Troublesome Words - Bill Bryson

‘My Troubles with English’

 

I studied English for twelve years in school; And learned only recently – nearly four decades after I had finished school – that in my entire life I haven’t had a single lesson in English.

Epiphany dawned only when I picked up pen to write down a few recurrent ideas that hovered incessantly in my head and wouldn’t let me in peace. I should consign these to a notebook and then will be rid of them. This seemed an easy solution. But I was soon confronted with a paralysing disability that froze the pen in my hand and the flow of thoughts in my mind.

I was aghast. I had been reading seriously – people said obsessively – and honestly enjoying books of varied genres in English for decades. Of late, I had even begun to appreciate the prose style of the author. I liked the book not only for its content but also for its language. I would read, again and again, the paragraph, the sentence, the phrase, that appealed to my taste. I would close the book and roll these words in my mind, as one rolls a lozenge in mouth, and relish their beauty, their compact arrangement in the sentence, and the sublime meaning they conveyed. Smart phones hadn’t arrived in our lives yet. I kept a dictionary and a thesaurus handy, whenever and wherever I read.

My first brush with writing revealed to me the world of unruly, whimsical, and stubborn words. They meant one thing in my mind and either nothing or entirely different thing when I put them down on paper. The little devils, allegedly my babies, but with an absurd mind of their own, seemed to be cocking a snook at me. My illiteracy in the language unblinkingly stared at me.

English lessons in school comprised reading of prescribed textbooks. These contained excerpts from writings of famous authors. We read them without enthusiasm. Most were inane even as a story. We were never told about the composition: the narrative style peculiar to a writer – prolixity of one and the utter concision of the other, ornate words of a book and the stark plain prose in another, the jauntiness of active voice in contrast to the laden weight of passive speech, vigour lent by verbs in a sentence against the listless demeanour of nouns. Of grammar I knew nothing. I would have found it difficult to distinguish adjective from adverb in a clever sentence.

 

I had learnt of my crippling deficiency but did not know if there was a remedy. The ponderous grammar texts, the Wren and Martins of the pundits, were beyond me.

Few, pathetically few, people read books. Extensive, consistent, and compulsive reading is must to write readable prose. Stephen King has said, ‘If you don't have time to read, you don't have the time (or the tools) to write’. But a discerning and ravenous reader may be grossly ignorant about the process of writing; most actually are. Only a stray reader is interested in writing. For writing is a tiring and a frustrating exercise. Reading is unadulterated fun. Writing, George Orwell thought, ‘is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist or understand’. But all this knowledge lay in future. I then believed that ideas were the only tools a writer needed to churn out great books. Unique prose style of a writer, I naively fancied, was an inherent trait.

There was none who could suggest me a book which would acquaint me with the secret world of these crafty words. I was so daft that I did not know what I was looking for. I knew my words fell dud on the paper. But what was it that could breathe life into them, I could not fathom.

 

I came across a book on prose style by a science writer whom I admired much for his graceful, easy, and concise prose. I read the book soon. I found it a little heavy. Perhaps, my ignorance was impregnable. I had bought the book online. In its wake, I started receiving suggestions for more such books. I read their reviews and bought such as I thought would interest me.

Thus began my dalliance with this genre of books. I do not know if this reading buoyed up my morose and heavy prose. But it gave me novel insights into my language illiteracy. Most importantly, I found these books fascinating to read. I have since read many and have a respectable collection of such in my library.

Today I want to talk about Bill Bryson’s Troublesome Words. Bryson is basically a travel writer. He has written many rip-roaringly hilarious books on his travels in Europe, Britain, Australia, Africa, and USA. I have read all. I instantly fell for his elegant yet supremely effortless prose with the first book of his I read, though unaware at that time, what made it so attractive.

Book is not a usage guide neither is it a style manual. It is what its title suggests, an anthology of troublesome words that Bryson came across in the course of his daily newspaper work – “Should it be ‘fewer than 10 percent of voters’ or ‘less than 10 per cent’?” Does someone have ‘more money than her’ or ‘than she’?”

Bryson was subeditor at The Times when he wrote the book. He took his editor's job seriously. He soon realised that there was much in English usage that he was not clear about. He wrote to an editor at Penguin that there was a need for a simple guide for ‘confusing or problematic aspects of the language’ and that he was prepared to undertake the task. His offer was accepted and The Penguin Dictionary of Troublesome Words was published in 1983. He says in introduction to a latter edition that the book should have been titled, ‘A Guide to Everything in English Usage That the Author Wasn’t Entirely Clear About Until Quite Recently'.

I was untaught in English, a foreign language – neither spoken at home nor at school. It was consoling to learn that even natives of English-speaking nations had similar troubles with the language; My deficiency in language, though enormous, was apparently not unique.

