Thursday, 2 July 2009

In Praise of Pedantry

My title points, not to my own attitude towards pedantry, but to that of Oliver Kamm, whose new column on the subject was launched in The Times on Monday. He is a nephew of Martin Bell and lists among his relatives such illustrious folk as Adrian Bell, the novelist and compiler of the first Times Crossword and Anthea Bell, translator of the Asterix Cartoon.

In his introductory article he described pedantry as an obsession with linguistic precision. It prizes form over style. In support of Pedantry he noted that: Language is constantly changing, and a common form of change is decline. He is correct on both points. In the slow evolutionary climb of complex life from the primal slime, for example, the many billions of random changes that must have occurred in the organisms involved were almost all of them dead ends or retroressive steps. Almost all, but the few and far between changes that bestowed an advantage outweighed the rest in importance. Those that led to decline had, perhaps, their few days and then died out. Those that conferred some improvement, thrived and strengthened the herd or the tribe.

Kamm gave a few examples of what he might be on about over future weeks:The useful word "disinterested", meaning impartial, he wrote, is now widely used as a synonym for uninterested. Furthermore: When you hear the phrase "there is no question that" you need to guess from the context whether the speaker means (wrongly) "it is certain that" or (correctly) the opposite. All these linguistic changes involve loss. Well they do, but he with his literary connections, I woud have thought, might be well placed to realise that more is required of a language than just accuracy, which seems to be his one big thing. Of course, there are forms of writing where accuracy is the one over-riding consideration, but there are others, poetry being one, in which ambiguity is the life blood. And if, as he says, these forms and/or meanings are now widely used, then surely it is the case that they have been adopted as valid forms or meanings by the common usage of which he complains. What worries me is that he stated in his column that This column will deal with language and will prescribe usage.

Kamm did concede at one point that although Conventions in the use of language encourage clarity, there is no merit in conformity for its own sake. For example, more people complain about split infinitves than can explain what is grammatically wrong with them. The reason is that there is nothing wrong with a split infinitive except (usually) avoidable ugliness. Even then there are exceptions: "to boldly go" is a more evocative phrase than to go boldly, as anyone used to reading aloud would recognise. He then went on to speak of the similar case of the final preposition, pointing out that: There are many sentences in English that naturally end with a preposition where it is part of a phrasal verb (to find out; to look up).

That last example reminded me of a story that is told of Winston Churchill. His secretary so the story runs, had had the temerity to correct one of his speeches, a correction that had involved the removal of a final preposition. Churchill reinstated the original text and then wrote in the margin: This is the sort of arrant nonsense up with which I will not put!

But as for his threat to prescribe usage, it has been tried before. Indeed, organisations dedicated to reforming English spelling have existed for at least four hundred years. In the 16th Century the Royal Society investigated the need for orthographic reform, and eventually formed a committee which included the poet John Dryden. In 1869 the Philological Society endorsed the cause; and the British Spelling Reform Association, which included famous writers like Tennyson and Darwin as well as philologists, was founded in 1879. Others, too, have tried, but it is not the way that the English language has developed and all attempts over the centuries to force it into that mould have failed. Many point to Webster as one who could have reformed the language, but in fact many of the more logical spellings attributed to him were current when he compiled his dictionary. He, too, was merely recording common usage. What happened next, though, was that the acceptance of his dictionary in America caused his spellings to be labelled American, and thus stigmatized, to drop out of use in England. English has always been governed by convention rather than formal code. We have never had anything equivalent to the Académie Française or the Real Academia Española, and the authoritative dictionaries (for example, Oxford English Dictionary, Longman Dictionary of Contemporary English, Chambers Dictionary, Collins Dictionary) all record usage rather than prescribe it. English has always gone its own way, and that is the strength and beauty of it. All that can be reasonably done is what Fowler did: set down the common usages as they exist at any one time. I have taken spelling as a fairly easily illustrated example, but in fairness should add that I have no way of knowing whether or not Kamm intends to be pedantic about spelling.


Maybe he is thinking of a Standard English. He will run into the same difficulty: there are no official rules for "Standard English" because, unlike some other languages, English does not have a linguistic governance body. Unless he is to set himself up in that role this could become a little repetitious. There is no set standard as there was, for example, a standard yard, kept available in London for the purpose of checking all other yards against it. This small illustration also makes the point that any standardisation would have to be in written form. For spoken English it would be impossible to construct a norm. Neither would a norm be socially or politically desirable, for it would acquire social (eg class) and political overtones as did BBC English, for example. It would inevitably be institutional. My last point is that in so far as there ever has been a standard there is now a double standard, English English and American English. Furthermore, English has become the lingua franca of the political and commercial world. It has been said that it is about to fragment into a very large number of international dialects. It seems to me that the tide is running against Kamm, but I shall watch his column (presumably it is to be every Monday) with great interest.

