument is to simultaneously show them that their argument is ill-founded, but even if they persist with that ill-founded argument, they’re still wrong.
My favorite summation in the list of Arguments: “Language is not math.” To which I cheer, “Hear! Hear!” (in rhyme, no less).
Wake up, kiddies. Time to open your parens (short for parentheses in the publishing world) under the punctuation tree. But remember, this day, some of Brohaugh’s important punctuation rules:
Use exclamation points sparingly. As I’ve often said, two exclamation points side by side resemble the crutches that they are.
Always jam a hyphen into the anal-retentive. As I’ve mentioned before, the slogan “There is a hyphen in anal-retentive” (which persnickitors know well, as many of them walk as if the hyphen is firmly placed in personal regions) is available on T-shirts and other paraphernalia at nationalpunctuationday.com.
Ignore persnickitors who demand elliptical adherence to the rule that ellipses are used only to indicate deleted words. Punctuation began as a timing device . . . cheer the beauty of ellipses as a timing element, particularly when you want a sentence to trail off with an unstated implication . . .
Adhere to the rule that “Apostrophe use must be organic.” The technical use of the apostrophe is, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, “The aggregation of protoplasm and chlorophyll-grains on the cell-walls adjacent to other cells, as opposed to epistrophe when they collect on the free cell-walls.” So when a persnickitor screams about it’s as a possessive, just open to the biggest dictionary in the world and point to this page that . . . oh, sorry, I was looking at the wrong page.
Remember that colons are poorly stacked ellipses. The third spilled ellipsis rolled around until it stopped, and became a period. None of this is true and has nothing to do with punctuation, but the idea is fun to remember, anyway.
Use quotation to, um, quote. Quotation marks quote and quotation marks mock in varying degrees. Quotation marks do not shout.
Ponder upon the fact that slash marks are technically known as “virgules.” People who point this out are technically known as “language geeks.” (Doesn’t a virgule sound like an evil supernatural creature in a Laurell Hamilton novel? They could be supernatural slashers! . . . )
Always punctuate National Punctuation Day with a ® symbol. Cuz.
Never start a sentence with a comma. Except for sometimes.
The economy being what it is, retailers across the country are breaking out the holiday-themed merchandise ever earlier. Halloween displays went up around St. Patrick’s Day, Back-to-School displays went up three weeks before graduation day, and I believe I just saw the first display for Christmas of 2009. Or so it seems.
But, alas, you’re probably behind on your shopping for National Punctuation Day, right around the corner on Sept. 24th. Not me. I’ve already erected my punctuation tree. I have to admit to using a dollar sign ($) instead of the traditional whatchamacallit-A (Å) for my tree. Yes, the tree I use is artificial, but it’s so much easier to erect and store than the natural trees, and either way, the most important moment is topping the tree with that little star (which all you Punctuation Day carolers know from “O Aster Isk of Bethlehem”). I’ve decorated the front of the house with strings of comma lights (my wife claims that they are actually BBQ-themed lights in the shape of red peppers, but I think she has an overactive imagination). Oh, and the ampersands are hung o’er the fireplace with care in hopes that Santubordinate Clause soon will be there.
This National Punctuation Day, I’m hoping to find a special T-shirt under the punctuation tree. It says “Is there a hyphen in anal-retentive?”, and unlike my silliness above, that very T-shirt exists. It’s one of several fun products from the official National Punctuation Day web site. Such slogans are available on greeting cards, posters and “latte mugs” in addition to T-shirts. Delight your beloved anal-retentive persnickitors with such a goodie on Punctuation Day morning or Punctuation Day eve, depending on your individual traditions.
However, beware that Punctuation Day celebrants sometimes have vastly different belief systems. More on that anon, as we approach the big day, baking our period-shaped Punctuation Day cookies and popping popcorn for the tree’s ellipses garlands….
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.
File under “Jeff and Benjie Go to White Watchtower”
My Everything You Know About English Is Wrong spends a bit of time railing against the persnickitors, the ones whose forehead veins begin to vibrantly throb when they spot a split infinitive (there’s one now! killit! killit!), the ones the ones who attack informal language with an “I don’t like it and therefore you must be punished” attitude, those who believe that a correctly placed apostrophe trumps the importance of historical heritage.
Specific to the latter group, we introduce Jeff Deck and Benjamin Herson, of the Typo Eradication Advancement League, or TEAL. This Pair O’Persnickitation recently toured the country correcting signage and other public displays of misinformed grammar and punctuation, with an unfortunate stop at Grand Canyon National Park. There they visited the historic Desert View Watchtower, designed by Mary Elizabeth Jane Colter and built in 1932. Notes ScienceViews.com, “A perfectionist, Colter scrutinized every detail, down to the placement of nearly every stone. Each stone was handpicked for size and appearance. Weathered faces were left untouched to give the tower an ancient look. With a lavish, highly publicized dedication ceremony, the Watchtower opened in May 1933.”
