Limning Language

This is a blog about language.
My sister compelled me to make it.

E-mail me.

Adverbially...

Astute readers might have noticed that, fitting with the ‘iloveadverbs’ URL (chosen by my sister), every post on this blog is titled with an adverb. I must admit that I got this idea from the book Adverbs by Daniel Handler (also the author of the vocabulary enriching children’s books A Series of Unfortunate Events). Disappointingly, Adverbs is actually not about adverbs at all, but the chapters are called ‘Immediately’, ‘Obviously’, ‘Arguably’, etc.

There is also a chapter called ‘Often’, which I imagine has caused confusion for some readers. Many people believe that all adverbs end in -ly. Indeed, the -ly morpheme (the smallest meaningful part of a word) is extremely productive, turning just about any adjective into an adverb, as seen in this excellent video from The Electric Company.

No other morpheme specifically denotes adverbhood besides the ‘very useful’ -ly. There are, in contrast, lots of morphemes that indicate nounhood: -hood, -ment, -ity, -ness, etc. Such is the association between -ly and adverbs, that words such as contumely, which ends in -ly but is a noun, can sound a bit odd. That said, adverbs don’t have to end in -ly. In this Schoolhuse Rock video, for instance, there and now and the intensifiers very and rather are correctly identified as adverbs, though otherwise it’s relatively -ly heavy.

Other non -ly adverbs include always, soon, well, and fast. But how to identify an adverb if it doesn’t end in -ly? Figuring out whether words ‘deal with manner, place, time, condition, reason, comparison, contrast’ gets confusing. A more reliable way to determine that a word lacking an -ly ending is an adverb is to try replacing it with a known adverb. Thus poorly can grammatically be substituted for well.

(1) Angus understood adverbs {poorly/well}.

Of course, in many dialects people do not pronounce the -ly ending at all, using the same forms for adjectives and adverbs. But that’s a different story altogetherly.

 

Inadvertently...

Not only do neologisms arise all the time in everyday language, but words are also consciously created for marketing or branding reasons. Many of these have even become popular enough to gain an equal footing with more generic terms: Americans Xerox instead of photocopying, while Britons Hoover instead of vacuuming (though Hoover was actually someone’s name, not an arbitrary advertising coinage).

Of course, not any haphazard combination of sounds will do. Brand names have to conform to the phonetic requirements of a given language. Thus, calling something a Vrelo would be okay in French, and Tlag might be acceptable in Tlingit. However, despite being perfectly pronounceable, these names won’t cut it for English-speakers, as their initial consonant clusters aren’t permitted in the phonetics of English.

There’s also the question of how much neologisms evoke words that already exist. Often brand names intentionally incorporate words or sounds meant to give the customer a particular impression: Kleenex echoes clean, and Jell-O, gelatine. French Connection U.K. also had great success with their cheeky anagram acronym.

Sometimes, though, similarity to other terms has clearly not been considered thoroughly. The other day a friend showed a group of people a car racing simulation computer game he’d recently bought. An enthusiastic slogan was printed in a red circle on the back of the package.

Welcome to the world of RaceSims!

And yes, we all misread it. Even pronounced out loud it doesn’t fare much better. What a shame no one came up with RacingSims instead; They could have avoided inadvertently implying that the game might be about bigotry.


Howlingly...

A friend sent me an etymological question last week.

I was wondering today. If you blend hoot with owl, you have howl. This almost seems like a blend to me, except that non-owl animals also howl, like wolves. What do you make of this phenomena?

In linguistics, the term ‘blend’ refers to a word that is formed from (incomplete) bits of other words. Smog, from smoke and fog is a classic example, particularly evocative because smog actually consists of smoke and fog blended together.

Howl could phonetically be a blend of hoot and owl. My initial instinct, though, was that howl had no relation to owl, as I do not think that owls howl. According to the OED, though, howling was once associated with owls.

howl, v.
1. intr. To utter a prolonged, loud, and doleful cry, in which the sound of u prevails. Said of dogs, wolves, and various wild animals; formerly also of the owl (now said to screech or hoot).

According to the etymological information, however, howl is not a blend.

ME. ?hulen, houlen = MDu. hûlen, Du. huilen, MHG. hûlen, hiulen, Ger. heulen: of echoic origin.

I then wondered whether the two words could have influenced each other by analogy. It turned out, though, that I was simply looking at things the wrong way around; Howl doesn’t come from owl, but owl comes from howl. Again, from the OED.

owl, n.
a Germanic base of imitative origin, derived from the typical hooting call of many species (compare HOWL n.)

Even better, an alternative term for owl is howlet. Thus, the relationship between howl and owl shows how a term can shift semantically (howling no longer means the sound an owl makes, at least not to me), but leave residue of its former meaning.


Orthographically Again...

Apparently, quite a lot of people heard about the recommended discontinuation of the ‘i before e’ rule I wrote about yesterday. Language Log now has a post about it (there’s even a link to where the original governmental report can be downloaded).

