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Humanising Language Teaching Does English have a Future?Professor Raphael Salkie, University of Brighton, UK Inaugural Professorial Lecture given in Westlain Lecture Theatre, Falmer Campus, on 12 November 2002. Vice-Chancellor, Chair of the Governors, colleagues, friends and family. My theme tonight is the question "Does English have a future". In this lecture I plan to:
More seriously, I'm going to argue that questions about language often turn out to be questions about cultural politics and ideology. My question, “Does English have a future”, may seem rather a strange one. Millions of people around the world speak English. Millions more learn English as a second language. English is the language of international trade, politics, research, sport, popular music, the internet, and so on. Other languages are dying out, but surely not English? In fact, everyone speaks English these days:
– Arkansas School Superintendent, refusing a request for foreign languages to be taught in high school So is our original question a good one? More generally, what makes a good question about language? I think we need to distinguish between normal people like most of you, and strange people like me who spend their lives trying to analyse how language works. A good question for you might not be a good one for me, and vice versa. For a “normal” person, a good question is one which helps people use language confidently and effectively. For a linguistics specialist, a good question is one which leads to deep insights into the nature of language. As a linguistics specialist, I just observe how language works without passing judgement. I'm interested in facts about language, not feelings about language. But that isn't the whole story. I am also a normal person and I often struggle to express myself accurately and to understand what other people say and write. I have feelings about language. I like to see English used effectively. I teach writing and translation as well as linguistic analysis, and there I have to make judgements of quality all the time. I'm normal enough to know that it isn't normal to enjoy grammar as much as I do. I don't like clumsy language that is hard to understand, for example:
I much prefer lucid, elegant language like this:
My motto is “Keep it Short and Simple” (KISS). I object strongly when people write like this:
I much prefer to read prose like this.
We have checked the cable that we would need to use to connect your house with the exchange. Unfortunately we found that there is no spare pair of wires on the cable. And I have major problems with this: The town hall is closed
So I'm both a normal person with feelings about language as well as someone who analyses language. I'm prepared to look at our opening question about the future of English in those two ways: Does our opening question help people use language confidently and effectively? And does it lead to deep insights into the nature of language? I will answer no to both these questions. In the next part of this lecture I'm going to look at the views of some eminent people who are concerned about English. Then I will ask if the evidence supports their views, and I'll present some rather strong evidence that they are wrong. What kind of people think that the English language is in trouble? Essentially there are two types:
To make it quite clear, let me add that the Antiquarians hate egalitarians, while Angry Grammarians hate barbarians. Both of them hate quadragenarians who ask uncomfortable questions. I call this Antiquadragenarianism – a word I've just invented which means “picking on people in their forties”. Shame on anyone who does this. Next year when I'm fifty I won't care so much. Let's look at some examples of each type. One of the clearest statements of concern is from George Orwell. In his 1946 essay “Politics and the English Language” he wrote:
There are academics who share Orwell's views. One of them, a particularly furious man, was Basil Cottle, Lecturer in English at the University of Bristol, who wrote:
The writer Kingsley Amis often grumbled about the way English was used. As an angry old man, he thundered:
Many members of the public feel strongly about these matters. David Crystal, the well-known expert on language, invited listeners to Radio 4 to write to him with their pet hates about English usage. Over a thousand people responded. Top of the list were:
What particularly struck Crystal was how enraged his correspondents were. He commented:
Now let's look at a couple of antiquarians, starting with a journalist from the US:
Meanwhile on this side of the Atlantic we find John Honey, a writer on language and education:
I hope that many of you are feeling uneasy right now. How much does all this matter? Rather a lot, if you believe Plain English Campaign, who say:
As the title suggests, their book is mostly examples of bad writing, with some useful suggestions about how it could be improved. That's fine, in my view. Unfortunately, anyone who can say “Research has indicated” in this cavalier way is probably talking utter drivel. But let's just imagine for a moment what you could do with £6 billion. If we all stopped splitting infinitives and ending sentences with prepositions, we could build a huge football stadium just near this lecture hall, build a new runway at Gatwick, and buy me a new computer… But seriously, if these complaints are correct, the future of English is indeed looking grim. Let's look now, however, at two people who think that the antiquarians and the angry grammarians are wrong about the future of English. One of the things that Orwell and the others were complaining about was pretentious English – people trying to sound important and profound by writing in an elaborate and complicated way, or people writing in a way which is deliberately confusing. Anyone who reads academic journals or tries to make sense of their insurance policies will know what he meant. One way to measure complicated writing is to count the average number of words in a sentence. This is a crude statistic, because it ignores things like the use of long and unfamiliar words, but it can be suggestive. Other things being equal, straightforward writing uses shorter sentences, whereas convoluted writing uses longer ones. In other words, to paraphrase Orwell's sheep: “Short sentences good, long complicated sentences with many dangling postmodifiers and cascading subordinate clauses – bad” An American scholar called L.A. Sherman took some samples of English writing over several hundred years and measured their complexity in this way. His conclusion was:
In other words, if anything we wrote more clearly in 1893 than in previous times. Here's an example of the type of prose that was written a few hundred years ago.
