August 1955 — Vol. 36, No. 8 — The Right Word
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The magic of words lies in the power they
have, when properly chosen and arranged, to convey to other
people what we wish them to know of what is in our minds.
Every word we write goes out on an errand. Skill in saying
what we mean so as to get the result we desire is not a literary
frill around the edges of business and social life. It is
an essential part of life, our only means of intellectual
contact with the world around us.
We have developed communication to a high technical standard.
We can talk with someone at the other side of the world, and
we can bounce a radar beam off the moon. But we may live to
enjoy these luxuries only if we learn to converse more effectively
with one another about such things as the atom bomb.
On the level of social and business life the ability to
communicate freely and intelligently is needed if our important
thoughts are to be well—formulated and carried into action.
All of us have experienced the provoking state of knowing
things of deep meaning but finding, when we came to express
them, that we forgot the words.
How superior in its efficiency and attractiveness is the
letter we receive from a man who uses dynamic words that give
needed information by contrast with the letter we receive
from a man who has the lazy habit of using limp words that
leave us doubtful about his meaning and inspire us not at
all.
The first question to ask one's self when starting dictation
in the morning or sitting down to write to a member of the
family is not "What words shall I use?" More pertinent questions
are: "Why am I going to write this letter? To please myself?.
So that the carbon copy will make a good impression on the
man higher up? To carry a thought of mine to the person I
am addressing?"
Words are a means of saying things. A sermon, an excuse
for failure to do something, an essay like this, a legal decision
or brief, a letter home, a tender for a million dollar order:
what are these but words? But they are words that the writers
have learned to put together in such a form as to accomplish
the purpose they have in mind.
The best word
There are two ways of appraising the rightness of a word:
by its effectiveness in saying exactly what we wish it to
say, and by its sound or its appearance. Some words, though
acceptable or passable in conversation, are not legal tender
in writing; other words, properly and effectively used in
writing, seem pretentious in conversation.
Quite often, the choice between a right and a wrong word
is not dictated by a book of reference but by the writer's
perception. Everyone of moderate education knows how words
that are associated with the commonplace grate on the eye
or ear when used in more formal or more tender communication.
This sensitiveness to the rightness of words can be developed.
It would be a mistake to become over—dainty. While
it is true that we benefit by knowing that words have ancestors
- Greek, Latin, Anglo—Saxon, and all other sorts - it
is not necessary to know a word's genealogical tree before
using it. Does it say what we mean? Is it appropriate in its
setting? Do we like it?
Our choice of words should not be dictated by hard—and—fast
rules. Letters and articles composed by people who follow
the book slavishly are likely to be accurately dull.
But it is well to have some rules. For example, the rule
about preferring short words to long is a good rule for general
occasions. When we have a choice between two words that convey
our meaning equally well, we should use the short and familiar
one. But the other word should not be rejected merely because
it is long and unusual if it is more fitting in meaning. It
is the inappropriate use of long words that causes trouble.
Good usage of words cannot be learned from dictionaries
and grammars, still less from a brief essay like this. Language
lives in use. To use a word well, and even forcibly, we do
not need to "know what it means" in the sense of being able
to say "this word means so—and—so." We do need more
than casual acquaintance with good literature, so that an
instinct toward the first—rate directs our choice.
Those who are interested in the structure of words and how
they are built into correct sentences will find much that
is useful in the Fowler books: H. W. and F. G. Fowler: The
King's English, and H. W. Fowler: A Dictionary of Modern
English Usage, published by the Oxford University Press.
About definitions
It has been remarked that some of our most exasperating
controversies would cease at once if one of the disputants
would take the time and have the courage to say precisely
and briefly what he understands by the terms that are being
used.
Is it not true that many an argument carried on face—to—face
or by letter fizzles out when the parties get to know what
each is talking about? So long as two people hold forth on
the level of their own ideas and neglect to find out how these
ideas mesh with the ideas of their opposition, just so long
will they tire themselves out and wear down stenographers
in futile disputation.
It isn't necessary to define everything, but only to define
things that may not be clear to either party, and to draw
pictures or plans when these will help both parties toward
understanding.
Definition is not in itself a final argument. A definition
is not true or false, except under the circumstances. An amusing
example is given in C. J. Herrick's The Thinking Machine:
"If I define a man as a biped without feathers, then a plucked
chicken is a man."
Definitions are useful starting points. They help us to
avoid fruitless argument. They restrain unintellectual people
from making themselves pests, and when we use definitions
in our thinking they help us to keep on the right track.
Broad vocabulary
The broader your vocabulary, the more deft you will be in
expressing yourself in simple language, and the more readily
you will pick up another's meaning without strain.
One does not need all the words in the language. Shakespeare
used only twenty—five thousand, Milton was content with
twelve thousand, and Chaucer had eight thousand: yet their
plays and poems and stories live on as models of clear, picturesque
writing.
Nor does one need great scholarship to give expression to
what is in him. John Bunyan, whose only book of learning was
the Bible, wrote The Pilgrim's Progress, which to this
day, though written in the 17th century, has been one of the
most widely read books. There is no "fine writing" in Bunyan's
work: it is in the plainest of language, fitting to its purpose.