Tuesday, 30 June 2009

The Girl Who Ate Wood


Her ruler
most days
eaten half away.

Plague on all they centimeters!
Dooz me 'ead in
straight they do
always gawpin' up at I,
givin' I the evil eye.
Some days I darezn't even lift I desk lid up!
Where'm all us English inches gawn?
All bin eaten, az 'em?


Health, psychology
and medical agreed:
a dietary deficiency.

Half-paralysed
at times by fear:

They gangle down
them do
they hair roots
strangle all us brains -

they's why we stupid, see?

The family affliction.

Only she
and not the doctors
knew the cure:

chow down wood -
lots of it -
every day.


This is not the first poem I have written about this particular young lady. I did in fact briefly post one that I subsequently found unsatisfactory. This is not just a new version, however, it is a totally new poem. A different poem. For that reason, I would be particularly grateful to any good soul who felt able to offer a critique.

Monday, 29 June 2009

Last Monday : Thoughts on digital photography.

Last Monday I played truant. We spent the day at Wimbledon, on court number 1. (Part of the reason I got behind with my blogging programme.)

I used the occasion to try out my compact digital camera. We have been pretty much inseparable, it and I, since I acquired it a couple of years ago. It did a grand job of recording the Norwegian fjords for me and has proved a valuable work horse, a trusty all-rounder. Last Monday, though was my first attempt at using it for action photography. I knew it would be difficult, of course. There is a delay between pressing the trigger and the shutter operation. The camera has a few calculations to make and will not be hurried. The fact that the actual shot you so desparately want will not wait for its calculations is of no interest to it whatsoever. I experimented, testing my ability to anticipate the moment at which to activate the trigger allowing for its abysmal response. Total failure. Not only was I hopelssly out, but I didn't get any better as the day wore on.

There are other disadvantages to the digital camera as opposed to the film-laden one. The colours representing the shadows are not always very authentic-looking. The other biggy (for me) though, is its auto-focus and the fact that it makes all those damned calculations for you. The problems here (again, for me)are those of not being able to adjust the depth of field and/or the shutter speed. On Monday this latter disadvantage resulted in some shots being far more blurred than they should have been. However, the auto focus facility is also one of its main strengths, of course, for me as for many other non-professionals - snap-takers, if you will. I do use the camera for recording purposes and not as an art medium, but I do also keep wondering if it is not time to change and let it replace the paint brush, but so far I have not taken the plunge.

Sunday, 28 June 2009

Technology Sucks!

There has been a development since my last post. For last evening's watering session I decided to abandon the cans and use the hi-tech alternative. My hose is a state-of-the-art device boasting a portable reel - the hose equivalent of an outside drive, no less. (Come to think of it, the path is a sort of outside drive, too.) I worked from the path, at all times directing the water away from it, so that the path remained in its pristine state. Brilliant, no? The dramatic revelation occurred at the end of the session, when it came time to reel in the hose. My concentration (such as it is these days) being totally directed towards the reel, its handle and the necessity for the hose to be wound on in a kink-fee condition, I had none to spare for the antics of the nozzle dancing its way up the garden path and dribbling its contents as it did so. True, I could have influenced the choreography by varying the speed or smoothness of the winding, but as I say, I had no attention to spare for this until the job was done. Then, and only then, was I able to assess this latest example of land art. Comparing it with the one displayed in my previous post, I think you will have to agree that it amply demonstrates the truth of the proposition that I have always espoused and kept dear to my heart: that art should always be done by hand. (See, I told you I get carried away.)

Friday, 26 June 2009

Am I a Land Artist, or what?

Having been out watering the garden one evening recently, I discovered that I had slightly over-watered the path. But then it occurred to me that it might be a bit of involuntary land art. Am I a potential land artist and had not realised it? Maybe I am marked out to be an urban land artist... Or am I a second Jackson Pollock? I know he always maintained that his results were not accidental, that he controlled the flow of the paint, but then maybe I controlled the flow of the water - subliminally. No, thinking about it, I don't want to be a second anybody.

No, a land artist is what I will pin my hopes upon. (I really am getting to be quite excited at the prospect opening up before me!) I do know that one swallow does not a summer make, but I am not relying on the say-so of this one photograph. I do have another 847 such pieces of incontrovertible evidence, if you would like to see them - we have more than one path and there has been a lot of dry weather lately.

Wednesday, 24 June 2009

Mirror-image.