The second sentence of this extract contains 63 words. The first sentence, of which I have only given you the end, contains a total of 118 words). Someone else who does not agree with the antiquarians is Rudolf Flesch. He wrote a book in 1948 full of tips about how to write readable English. He condemned convoluted writing wherever he found it, and he was not afraid to criticise some of the classic writers like Thomas Hardy. Flesch said:
Here's a passage from Hardy's novel Return of the Native:
Flesch comments:
So we have seen that some people don't share the view that English is declining, and they offer some evidence to back up their views. What I want to do now is to challenge the Antiquarians and the Angry Grammarians in a different way. It turns out that the kind of complaints that Orwell and the others make have in fact been common for hundreds of years. We'll see some examples in a moment. So either English has been in decline for hundreds of years, which does not seem likely, or the complaints don't reflect reality at all but form part of an ideological offensive. Let's start with an example that dates from 20 or so years before Orwell, by Henry Fowler, who could be as angry as anyone.
Now let's go back another 20 or so years:
The first sentence by these eminent medical writers contains 52 Words. I wish they had made their point like this:
We can go back much earlier and find similar opinions in the eighteenth century:
I suspect that there are people in the audience here tonight, including some members of my own family, who would be guilty in Swift's eyes. A century earlier, one of our greatest poets had argued:
So for a long time, some people have said that English was in trouble, and that change was change for the worse. I put it to you that we should not take them too seriously, but we should ask instead why they held these views. I believe that they held them because they were members of privileged elites who felt that their privileges were under threat. I'd like to support this harsh judgement by moving away from language for a moment and looking at another topic where for hundreds of years, people have been saying that things are changing for the worse, namely crime and specifically street crime. Let's start with a recent column in a daily newspaper.
Joan Collins … alarms us by announcing that London crime is so frightening that she has decided to leave her apartments in Belgravia and reside in New York because she is too frightened to walk the 400 yards to her hairdresser ... Anyone who was a teacher more than 25 years ago knows the mysterious change in the demeanour of the worst teenage offenders, the moment a large cane was produced and put on the desk. Londoners are now in the position of teachers without the capacity to cow or threaten the aggressive teenager-menace. – A.N. Wilson, Evening Standard, September 2002 Note the reference to 25 years here, which roughly corresponds to a generation. Let me just say that I was in school more than 25 years ago, and the cane was used frequently. We had appalling disruption in the classroom, violence, bullying, vandalism, teachers being blackmailed by students, theft – and all this in a grammar school in a quiet seaside town. Ah, those were the days. Let's go back a generation earlier and see what people were saying then. Standards are falling People are bound to ask what is happening to our country … Having been one of the most law-abiding countries in the world, a byword for stability, order and decency – are we changing into something else?” – Daily Express, July 1981. Suppose we look back another twenty or so years:
If anyone here tonight left their mother alone in the house in 1958, shame on you! About twenty years before that, we find Orwell putting these words into the head of one of his characters; in his essays he voiced similar views:
– George Bowling in Coming Up for Air, 1939 Go back even earlier, to that hotbed of crime, Brighton, and we find a magistrate saying:
If we had time I could show you earlier statements like these, about how crime has got worse in the last generation. The writers – usually quadragenarians – always harked back to a golden age, about 20 or 25 years ago, when they were young and filled their time with innocent pleasures. It is easy to show that these complaints have a tenuous relation with reality. England has long been a violent and dangerous place. Here's just one example:
So what can we learn from this comparison of complaints about language and complaints about street crime? I think that we can learn three things:
English is a dynamic mixture – that's what makes it interesting. The English language has always been a mixture of many different varieties. English constantly changes. The particular variety used as a written standard in England may be losing its dominance as other regional standards emerge. Yes, sloppy, imprecise or pretentious writing needs to be challenged. The battle against bad writing is worth fighting, but it's not about resisting change or preserving “The Queen's English” at all costs. It's about writing for clarity and elegance, not some outdated dogma about what's correct and what isn't. So Does English have a future? turned out not to be a useful question for “normal” people. Is it a good question for a linguistics specialist? Let's change the question slightly, and ask Does English have a future tense? Sometimes it's useful to question things that seem very obvious. I enjoy getting involved in debates about the politics of language, but my own teaching and research are not in this area but in the area of grammar. And it's this area that I want to explore in the next part of my lecture. Again, this may seem like a strange question. Of course English has a future tense, you might say – we can all talk about the future, therefore English has a future tense. And some grammars of English agree:
