“Has any other invention ever equaled, in power and glory, the common noun?”
Will Durant, p. 74, Vol. I, Our Oriental Heritage
December 23, 2017/Our Oriental Heritage
Paraphrasing the opening lines of the Gospel of Saint John, Will Durant writes of our distant ancestors, “In the beginning was the word, for with it man became man.” He and others speculate that that the earliest human beings made use of hand gestures and that our speech likely derived first from the sounds of the forest, mountains, and plains, that humans copied noises from birds, wind, mammals, and rivers. Durant cites examples of this onomatopoeia—words like roar, hum, rush, and groan duplicated the sounds of rivers, wind, and pain.
Will Durant, p. 74, Vol. I, Our Oriental Heritage
December 23, 2017/Our Oriental Heritage
Paraphrasing the opening lines of the Gospel of Saint John, Will Durant writes of our distant ancestors, “In the beginning was the word, for with it man became man.” He and others speculate that that the earliest human beings made use of hand gestures and that our speech likely derived first from the sounds of the forest, mountains, and plains, that humans copied noises from birds, wind, mammals, and rivers. Durant cites examples of this onomatopoeia—words like roar, hum, rush, and groan duplicated the sounds of rivers, wind, and pain.
As language developed, as the tongues of our ancestors moved beyond a limited vocabulary of the sensual and particular to more general or abstract terms, language and expression both became more complex. Words, first spoken, then eons afterwards written, formed the basis for passing along vial information, and led to civilization and education.
Today we live in what some would call the Age of Communication, meaning that we can flash messages in seconds around the globe, post pictures of a dancing cat on YouTube, and make fools of ourselves, as I do here at times, by slapping thoughtless words and sentences onto a screen. We no longer teach our children to hunt for their supper, permit them to marry at age twelve or to establish their own homes when in their early teens, but like our distant ancestors, we train and instruct our young people, principally by words. Language, spoken and written, is the chain linking past, present, and future.
Often we post-moderns are careless with this gift. Unless we are linguists, we pay little heed to the importance and history of language. Our slipshod speech and writing cost American businesses billions of dollars a year, and missteps in communication, as when that post of Uncle Bob and his New Year’s Eve escapade went viral, can often damage our relations with friends and family. In our speech, music, and writing, we have foregone some of the grandeur and nobility of the English tongue, influenced by technology—mechanization and high teach demand precise words and jargon—and by the failure of our education system to stress grammar and composition.
Frequently, just as we have done for the past hundred years in architecture, we sacrifice beauty for function in language. The modernization of the 1928 Book of Common Prayer offers a prime example. Few would argue that the language in that old book sings in the ear more sweetly than its more modern counterpart, yet few would deny that the more recent version is more easily understood.
(Some teenagers, incidentally, revert to pre-speech primitivism when confronted by their parents, shrugging, rolling the eyes, and grunting in response to questions. This reversion normally disappears when the young person leaves the home to spend the evening with friends. One vernacular contagion, easy to acquire and difficult to cure, originates among teenagers but can rapidly infect adults. This is the use of “like,” a slang interjection born in the middle of the twentieth century. Large portions of the population have now fallen victim to this infection. “Like, I was at the mall when I heard this woman who was, like, I need to buy a new skirt, like you know, this afternoon.” Such a sentence seems a far cry from Shakespeare, Lincoln, and the masterful Will Durant.)
So is the common noun our greatest invention? We can all come up with other groundbreaking innovations—I’d nominate the hot shower and the Caramel Macchiato—but let’s admit it, language wins hands down. I mean, like, you know, wow! (“Damn! The infection’s returned. Nurse, bring the patient two doses of Strunk and White and a large glass of Grammar Girl. I’ll check back in the morning or, like, in the early afternoon.”)
Five notes with comments from The Story of Civilization, pages 1-109:
*“The white man, when well roasted, tastes like a ripe banana.” --Polynesian chief to Pierre Loti (I’d like mine dipped in peanut butter, please.)
*Widespread tooth decay is a sure sign of civilization. (Moral: Avoid the dentist by eating raw meat and berries.)
*“No language has ever had a word for a virgin man.” (A note online tells me that “virgin” has applied to males since 1453, though admittedly the word originally saw exclusive use for females. Here, I see, is my chance to contribute to the dictionary. Let me suggest “gollyrod,” which offers mild sexual connotation, smacks of the floral, and brings a smile when uttered aloud. “Look at young Jenkins,” we might say. “He’s a butterfly garden for the girls. If he’s not careful, he won’t be a gollyrod for long.”)