Colter wasn’t perfectionist enough for our Redactyl Pair. Inside, according to court affidavits (yes! legal proceedings!), Redactyls Deck and Herson found a sign hand-painted by Colter herself. Writes the AP: “Authorities said a diary written by Deck reported that while visiting the watchtower, he and Herson ‘discovered a hand-rendered sign inside that, I regret to report, contained a few errors.’” Oh dear! Such regret! What’s the solution? Perhaps an accompanying handmade sign gently placed next to the original suggesting how it might appear with proper punctuation? No no! We’re talking “eradication” here. Hmm. Yellow lettering on a black background. A marker can eradicate that misplaced apostrophe! A little typewriter correction fluid can insert the apostrophe in its proper place! A comma here . . . ! Such masterful brushstrokes! Redactorial Matisses are we!
Well, they probably didn’t say precisely that, but I suspect their thinking came close. Colter’s sign also misspelled immense as emense, which the AP reports was not fixed because, wrote Mr. Deck:
I was reluctant to disfigure the sign any further. . . . Still, I think I shall be haunted by that perversity, emense, in my train-whistle-blighted dreams tonight.
It’s tough times for the language when people must lose sleep over not defacing national heritage enough.
Back to the affidavits and those authorities getting all persnickitorial about those things known as “laws,” Deck and Herson’s editorial adventure led to their pleading guilty to conspiracy to vandalize government property. They get to pay $3,035 dollars to have Colter’s sign restored (oh, how many train-whistle-blighted nightmares are to ensue? oh, the emensity!). Tag on a year of probation, in which the pair cannot enter national parks, nor can they modify any public signs. A year from now—hey, have at!
Adherence to conventions of grammar and punctuation is a noble pursuit, but in this case, and in many cases where we must allow a changing language, informal layers of communication, and plain ol’ human foibles, sometimes ya just gotta let it slide.
Meantime, the AP reports:
The TEAL Web site now has only this message — “Statement on the signage of our National Parks and public lands to come” — without a period.
We await your statement, Mssrs. Deck and Herson. We trust you will be eloquent in your apology.
Next up—Jeff and Benjie go to the National Archives!
“This is unconscionable! I can’t believe they misspelled British as Brittish! And any whistle-blighted mooncalf knows that you must capitalize United in United States. And hey, Founding Fatheads, we don’t spell it Congrefs anymore—get a dictionary! Nice pen-work, Benjie. And . . . huh? What’s Nicolas Cage doing here?”
Here’s my dilemma: Do I link to the specious advice I’m about to quote and therefore give it “just-spell-my-name-right” promotion, or do I refuse to even mention the source and rely on your trust that I’m not making it up? Or, a third undesirable choice: Do I disguise the source and dodge the issue entirely?
Oh, wait—a third less-than-optimal choice. I don’t have a dilemma; I have a quandary.
Or so the specious advice I’m about to quote would have it:
The words quandary and dilemma can be confused. A quandary is a difficult decision between many things. “She found herself in a quandary when all three of her boyfriends proposed marriage in the same week.” A dilemma is a difficult choice between two things. For example, “Caught in a major dilemma, she couldn’t decide if she should marry one of them or skip town.”
The only justifiable statement in that quote is “The words quandary and dilemma can be confused.” As demonstrated by how the author has confused them.
Yes, the di- in dilemma communicates “two.” From the Greek, a lemma is a proposition, and a dilemma two propositions. But because we don’t speak Greek and because language changes (it does! honest!) the word can now take broader meaning. In rhetoric, says the OED, a dilemma is “A form of argument involving an adversary in the choice of two (or, loosely, more) alternatives, either of which is (or appears) equally unfavourable to him.” If we’re going to insist that dilemma be used unchanged, then let’s apply the law of Xtreme Etymological Stasis (Xes) and insist that three difficult choices should be a trilemma. Try that one in everyday conversation sometime.
I wonder if the idea of the etymologically unrelated word quandary meaning “more than two” doesn’t come from extispic etymology (divination by examination of the entrails of a dissected word) and assuming that quan- means, um, “four.” Actually, no one’s sure how quandary originated, but none of the suggested etymologies involve numbers.
Such persnickitorial edicts—even when they are grounded in history or logic, which many persnickitorial edicts simply are not—elevate process over communication. Dilemma and quandary are simply synonyms with distinct implications. They impart subtle shifts in meaning and intensity; they speak with different sound. If dilemma properly evokes the level of severity of deciding among three options, then, simply, dilemma is the right word.
Also lost and/or confused in the example is that both these words suggest that the options are unpleasant. In the example, the three boyfriends must have been jerks if deciding which to marry induced quandary. (Then again, the woman was contemplating skipping town rather than marrying any of them, which would affirm that assumption).
So, back to my dilemma (yes, dilemma) about which of three choices to make: I’ve opted for the first. This is advice adapted from Vocabulary for Dummies. Make of it what you will.
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