A few days ago I walked into our local book store with the solemn intention of buying a dictionary. However, in order to reach the Reference section I had first to pass the poetry shelf. I tried not to look - and it is a very small shelf, easily overlooked. It was not to be, however, for jumping up and down and waving to me, crying in aloud and plaintive voice, Here I am! was Alice Oswald's Weeds and Wild Flowers. Now I don't think I've breathed a word of this before, but I fell in love with Alice when she published Dart, the source to mouth journey of the river of the same name. She is in my opinion, quite simply, wonderful - and my tip for the next English-speaking poet to receive the Nobel Laureateship, though, realistically, not anytime soon. I have had it on several good authorities lately that blog readers are turned off by book reviews, so before this becomes one of those and you reach for the mouse button, let me advise that if you do not know Alice and have not yet included her in your library, you must certainly make one of her books your next purchase. Including the two already mentioned, there are five from which to choose. The other three are: The Thing in the Gap-stone Stile, Woods etc and A Sleepwalk on the Severn.
So now to the review, if by such a term it may be graced.

Weeds and Wild Flowers is beautifully presented and contains not just Alice Oswald's poems but also etchings and drawings by Jessica Greenman. These are not... but heck, let Alice Oswald tell you in her own words, for they drip beauty.

Weeds and Wild Flowers, which grew out of a number of conversations with Jessica Greenman, is not an illustrated book. It is two separate books, a book of etchings and a book of poems, shuffled together. What connects them both is their contention that flowers are recognisably ourselves elsewhere; but whereas the etchings express that thought dynamically in the postures of the pictures, the poems make fun of it, using the names of flowers to summon up the flora of the psyche. My hope is that the experience of reading and looking at the book will be a slightly unsettling pleasure, like walking through a garden at night, when the plants come right up to the edges of their names and then beyond them. It is not, for that reason, a reliable guide to wild flowers, though it may be a reliable record of someone's wild or wayside selves.


My own personal feeling is that this is not her best production, but that is to compare it with the very best there is. To illustrate her remarks above concerning ourselves in the flowers, let me give you the opening lines from the first poem in the book:-


Stinking Goose-foot


Stinking Goose-foot has grown human.
It could happen to anyone.

He has no bath.
Keeps his socks in a bag
that he hangs on a nail by the door.

And his wife in the earth.

In the wet season, in the wasteground,
poking around with a spade, you'll see him
put slugs in a bag.
Which he pops in his mouth.


And this is her in slightly different vein:-


Narcissus

once I was half flower, half self,
that invisible self whose absence inhabits mirrors,
that invisible flower that is always inwardly
groping up through us, a kind of outswelling weakness,
yes once I was half frail, half glittering,
continually emerging from the store of the self itself,


And describing Dock:-


Red-veined Dock


Knock knock
knock knock
dear red-veined
liver-skinned
scalpel-trained
feeler of glands
with your soap-sweet hands


Hopefully, that will have given you enough of a taster to leave you wanting more. It is, I have no hesitation in saying, a book full of delights - not least of which are the gorgeous etchings.

Enjoy!

P.S. I still need that dictionary.

Sunday, 21 June 2009

Summer Solstice : Stonehenge





Behind the lightness of the dance and song,
beneath its glad frivolity there run
the deeper voices of the standing stones,
more ancient than the ancient ones we've come
to celebrate. A foreign tongue, the words
unknown, their genius still moves us, far
beyond the language that they use. The tone
is one of gravitas. Where now the fun?

These sentinels of deep thought shake our age,
reprove it for its lack of mental care.
This field was theirs four thousand years before -
with them still moulded in their mountainside.

The Druids came and did their thing, as we
do ours. We are the interlopers now,
not worshippers, but weighers, reckoners
and calculators, adders-up supreme.

What should we calculate in these old fields?
Can we survive? And: We who love the sun
and fear it too, in ways they never knew,
would we, could we but find their ancient words,
be wise as they? Light-heartedly, our love
affair with what they knew - with what we think
they knew - goes on. Its what we cannot grasp
of them that grasps us by the balls. (Strange, how
women find instinctive understanding.)

Friday, 19 June 2009

...!...?

I thought this might be an apt post to follow my poem on the ecology of the redwood forest canopy: out for a wander with my camera recently, I came upon this scene of mystery. It was in an area where the undergrowth is managed, was cut back, almost to a non-existence last year, though you'd not think so now. As can be seen from the photographs, a silver birch has been snapped off a few feet from the ground. A broken section of a silver birch trunk is leaning against a third tree. But what really took my eye was a second section of silver birch trunk, also clearly broken-off (as opposed to sawn or axed, for example), perched vertically, and very precariously, on a branch of the third tree. Neither of these sections, I think, could have come from the broken trunk still in the earth as they are both thicker than it. Neither could I find any other broken silver birch trees. The first reaction was to think that maybe some local lads had been having a lark, but there was no sign that the vegetation, thick around that particular tree, had been trampled or otherwise disturbed. Thinking of the likely weight of the elevated trunk section also seemed to argue that larking was an unlikely cause. Maybe, I conjectured, the said trunk had been tossed there by a fugitive from the Highland Games... but then I thought: just one way to resolve this, that lot from blogland are all more imaginative than I. So, any suggestions?

