On distinctions

Thinking further about "that" and "which" led me thinking about the value of prescriptivism. Although I would describe myself as a descriptivist, working as an editor inclines a person to accepting prescriptions and, as a consequence, to adopting prescriptivism by proxy without really thinking about it. The issue is complicated by the need for anyone who wishes to be seen as a technically proficient writer to meet prescriptions where possible. (This is, of course, one value of prescriptivism: it serves as a test for writers so that they can be distinguished, which is sometimes a good thing and sometimes not.)

It should be considered too that the two ideas have slightly different spheres of interest. Where descriptivism is unquestionably the correct approach to describing how languages are (because after all it would be fruitless to bicker with a speaker that they were speaking their own language wrongly, not that that prevented my dad from trying to correct my Cornish dialect), speakers of other languages coming to English look for guidance on how they ought to speak it. More importantly, written English is a different language from spoken English. Not radically different in the way some languages that have literary and demotic varieties are (German and Arabic are the classic examples, and naturally, given the provenance of the word "demotic", Greek is another, although I'm less clear on what's what with it. An interesting case is Norwegian. Norwegian is, as any linguist kno, two languages. It had a literary standard -- based very much on standard Danish, because it was standardised in the days when Norway was ruled by Denmark, and the languages are in any case very similar -- and a demotic that was widely spoken in the country. The literary standard was also spoken, because the urban elites -- and urbanites on the whole -- spoke Danish as well as writing it. I'm simplifying but the outcome was that the literary language and the demotic became recognised as separate languages: Landmal (or Nynorsk as it's now known) and Bokmal. They are not very different but speakers of each don't mistake one for the other.)

Naturally, there is an element of prescriptivism even in pure description. When I say "dog" is the word for the barking quadruped, I am also saying, it is the word you should use for that animal. Furthermore, although there are other words you could use in some contexts: "cur", for example, or even "canines", they are not suitable for everyday language and it's possible to say not just "speakers do not use 'cur' in everyday language" but "you should not use 'cur' in everyday language".

Meaning in language is about distinction. "Dog" means dog because it doesn't mean cat. Things are one thing or another and if they are in between, we can't talk about them (unless we are willing to do so by accepting them into one thing or another). Even if a cat has an element of "dogness" about it, it is still a "cat". This need not be so. "Dog" could cover both if there were no word for cats. Gradations of meaning are not fixed by what things actually are but by what words we have for what things. And this can be a matter of personal competence as much as of the resources of the language. The birds that squabble at the front of my house are "birds" to me and something else to an ornithologist. Here we can quickly see a key to prescriptivism. If I am describing the birds, it's perfectly all right for me to write "birds", because it sufficiently gradates the meaning. But it wouldn't do to use "birds" in the Journal of Ornithological Science. There would be a real sense in which "birds" would be wrong. We can note that those prescriptivists who think descriptivism does not allow judgements of language are simply wrong. Notions of rightness and wrongness still exist in descriptions of language.

The key is once again distinction. My general discussion of the birds at the front of my house does not require that I distinguish kinds of birds, only that I distinguish birds from dogs, cats, fish and so on. You could say that there is a prescription in language to use at least the distinction that matches your communicative intent. (I say at least because I could of course write that the birds are "honeyeaters". But perhaps that would display a further communicative intent. "Birds" implies I do not know anything about birds; "honeyeaters" that I know something (and, although I've only displayed my knowledge that the birds in question are honeyeaters, that I know more is implied by my not simply using "birds").)

The distinction between words in general discussion and specialised discussion extends to formal and informal language (the line between which is somewhat but not wholly coterminous with the one between written and spoken language -- one could certainly argue that the rules of formal language are ultimately the rules of written language and that different modes of written language allow relaxing of some or other rules -- however, I think it is more accurate to consider that the different modes have different rules, which we apprehend in exactly the same way that we apprehend the rules of any other type of language, by seeing them in action and inferring them; we're perfectly capable of holding many different sets of rules internalised as those who speak several languages readily demonstrate). Where informal language has as its intent "to get your meaning across", and can tolerate imprecision and some indistinctiveness, formal language has as its intent "to convey meaning precisely" (or as precisely as possible given the limits of words). Informal language does not mind reinterpretation, contested meaning, misunderstanding (for the postmodernists among us, we can note that it recognises the receiver's part in constructing its meaning, which formal language seeks to minimise). Formal language does though. It represents an attempt on the part of the writer to control meaning, to not allow the receiver to misinterpret it. Precise distinction is much more important to formal language than to informal language for this (rather crudely sketched) reason. (You might note that Dr Zen writes in a semiformal style, fairly precise but fluid enough, I hope, to be enjoyable to read. Draw your own conclusions from that.)

