Used thoughtfully, figures of speech can enrich and enliven our writing. But when laid on too thick, stretched beyond recognition, bent out of shape, or mixed like a Mai Tai…
This week we join Yale University in marking the 250th birthday of alumnus Noah Webster. Born in West Hartford, Connecticut on October 16, 1758, Webster is remembered today for his magnum opus, An American Dictionary of the English Language (1828). But as David Micklethwait reveals in Noah Webster and the American Dictionary (McFarland, 2005), lexicography wasn’t Webster’s only great passion, and the dictionary wasn’t his best-selling book.
And now for something completely different, we call on those renowned rhetoricians John Cleese, Terry Gilliam, Eric Idle, Terry Jones, Michael Palin, and the unforgivably late Graham Chapman. Known to fans of British comedy as Monty Python, these six snarky scholars have contributed more to the field of language studies than–well, than Benny Hill, for instance.
We continue our fall campaign to cut the clutter by honoring ten common words. Unfortunately, these words are so common that some writers try to avoid their company, favoring longer expressions that mean the same thing. Shorter isn’t always better–but often it is.
Have you ever tried to explain to a four-year-old child why two feet aren’t foots, or two mice aren’t mouses? Of course the appropriate grownup response to such questions is, “Uh, that’s just the way it is. And why aren’t you watching TV?”
Among the ancient textbooks that crowd my shelves (books, I’m told, that should have been ditched or donated long ago) is one by Evelyn May Albright that’s simply titled Descriptive Writing (Macmillan, 1911). The opening lines of Albright’s introduction strike an apologetic note, but that soon gives way to a more appreciative air:
Here, from our Glossary of Commonly Confused Words, are ten tricky word pairs that look and sound alike but have different meanings.
Today’s guest blogger is Brian O’Nolan, who from 1939 until his death in 1966 commanded a satiric weekly column for The Irish Times called “Cruiskeen Lawn.” Under the pen name Myles na Gopaleen (sometimes na gCopaleen), he wrote fancifully in Irish, English, or Latin (depending on his mood) on matters related to life, literature, and–our favorite–language.
Eliza Doolittle (you might know her from the musical version, My Fair Lady) may not want to talk about grammar, but if she wishes to speak (or write) at all she certainly must use grammar. At least that’s the case if we accept the linguistic definition of grammar as a system of words and sentence patterns that a person acquires when learning a language. As Professor Higgins reminds us, “It’s the greatest possession we have.”