However, most grammars nowadays don't agree. Two of the most distinguished grammarians of English, Randolph Quirk and the late Sidney Greenbaum, say…
A major new grammar of English appeared earlier this year. It is monumental both in the scholarship which went into it and its size – 1800 pages. The authors spend several pages arguing that English does not have a future tense, and say:
Why do most grammarians take this view? One reason is that English has many ways of referring to future time:
Why should we pick out one of these ways and call it “the future tense”? Where does that leave the others? Another reason is that WILL has the same grammar as other modal verbs like may, must, can:
Furthermore, WILL is often used like other modals:
The view of these scholars, then, is that WILL is a modal verb both in its grammar and in the way it is used. A counterargument would be to point out that WILL is different from the other ways of talking about the future, because it is unrestricted while the others are restricted in various ways. For example, using the present tense as in The train leaves in 2 hours is only possible for a scheduled event like a train departure. So you can't use this construction for future events which aren't scheduled: you can't, for instance, say, *Leeds Utd. lose to Blackburn tomorrow, though you can say Leeds Utd. play Blackburn tomorrow. Another counterargument comes from frequency data. A grammarian called Dieter Mindt recently looked at a sample of over 80 million words. He found that 94% of the examples of WILL referred to future time. The “modal” uses like our postman example were not very common. Even Huddleston & Pullum concede:
I'd like to challenge an assumption behind this debate. The argument about the future tense assumes that there is one thing called the “future tense” and that languages either do or don't have this thing. I call this the supermarket model of language, because it assumes that there is a pre-existing range of grammatical terms, including the future tense, which grammarians have to choose from. I think that this model of language is unhelpful. Instead, we need a corpus-driven model which is based on evidence, not on pre-conceived ideas about what we will find. According to the corpus-driven model, the grammatical concepts for each language should derive from the data. A corpus is simply a large collection of samples of real language, usually stored on a computer. In the past ten years I've done a lot of work with corpora of English and other languages. They make it easy to gather large amounts of evidence about how English is really used, and often contain surprises. Using corpora has revolutionised my work and led me to challenge some widely-held assumptions about language. In a corpus-driven model, Languages have words (like will) and inflections (like -ed in English walked, jumped, etc) with particular meanings and uses. We can investigate them using a large body of evidence. Giving them names like “future tense” may be convenient for some purposes, but the name has no theoretical significance. So we have been asking the wrong question – again. “Does English have a future tense?” turned out not to be a useful question for linguistics specialists. It rests on assumptions about language which are simply prejudices, not based on research. To sum up, then: Our opening question was: Does English have a future? I have argued that this is the wrong question, both for “normal people” and linguistics specialists, if we try to answer it directly, but that it is a useful exercise to expose the assumptions about language which lie behind the question. As I try to tell my students, a lot of what you learn at University is how to ask the right questions. In conclusion, I've been tough on Orwell at several points in this lecture, so let me end by agreeing with him. Orwell criticises “comfortable English professors” who use an “inflated style” and says:
I hope that I haven't made too many stupid remarks this evening. Thank you. Note: Because this was not a typical academic lecture I have not indicated my sources in the usual careful way. I would like to acknowledge, however, my debt to one splendid book which should be required reading whenever our society is beset by the latest moral panic, whether it is about crime, grammar, or the most recent example, asylum seekers: Pearson, Geoffrey. 1983. Hooligan: a history of respectable fears. London, Macmillan. Several of the laments for a crime-free golden age are taken from this book.
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