Words change, and we need to revise our word—habits
from time to time if we are to keep pace with life and custom.
If language did not change, if words did not take on new meanings,
if events did not compel us to coin new words, we should all
be at the far end of a dead—end street. You could not
explain Einstein's theories to a university class in Aristotelian
Greek, or issue orders for the running of a mechanized factory
in Cicero's Latin, or apply for a line of credit in Molière's
dramatic French. Words are instruments for the expression
of current life—experiences, and vehicles for the communication
of ideas.
Every word we use was at first a stroke of genius. Even
the coldest, most matter—of—fact word of today was
once a glowing metaphor. The words that seem odd to us because
they are new will some day, if they are useful words, become
commonplace.
Rules for making and using words are not immutable natural
laws, but simply conventions among educated people. There
is an accepted standard of good language, and the fact that
it is always changing in keeping with changing social forces
is no reason for abandoning it. We have to keep looking over
our shoulder at the past if we are to retain our sense of
direction through the morass of slang, jargon, and the crude
lingo of newspaper headlines.
Two examples will show how words change under the impact
of widening knowledge or under the capriciousness of lax use.
Take "atomic". It means literally "indivisible" but has now
completely reversed its meaning. When we talk of atomic energy
we are thinking of nuclear fission. Thus we have, as Joshua
Whatmough points out in Studies in Honour of Gilbert Norwood
(University of Toronto Press), turned a negative into
a positive, almost as if "no" had come to mean "yes."
As an example of how language becomes disordered without
any apparent reason, consider the word "fact", a word called
"slippery" by James Bryant Conant, President of Harvard. It
came from the Latin, where its meaning was "a thing done or
performed", and that is its meaning in the Oxford Dictionary.
But "fact" has become so vague that it is no longer trusted
alone, and has to be guarded and supported by other words
such as "true, actual, real, honest". In common use, a satirical
person might say, my opinion is a fact, while your fact is
a theory.
Words are labels
Language is not knowledge, but merely a tool for learning.
Words are not things, but labels we put on things for their
ready identification.
In early days, words themselves took on magic power: like
"Open Sesame" swinging wide the door of Ali Baba's treasure
cave. In those days the link between a word and the person
or thing designated by it was a real and substantial bond.
Today, those who seek mature ways of thinking and writing
and speaking are continually aware of the dangers we encounter
in accepting the label for the thing, in using the same label
for two different things or ideas, or in using different labels
for things that are, in their essence, alike.
Some, seeking to teach young children, have adopted the
plan of saying "we call this" as a prefix to telling the name
of something: "we call this a pin, but that we call a button."
A moment's thought will convince us that such a statement
is much more correct than: "this is a pin and that is a button."
A word is not a thing, but the name of a thing. The marks
we make on paper are not motors, machines, desks, employees,
sadness, and happiness, but merely the names by which we know
these things. The thoughts we put on paper by the use of words
are not our beliefs, but footprints in the sand by which a
reader may see the way our minds go. The clearer we make our
words, the greater chance there is of the reader following
our footsteps closely.
Utility justifies our way of writing and talking, imperfect
though it may be. We either label or remain ignorant. We must
have names for things if we are to think of them. An essay
in The Language of Wisdom and Folly (Harper and Brothers,
New York) has this to say: "Can we be said to know what a
pigeon is unless we know that it is a pigeon?...if we are
not able to name it except vaguely as a 'bird', we seem to
be separated from it by an immense distance of ignorance."
There are more than two billion beings on this earth to
whom we apply the word "man." They have great variety of complexion,
features, age, habits and knowledge, but they have similarities
that make the word "man" appropriate to all. It becomes important,
if we are to segregate one person or a group of persons, that
we speak and write with some particularity. We name the person,
as "John Jones", or we name the group, as "Eskimoes", or we
differentiate in one way or another: by education, by religion,
by profession, by ethical standards (good or bad). All these
are useful, but we must keep in mind that they are only labels
used for convenience; they must not be regarded as telling
the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
Style
One's style of putting words together should be one's own.
As John Galsworthy, the English novelist, said in his foreword
to W. H. Hudson's Green Mansions: "To write well, even
to write clearly, is a woundy business, long to learn, hard
to learn, and no gift of the angels."
The writer's purpose, whether he is composing an immortal
ode or the reply to a letter from a critical customer, is
to convey an idea with the smallest possible obstacle to the
flow of thought between mind and mind.
When we succeed in making ourselves clear, that is splendid,
but most of us will wish to do better: we should like to make
our meaning clear in a pleasing way; to bring a certain sort
of sunshine into our writing. We cannot do that by using dingy
words.
The value of a piece of gold jeweller)" is made up of two
parts, the value of the gold and the value of the workmanship.
Similarly, the worth of a piece of writing is made up of its
intrinsic material - the thought - and the skill with which
the words describing it are put together. The skill is not
skill in copying. We shouldn't try to write like Churchill,
but we are quite justified in trying to write as effectively
as Churchill would write if he were doing our jobs.
Don't polish too highly. There comes a point beyond which
additional sandpapering merely weakens your words and sentences.