Is a task impractical or impracticable? Is this a definite draft of the letter or the definitive one? Child waded into the puddle or in to the puddle? Did audience at the concert comprise of college students or was composed of them? Is my view contrary to yours or opposite of yours? Is there a useful distinction in between (or should it be among?) these choices? Does the correct usage bring clarity to prose? I am routinely, frustratingly, and hopelessly confronted with these doubts. On most occasions I am not even aware of the blunders in my prose. Books like this, hopefully (or should I say ‘I hope’?), will rid my prose of some of its vagueness. 

I have read a few books in this genre and found most well written. There are many that are vastly more informative. They also cover the subject more exhaustively. But I found Bryson’s book absolute fun to read from the first word to the last. His unique humour, laced with irreverence, hard-hitting yet sophisticated, pervades every page. Book reads like his other books; a sheer joy. That it offers some acutely perceptive advice on the usage of English, is a bonus. I offer a few instances: Here Bryson explains difference between Lay and Lie with an excerpt from a journal – ‘Laying on his back, Dalton used a long exposure of two seconds to achieve maximum depth of field' (Photography Magazine) and adds, 'unless Dalton was producing eggs, he was lying on his back'. On the spelling of Barbecue he says, 'Any journalist or other formal user of English who believes that the word is spelled barbeque or, worse still, bar-b-q is not ready for unsupervised employment'. He is chagrined as he contemplates the improper use of apostrophe among advertisers, 'The mistake is inexcusable and those who make it are linguistic Neanderthals'.

Bryson cites extensively from newspapers, magazines, and even books of grammarians and linguists, to illustrate the inappropriate usages. His wide research is evident as is his long preparation for the book when he must have diligently collected the instances of use/abuse he quotes generously. Here he cautions the reader on the figurative use of Ceiling ‘in the sense of an upper limit.’ When using Ceiling thus, one must not forget that its ‘literal meaning is always lurking in the background’. He quotes from the Daily Gulf Times to illustrate his point, ‘Oil ministers want to stick to ceiling’. Here he extracts a sentence from Daily Mail to explain the distinction between Serve and Servicing – ‘Cable TV should be servicing half the country within five years.' And explains further, 'Bulls service cows. Mechanics service faulty machinery. But cable TV systems Serve the country.'

English is riddled with words that cause endless confusion, viz, fewer and less, further and farther, flounder and founder, can and may, will and shall, I and me, who and whom. I decide their usage by the seat-of-the-pants instinct. This is little better than flipping a coin. Bryson explains the difference, a thin line in many cases, in an unequivocal language. He excerpts quotes from published works to clarify the usage. With enviable clarity he lays down the subtle differences in seemingly synonymous words like: deplete and reduce, disinterested and uninterested, libel and slander. He devotes larger space, about 200-300 words, for some of the more persistent troubles in language e.g., errors of numbers, split infinitives, words like data, each, and hopefully. These mini-essays are a paragon of concise, clear, and lucid exposition.

But even if one disregards or abhors the guidance in usage of English the book offers, book entertains splendidly – and I do not know if there is a better reason to read a book. ‘Needless to say, is a harmless enough expression, but it often draws attention to the fact that you didn’t really need to say it.’ Was advice ever offered in a better packing?

 

A few years back, after I had read Troublesome Words, I went back to the book on prose-style by a science writer that I mentioned earlier. On this occasion, I liked the book immensely, like all his science books I have adored for decades. I will hold back its name. There are days aplenty, when my mind is bereft (or should it be devoid?) of ideas, as I sit on my writing chair, fidgeting the pen and frustratingly eyeing the blank page on the desk. The book might offer a reverie and release me from one of these frustrating ennui.

As I read the words I have written till now, they seem to imply that I have since i.e., after reading the varied language books, overcome my language illiteracy. I must hurry to disabuse the reader of this misunderstanding. My ignorance is still dense. If I have gained insight into the mechanics of my ignorance, I am still a bewildered stranger in the world of conjunctions and prepositions, gerunds (verbs that function as nouns) and infinitives (verbs preceded by to), the indicative and the subjunctive moods. I obtain flashes of clear vision occasionally and exult in the discovery. But these books have offered me newer ways to gratify my need for reading. On the way, if I have learned to say, what I want to, a little more clearly – only because fogginess of my prose was astounding to begin with – it is a doubtless blessing (or is it undoubtedly a blessing?).

Language makes us human. Effort to say clearly what is in our minds to our fellow humans can never go waste. Bertrand Russell, the philosopher and logician, once said, ‘No matter how eloquently a dog may bark, he cannot tell you that his parents were poor but honest. Only language can do that’. It is worth preserving this uniquely human attribute with refinement.