Also, it came up at a birthday gathering I was at last night. One person commented that a teacher had once told him that all rules have exceptions; Otherwise, the rule is not really a rule, but simply the way things are. Hence the concept, I suppose, of ‘the exception that proves the rule’.

This idea speaks, I think, to the difference between acquisition (language) and learning (orthography). One could argue that language does have rules, and the concurrent exceptions (e.g. the English past tense, as I mentioned yesterday). Indeed, the study of linguistics involves investigating and explaining what these rules are. On another level, though, for the child learner the language simply is the way it is. Consequently, the typical native speaker of a language often can’t explain even the simplest things about how it works. Orthography, on the other hand, has a sense of artificiality. It doesn’t come naturally to children in the same way as language. And yet, even with its irregularities, spelling is much less complex than grammar.

Perhaps this characterisation of language and orthography is an oversimplification, but I found the question of what makes a rule a rule an interesting one.


Orthographically...

From ‘Schools to rethink “i before e”’ published on the BBC yesterday.

The spelling mantra “i before e except after c” is no longer worth teaching, according to the government. Advice sent to teachers says there are too few words which follow the rule and recommends using more modern methods to teach spelling to schoolchildren.

As my grade eight English teacher used to say ‘Spelling is not an indicator of intelligence, but if you can’t spell properly, people will think you’re stupid.’ So why shouldn’t children be taught ‘i before e’ type tricks to aid in a task that essentially consists of memorisation? In fact, it’s clear from the comments section that many people can still recall the helpful spelling hints that they learned in school (or, better yet, made up themselves). I myself benefited from a mnemonic that my mother invented to help me learn how to spell my surname (which has 9 letters, including a deviant ei combination). Moreover, as a proponent points out in the article, ‘i before e’ could be a good starting point for a discussion: words that fit the rule, neighbour/weigh exceptions, exceptions that don’t sound like a, words like herein where the i and e are in different syllables, the different sounds that ie and ei can make, etc. After all, as much as the ‘i before e’ rule applies inconsistently, I doubt that would we refuse to tell children that the past tense of English verbs ends in -ed (not that they don’t figure this out themselves during language acquisition) because there are lots of verbs that have irregular past tense forms.

Some would argue, of course, that English spelling is just too difficult. For instance, chairman of the Spelling Society Jack Bovill (who should perhaps be rechristened Jak Bovil) apparently told the BBC that ‘it would be helpful if spelling was allowed to evolve’.

Language, of course, evolves all the time. Spelling, though it does change, is much more conservative (consider that we now say ‘nite’, but typically still write ‘night’). In essence, writing is secondary to speech: it is actively learned rather than acquired, and you don’t have to be literate in a language to know it. Orthographic variation is thus not accepted or disseminated* in the same way as actual language variation.

As it turns out, though, what the Spelling Society advocates is not spelling evolution, or even letting people spell as they wish, but standardised spelling reform. However, orthography, even if it is not language itself, can still tell us about the history of a language, and relationships between words that don’t necessarily sound alike, but have similar origins or meanings (such as sign and signature, as discussed by Steven Pinker in his book The Language Instinct). Any spelling reform might therefore actually impede our understanding of language in some respects. Furthermore, while it would perhaps be reasonable to give leeway to variant spellings (leading to true spelling evolution), systematically updating our orthography on a frequent basis would not necessarily cause less confusion than leaving it somewhat irregular. There is also not necessarily anything intrinsically more straightforward about one spelling or another: If, for example, we codified acomodate lots of people would then go and get it wrong by writing accommodate.

Alas, maybe I’m just too attached to my spelling mnemonics.


*I must admit that I had some hesitation over whether disseminated had one s or two, and checked a dictionary.


Elliptically...

Speakers often leave out words or phrases that have already been used in the same sentence or a previous one. Syntacticians call this ‘ellipsis’. For instance, (1)b. is a perfectly acceptable alternative to (1)a., while (2)b., c., d., e., and f. are all probably more likely (and certainly more succinct) answers than (2)a.

(1)
a. Maisie’s a dog, but I’m not a dog.
b. Maisie’s a dog, but I’m not.

(2)

Question: Will you go to the shops this evening and get some bananas, milk, bread, cheese, and haggis?
a. Yes, I will go to the shops this evening and get some bananas, milk, bread, cheese, and haggis.
b. Yes, I will get some bananas, milk, bread, cheese, and haggis.
c. Yes, I will go to the shops this evening.
d. Yes, I will go to the shops.

e. Yes, I will go.
f. Yes, I will.

This brings me to a sign I noticed today while seeing a friend off at the train station. It had the usual warnings about leaving bags unattended (they might be mistaken for explosives, people might steal them, etc.). At the bottom was an apparent attempt at pithy admonition:

If you don’t keep hold of your belongings, someone else might.