The Pilgrim's Progress is composed in the lowest style
of English. If you were to polish it you would at once destroy
its reality. For example, to "polish up" the extract from
Bunyan's book that is sculptured on the altar in the memorial
chamber in Canada's Parliament Buildings would ruin it: "so
he passed over, and all the trumpets sounded for him on the
other side."
Three virtues
There are three qualities needed in words: accuracy, clarity
and simplicity.
Having collected the best evidence to support what we are
to write (for we cannot divorce accurate language from accurate
thought) then we must take care to clothe our ideas and images
in precise words.
The second quality is a "must". The more clearly we write,
though at the expense of a little time and some pains, the
more easily and surely we will be understood. If we flow muddily,
too careless or too lazy to spend the time and endure the
labour of clarifying our stream of thoughts, we must not expect
our readers to catch all our intended meanings.
The core of what we wish to say may be eaten out by use
of abstract words. Even if we have a soft spot in our hearts
for abstract nouns like fraternity, peace, prosperity, and
goodwill, we have to bring our letters and our talk within
the bounds of people who are interested in realities.
We must write within the word knowledge of our audience,
if we are to make sure of being properly understood. Edgar
Dale, writing in The News Letter, published by the
Bureau of Educational Research of Ohio State University, tells
an amusing illustrative story: "A little girl told her mother
that the superintendent of the Sunday school said he would
drop them into the furnace if they missed three Sundays in
succession. He had said that he would drop them from the register."
To take pains to write simply may seem to be catering to
the indolence of the reader at the expense of the fatigue
of the writer. But if the writer wishes to convey ideas satisfactorily,
what other choice has he? And if he doesn't wish to convey
ideas correctly, why write?
If you must use a hard word, make your context illuminate
it. In both business and private life we are bound to come
upon circumstances in which a complexity must be dealt with.
Then is when you specially need to search your memory, and
perhaps a book of synonyms, for words to make your meaning
clear.
Many persons will learn with surprise the result of an inquiry
by the Florida Health Officers Society into people's understanding
of twenty words commonly used in health discussions. Of the
100 persons questioned, only 46 knew the meaning of "citrus
fruit," only 33 knew the word "nutrition," and the word "maternity"
meant nothing more than a kind of dress to most of the women
patients.
Be specific and concrete
To be specific is to take a big step toward being understood.
Make your nouns and verbs tell precisely what you are talking
about and what action you expect.
So long as we prefer generalizations and abstractions to
concrete words which lie as close to things themselves as
our minds can reach, we will remain, says Sir Arthur Quiller—Couch
in his book On the Art of Writing, at the best, writers
at second—hand.
Sometimes we have no choice, but when we must use an abstract
word it is nearly always possible to clarify it in nearby
concrete words. "Observe," says Quiller—Couch, "how,
when Shakespeare has to use the abstract noun 'concealment',
on an instant it turns into a visible worm 'feeding' on the
visible rose; how, having to use a second abstract word 'patience',
at once he solidifies it in tangible stone." (Twelfth Night
II iv 112)
Self—examination will reveal whether a tendency to
use abstractions is caused by careless diction or by timidity.
The vagueness of abstract words is one of the reasons for
their popularity. To express one's thoughts accurately is
hard work, and to be precise is sometimes dangerous.
Sir Ernest Gowers remarks in his ABC of Plain Words:
"To resist this temptation, and to resolve to make your meaning
plain to your reader even at the cost of some trouble to yourself,
is more important than any other single thing if you would
convert a flabby style into a crisp one."
On being workmanlike
Words are forceful or weak, judged by the accuracy with
which they do their work. Not every occasion calls for a dynamic
word. If you use too liberally words like vital, urgent, danger,
crisis, disaster, fatal, grave, and essential, they lose their
force. Then you are tempted to put "very" in front of some,
and to telescope others nonsensically, like "urgently and
gravely essential." Find the strongest word warranted by the
occasion, and let it stand on its feet without adjectival
or adverbial support.
Anyone seeking to write clearly, accurately, and with a
touch of grace will avoid the use of superfluous adjectives.
It is a good habit to go over a piece of composition and challenge
every adjective: make it declare its usefulness.
Some business people who have been successful in promoting
sales have found that a plain statement, seeming to lack sophistication,
laughed at by competitors for its simplicity, has done its
work effectively.
When we move from business to private life for examples,
we see how much better a simple, known, word is than one that
has a more lordly air: how much more at ease we feel after
getting a hearty welcome than after being granted a cordial
reception; how much more comfortable we are with friendship,
rather than with amity, with love rather than with charity:
how much happier we are with happiness than with felicity.
The most important question we can ask ourselves about a
word is this: is it doing the job as efficiently and as brightly
as another word might do?
Our letters and reports need not be literary masterpieces,
but they must be workmanlike. Let us write in keeping with
our theme and purpose, finding the right word to convey the
meaning that is in our minds, avoiding exaggeration and over—emphasis.
Let us remember that words are only labels and that these
labels must mean the same to our readers as to us. Let us
tell ourselves every morning at the beginning of dictation
time that the many—voiced monotony of business letters
and reports is unnecessary.
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