*Women in hunter-gatherer tribes were valued far more for their heft and strength than for their beauty. (There’s still hope, Cousin Bertha! Wend your way to the Knotty Pine and search out the biker gang with the Harleys.)
*“The Cimbri were in the habit of tobogganing naked over the snow.” (The Cimbri were a Germanic tribe who fought the Romans. I lay abed tonight imagining a squad of scruffy, blond, naked Germans mounted back to front on a sled winging down a long snowy hill. Not a pretty picture. I gave thanks that today we remember the Romans and not the Cimbri, rolled to my side, and slept soundly.)
Today we live in what some would call the Age of Communication, meaning that we can flash messages in seconds around the globe, post pictures of a dancing cat on YouTube, and make fools of ourselves, as I do here at times, by slapping thoughtless words and sentences onto a screen. We no longer teach our children to hunt for their supper, permit them to marry at age twelve or to establish their own homes when in their early teens, but like our distant ancestors, we train and instruct our young people, principally by words. Language, spoken and written, is the chain linking past, present, and future.
Often we post-moderns are careless with this gift. Unless we are linguists, we pay little heed to the importance and history of language. Our slipshod speech and writing cost American businesses billions of dollars a year, and missteps in communication, as when that post of Uncle Bob and his New Year’s Eve escapade went viral, can often damage our relations with friends and family. In our speech, music, and writing, we have foregone some of the grandeur and nobility of the English tongue, influenced by technology—mechanization and high teach demand precise words and jargon—and by the failure of our education system to stress grammar and composition.
Frequently, just as we have done for the past hundred years in architecture, we sacrifice beauty for function in language. The modernization of the 1928 Book of Common Prayer offers a prime example. Few would argue that the language in that old book sings in the ear more sweetly than its more modern counterpart, yet few would deny that the more recent version is more easily understood.
(Some teenagers, incidentally, revert to pre-speech primitivism when confronted by their parents, shrugging, rolling the eyes, and grunting in response to questions. This reversion normally disappears when the young person leaves the home to spend the evening with friends. One vernacular contagion, easy to acquire and difficult to cure, originates among teenagers but can rapidly infect adults. This is the use of “like,” a slang interjection born in the middle of the twentieth century. Large portions of the population have now fallen victim to this infection. “Like, I was at the mall when I heard this woman who was, like, I need to buy a new skirt, like you know, this afternoon.” Such a sentence seems a far cry from Shakespeare, Lincoln, and the masterful Will Durant.)
So is the common noun our greatest invention? We can all come up with other groundbreaking innovations—I’d nominate the hot shower and the Caramel Macchiato—but let’s admit it, language wins hands down. I mean, like, you know, wow! (“Damn! The infection’s returned. Nurse, bring the patient two doses of Strunk and White and a large glass of Grammar Girl. I’ll check back in the morning or, like, in the early afternoon.”)
Five notes with comments from The Story of Civilization, pages 1-109:
*“The white man, when well roasted, tastes like a ripe banana.” --Polynesian chief to Pierre Loti (I’d like mine dipped in peanut butter, please.)
*Widespread tooth decay is a sure sign of civilization. (Moral: Avoid the dentist by eating raw meat and berries.)
*“No language has ever had a word for a virgin man.” (A note online tells me that “virgin” has applied to males since 1453, though admittedly the word originally saw exclusive use for females. Here, I see, is my chance to contribute to the dictionary. Let me suggest “gollyrod,” which offers mild sexual connotation, smacks of the floral, and brings a smile when uttered aloud. “Look at young Jenkins,” we might say. “He’s a butterfly garden for the girls. If he’s not careful, he won’t be a gollyrod for long.”)
*Women in hunter-gatherer tribes were valued far more for their heft and strength than for their beauty. (There’s still hope, Cousin Bertha! Wend your way to the Knotty Pine and search out the biker gang with the Harleys.)
*“The Cimbri were in the habit of tobogganing naked over the snow.” (The Cimbri were a Germanic tribe who fought the Romans. I lay abed tonight imagining a squad of scruffy, blond, naked Germans mounted back to front on a sled winging down a long snowy hill. Not a pretty picture. I gave thanks that today we remember the Romans and not the Cimbri, rolled to my side, and slept soundly.)
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