By rights, without ellipsis the second part of the sentence would be ‘someone else might keep hold of your belongings’. But keeping hold of belongings is only something one does if one has them already; It does not encompass walking off with someone else’s. Of course, without ellipsis some brevity is lost:

If you don’t keep hold of your belongings, someone else might abscond with them
(and then you’ll be awfully sorry that you didn’t take us seriously).

With a better choice of phrase, though, the ellipsis could be saved:

If you don’t take charge of your belongings, someone else might.

And so I rest my case(s).

Suitcases


(Un)Happily...

On my way home the other day I spotted an adolescent girl wearing a T-shirt printed with the following declaration:

HAPPY ABOUT NOTHING

‘How cheerful!’ I thought. After a few moments’ contemplation, however, I realised that said slogan might in fact be an expression of angst. Was this girl, in fact, proclaiming that nothing made her happy? Or, as I had originally interpreted it, that she was just happy for no particular reason?

I turned to Google in an effort to sort out my bewilderment (and perhaps find out where to buy my own ambiguwear). Alas, all I discovered was that, probably unbeknownst to the girl wearing the T-shirt, ‘Happy About Nothing’ is an allusion to an Andy Warhol quote, as seen on this nice poster.

You have to be willing to get happy about nothing

Andy, it seems, was no less ambiguous than the T-shirt, though I suspect he was going for the positive angle. Furthermore, as my friend E pointed out, there are actually two optimistic interpretations: one in which the happiness is about nothing in general, and one in which the happiness is about a specific nothing (compare to Happy About Something, where Something can also have a general or specific interpretation).

Sadly, I didn’t stop and ask the T-shirt wearer what she was going for. Then again, maybe she didn’t know either.


Debatably...

I am currently visiting my parents in Maryland, and came across this cartoon in the local paper the other day.

For Better or For Worse Moot

Moot is an auto-antonym, meaning that it has two contradictory uses. As in the third panel, moot is often used to describe something that is not open or pertinent to debate. It’s original meaning, though, is ‘debatable’. The second woman thus appears not only to be disagreeing with her friend on the relevance of her singleness, but also to be making a little linguistic commentary in the process. Auto-antonyms show just how drastically language can change. Not only is moot now used in a way contrary to its original meaning, but the newer interpretation has, for many speakers, eclipsed the old. Indeed, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, this is ‘Now the usual sense in North America’. I personally was not even aware of the ‘debatable’ definition for moot until it came up in a vocabulary list when I was in high school. Eventually, the older meaning of this word may become obsolete. But I suppose that’s moot.


Prolixly...

My friend A has kindly been scouting out linguistically interesting signs for me. He recently sent along a couple of photos. The first is of a sign located outside some sort of new age shop.

Free Free

Apparently, the candle purveyors are at great pains to stress that the candle snuffer is, in fact, free. While either instance of free would have been sufficient on its own, it is notable that they are distinct grammatically. The first free is an adjective, describing the candle snuffer (it costs nothing), while the second is an adverbial, describing the way the customer will receive the candle snuffer (at no cost).

[I am also intrigued by the string of modifiers preceding candle; Luxury Natural Magic Organic Candle suggests almost as many interpretations as Red Sea Food Store.]

The second photo is of a notice outside a church.

escept only

Again, this sign demonstrates that using more words does not necessarily lead to greater clarity. Except for Permit Holders would have conveyed the intended message; There is no need to specify that they are the only exception, since people who encounter this injunction have no reason to believe that that there are other exceptions, unless that have been made explicit. Permit Holders Only would also have been sufficient, though NO PARKING Permit Holders Only perhaps sounds slightly contradictory.

In essence, then, while both signs are grammatically sound, they do not ‘avoid unnecessary prolixity’, and thereby fail pragmatically.


Translationally...

Facebook wants to know: ‘Do you speak English (UK)?’.

I assume it’s asking me this because I’ve told it I live in Britain. Indeed, several of my friends have commented that they, too, have been asked to ‘Help translate Facebook into English (UK) so that it can be used by people all over the world, in all languages.’

I’m all for linguistic pluralism, and giving everyone the opportunity to use Facebook (or Google, or whatever else) in their own language. In some instances (spell-check comes to mind), it may be helpful to have several different settings for dialects of the same language. At the same time, it seems somewhat unnecessary to have separate versions of Facebook for different varieties of English, given that they’re mutually intelligible. Most U.K. English speakers are pretty adept at navigating American English (and vice versa), but, even if they weren’t, there are precious few phrases on Facebook that wouldn’t already work on both sides of the pond. In fact, the most blatantly American thing I could find was the use of college to mean university. Such a difficulty might be eradicated by aiming for an international standard: in this case, they could opt for university, since to Americans university still means ‘university’ (even if they would typically say college), while to people in many other places college is something different.

I’m also now wondering how thoroughly Facebook is covering different dialects. Are there to be translations into English (Canadian) and English (Australian)? Will they be covering all the different varieties of Spanish and French and Arabic? And what about variation within countries? Will we be seeing English (Scotland) and English (California)?

All in all, I don’t think it’s worth users’ time to help Facebook translate between Englishes.