Tuesday, 16 June 2009

400 Feet Above Your Head



Lie on your back among those giant redwoods if you can,
or failing that amid wild Caledonian pines,
then turn your lazy gaze towards the canopy's green shade,
catch with your dazzled eye the filtered sun still streaming
through,
though fuzzy now, a kind of blinding haze.
You're looking at, although you will not see, the world's
last untouched wilderness.
A small boy in his dreams might climb like fabled Jack,
the tallest tree,
to find, not monsters, no colossus, but an Eden unalloyed,
familiar as any on the ground... and yet these beetles seem
to have a different dress code from the ones he's known;
these ants have never ruined an alfresco meal -
they're not the type;
for this is nature taking a new road, exploring What-if?
variations on her ancient themes.
All this the small boy might assimilate - yet not
be conscious of the pearls he's chanced upon.
.

And if you fall asleep on that soft debris, let it be, for
dreams
will not compete with this: here roam vast herds that only
birds have seen,
here geckos dart from dark organic caves in moonlit forays
for their prey
and grey mud sirens squelch the aerial ooze in search of
worms.
.

Small lakes and bogs there are where trunks branch out
in threes or fours,
or those same hollows hold a metre's depth of soil -
unearthly compost,
out of which come pygmy tribes of rowan, mountain ash or oak,
concealed from you, for nursed in deep parental crooks
in lordly boughs
or piggy-backed on those great shoulders high above the
crowd.
Nor will you see their Palace of Versailles - its fine facade
for long an untried thought,
its rooms cool tents of Bedouin richness carpeted with moss.
Soft furnishings of matted ferns, webs, mesh
and mucous membranes that the minibeasts have left,
line everywhere the unbuilt walls; large deadwood sculptures,
carved by unseen hands, are set among the flowers;
and from the hollow branches tumble fruits to tempt a guest:
bog whortleberry, grape, red current and the rest,
along with bold-hued fungi, peas, grey lichen, beans and
lentils - richness
far beyond what you might once have dreamed or guessed.
.

There's nothing in this pristine world of what you might
expect.
Here species show their other sides, swap lifestyles for a
bet.
Who would have thought to find such widespread colonies
of red gilled bugs and water boatmen high among the leaves?
But now we've found them... ah, how can we leave them
undisturbed?
We take our bows and arrows, fire our ropes
and calmly walk the smoothest trunks to those high balconies..

Sunday, 14 June 2009

Mirror, mirror on the wall...


Okay, I know it's for the birds, that it doesn't mean a tinker's cuss, but at the end I got drawn into it despite myself. Back on the 8th June The Times got to the end of its long-running poll to find out who, by popular consent, is or was the greatest artist of The Twentieth Century - and not as I originally typed, of all time. Even so, a bit like trying to establish which is the greatest fruit or vegetable. I treated it with all the disdain it deserved for the whole 16 weeks that it took to run its course. But then, when all the 1.4 million votes had been counted and the final results were known, I caved in. (What is it about our natures that succumbs to the competitive element despite our best endeavours, even where it is patently inappropriate?) Nothing should have surprised me about the competition (sorry, poll!)of course - with the possible exception of Picasso not coming first - for with so many of all shades of outlook casting their votes there was bound to be a great mix and levelling. And there was - and Picasso did come first! And Paul Cézanne came second. Almost as much a foregone conclusion as the first place, I thought. No surprises so far. But then:-

  • Third place went to Gustav Klimt, master of the Art Nouveau and supposedly with major share holdings in manufacturers of gold leaf. How could the good burgers of Britain who voted in such numbers for Cezanne and Monet (fourth) have voted for Klimt. The answer is, of course, they didn't. It was another lot.



  • Marcel Duchamp slipped into fifth place between Monet and Henri Matisse (sixth): same explanation as above? I don't think so, no. Duchamp has his place for good and cogent reasons. Even so I was surprised to see him achieveing it.


  • Jackson Pollock, Andy Warhol, Willem de Kooning and Piet Mondrian, all squeezed in (7th to 10th) before Paul Gauguin , number eleven. Yup, didn't altogether disapprove of that, but still slightly surprised.


  • Mark Rothko at 28 just pipped Edward Hopper.


  • Lucien Freud at 30 (tagged "Britain's Greatest Living Artist"?) was 4 places ahead of David Hockney.


  • Good to see a photographer (Cartier-Bresson) in at 35, though surely if he'd been a painter he would have been higher?


  • Henry Moore at 49 demonstrated just how far he has slipped out of fashion.


  • Ditto Tracey Emin at at 52 and Damien Hurst at 53.


  • Marc Chagall at 71 was disappointing.



Full results with information about the top 200 artists can be found here

(The paintings are, in order, by: Monet, Hockney, de Kooning and Hopper.)