The prescription that we discussed on "that" and "which" is aimed entirely at retaining a useful disinction, or indeed, creating one, because as we noted, formerly, either was used for the restrictive clause and now we tend to use "that". The use of one word for one type of clause and the other for the other sends a strong signal to the receiver of our message: this is a defining clause because I've used "that". It's a useful signal and one that I incorporate into my writing and endorse. (Naturally, my endorsement has a great deal to do with familiarity. Every house I've worked for has had it as an item of its style, and most things I read maintain the distinction.)

I think that S and I disagreed because we approach the distinction from different sides: I am describing its use and see that it is not completely established; S takes the prescriptivist line, and cites authorities that insist it should be used so or so. By each of our lights, we were both right. What happy arguments a person can have when both sides are right! You can go on fruitlessly for weeks with an argument such as that.

But S's view has value. The prescription, as I've described, enforces a distinction that is useful in meeting the purpose of formal language. As a descriptivist, I can recognise its widespread adoption and, although I'm not keen on Mann Coulter's insistence that it was wrong to use "which" for a restrictive clause, I can note that the original writer was not employing that useful distinction.

Moderately useful, I should say. Some of the prescriptions I do enforce represent distinctions that have more use. I do not allow "thus" to mean "because of this". "Thus" is good for "in this way" but "therefore" exists for "because of this". There is a slight imprecision in meaning if "thus" is allowed to mean "because of this", because in some contexts the writer might mean either "because of this" or "in this way". Okay, in most contexts the distinction is not needed but I go along with the prescription for the sake of those in which it is. Don't get me started on "hence". If you use "hence" for "because of this" or for anything beyond "from here", you are illiterate.

Another marginally useful distinction is between "enhance" and "improve" or "increase". Because I often edit financial reports, I often see "enhance" used to mean what the latter two words mean, and I strike it out without fail. Clearly, "enhance" has come to mean "improve" and "increase" and has in this particular context more or less usurped those words but that doesn't mean I'm not willing to fight a futile crusade against it. I wouldn't be allowed into editor club if I didn't have a bete noire. "Enhance" is a useful word when it is used to mean "increase in quality" (so that enhancing pain means not just increasing it but changing it from an ache to an agony) or even "beautify" if you must, but if it becomes simply a synonym for "increase" that notion of change in quality is lost. Okay, it's not very useful, but why throw away a distinction, a means of talking about something, in our language. Remove distinction and you remove scope; you remove the ability to describe a part of the world. Now I know, please don't tell me because I do know it, that language is dynamic, organic and flexible, and that a distinction lost here is compensated for by one gained elsewhere. Words do change meanings and they do contest the world among themselves: one describing this today, another describing it tomorrow. We are all familiar with the shift in meaning of "nice" and "fond", and those who use "gay" to mean "jolly" are certainly willing to take futile crusades all the way to the Jerusalem of uselessness. (I remember telling Mrs Zen I wanted a "gay box" for the living room. You might not know that a gay box is a small shelving thing in the shape of a noughts and crosses grid, intended to prettify a dull room. She looked at me askance and when I described it, she said, there's nothing "gay" about it. Perhaps if I painted it pink? I said.) But even so, editors defend meaning. It's our job to try to ensure meaning is preserved despite the writer's hamfistedness. The job involves discerning the writer's intended meaning as best we can, and then rendering the text so that it conveys that meaning. So losing a distinction that aids the conveyance of meaning hurts. Anyway, that's how I justify it to myself, lest I start to feel that I'm simply imposing my own distaste for "enhance" on others' work, which for a descriptivist would never do.

posted by Dr Zen @ 8:47 am