On innovation in language

A very interesting podcast by Stephen Fry on pedantry in language vs. freedom to innovate and break rules. If you are a member of the totalitarian regime that takes it name from a certain fruit, you can download it here for free. Otherwise, you can listen to it (or download it) here:




Now, Stephen Fry (and I shall really write more about this later) can be seen as a bit of an authority on the subject because of his own — immediately apparent — superior command of English tongue. His vocabulary, grammar and style are remarkable, and not, at the same time, at the expense of clarity.

Therefore, what he says is all the more interesting: he is against pedantry in language. He confesses he had to break himself out of it, but, nevertheless, he intensely dislikes the people who complain about others being wrong in grammar, usage, punctuation or the like.

Not only because he himself believes it normal — even most wonderful — that the language changes, adopts to new cultures, environments and circumstances, but also because he is irritated that these people worship rules for their own sake, and no evidence points to them enjoying the language.


My thoughts on the talk?

First of all, I liked it very much. And I agree with its spirit. I do think myself that it is wonderful to use the language creatively and “own” it, as it were. At the same time, I personally think it absurd to say that you can ignore the rules, the convention and the tradition completely. Not because I worship these phenomena for their own sake (people who have been in close communication with me know this to be quite opposite from the truth), but because they are good tools which get the job done. Effectively. More effectively than lack of rules.

The famous quote by Picasso goes something like: “It took me twenty years to learn to paint like an artist. It took me a lifetime to learn to paint like a child.” But he had to learn how to paint like an artist first! One has to know the rules in order to know how to break them. There is a world of difference between a pianist who reinvents a work of Bach (within the boundaries of classical tradition — or not) to suit her own style, personality, as well as the thoughts and feelings on the particular work, and me just banging on the piano. In the first case it is a light that was allowed to become expressed in a new vessel. Something wonderful. Something new. A creation ex nihilo. In the second case it is just noise. Nonsense.

I really do think that understanding why passive voice is to be avoided (pun intended — twice) allows one to use one’s sentences more effectively. And, if one so desires, one can break this rule. But, he must know it first to understand what he is breaking and why. (And the same goes for starting sentences with conjunctions.) As Rabbi Paltiel once said, it is not quite the same for a cow not to know G-d and, lehavdil, for a tzaddik not to know G-d. The former is just a product of mere ignorance. The latter is a case of submission to something that goes beyond the structure and the fabric of reality.

My main point is: Stephen Fry is right. Language needs to be enjoyed. It is more than just a form of communication. It is an art. (Although, even if used only for the means of communication, when done creatively, language can be incredibly forceful.) Having said that, the rules exist for a reason — they are not mere tradition necessarily. They are a means for expressing thoughts more effectively.

And knowing how to balance innovation with tradition is both an art and a science. The way to acquire this skill is through study and practice. Not through ignorance.

A final thought: I think one will find that most great thinkers, movers, creators, shapers and leaders, both in the Jewish and, lehavdil, secular history, used the force and the momentum of the tradition, to which they added a spice of innovation to create the explosions of brilliance for which they are known (and which have become the meat and potatoes of Judaism).  At their times, they were criticized for being troublemakers and innovators. In our times, they are the rock of the tradition and a source of inspiration and guidance. Take anyone, from Rambam or Rabbi Yehuda Ha’Nasi, to Alter Rebbe, to the Rebbe, and see if this formula applies.

This same idea is expressed in the concept of Havaya hu ha’Elokim. G-dly Light must reach this lowly world — and for this purpose, it must be accepted and shaped by a vessel. But, in order to be a recipient for the Light, the vessel must be subservient to the Light’s purpose and message, the knowledge of where it is coming from.

And more (about) cases

(Why are all pareve chocolate chips semi-sweet?)

It turns out, according to this article, that besides regular six deflection cases (more about cases) of Russian language — nominative, genitive, dative, accusative, instrumental and prepositional — there are a few rarely occurring special cases: numeric-separative, depriving, waiting, local, calling, turning, and counting.

Am I the only one to whom this sounds like some list of spells from Harry Potter?

So many cases, so little time

Russian grammar is fun. Besides having word formation akin to a lego puzzle (a few prefixes, one-to-three suffixes and one or two endings to form a regular word), it has cases. Cases are always fun for students of Russian. Both the students who are native speakers and those who are not.

If you don’t know what cases are, they are instances of inflection, the process of changing the word such that its meaning and functional role in the sentence changes. In English, only four cases exist and only regarding (some) pronouns. Otherwise, the function of a word is determined by its position. Borrrring. (Blame the French. As usual.)

I gave you a book. — Nominative case
You gave me a book. — Dative/Accusative case
This is my book. — Possessive case.
This book is mine. — Forgot its name, but you get the idea.

Well, in Russian there are six cases, and they apply to all nouns, pronouns and adjectives that take them as antecedents. (In case of adjective–antecedent relationship, both have to be of the same case, number and gender — yes, I said “gender”; in Russian even non-living things have gender: for instance, a table is “he”, while a bottle is “she”. The window is “it”.)

Russian is not unique about this. In other manly languages the same thing is going on (both about cases and genders). For instance, in German and Latin.

Well, did I mention that numbers can also be deflected? Yep. Even long ones, like “three thousand eight hundred ninety two”. Each of the six words has to be deflected, and unlike in the case of nouns, where rules are relatively simple (you need to know the gender and grammatical type of the noun — of course, native speakers know how to deflect naturally; but, they don’t know the cases naturally, which means they still need to memorize the proper endings for writing), for numerals the correct endings can be tricky. Think of it as juggling six balls while dancing a tango. The balls need to be flying up, but also in the direction one is dancing.

Ilya Birman gives a few examples. (Sorry, at this point one needs to speak Russian.)

Так вышло, что мне нужно сделать небольшой тест по русскому языку и отправить его по почте на соответствующую кафедру в универе. Склоняю числительные. Чтобы не было сильно скучно, придумываю всякие предложения.

8. Просклоняйте количественное числительное 1245 (книг).

1. Тысяча двести сорок пять книг стоят на полке.
2. Тысячи двухсот сорока пяти книг недосчитался библиотекарь.
3. И тысяче двумстам сорока пяти книгам не рассказать всех несмешных анекдотов!
4. Уж тысячу двести сорок пять книг прочёл, а всё бестолку.
5. Тысячью двумястами сорока пятью книгами можно натопить небольшую баню.
6. О тысяче двухстах сорока пяти книгах мне надоело придумывать дурацкие предложения.

9. Просклоняйте порядковое числительное 3892 (преподавателя).

Если числительное порядковое, то почему «преподавателя»? Видимо, ошибка в тесте. Пришлось склонять сразу и так, и эдак.

1. Три тысячи восемьсот девяносто два преподавателя пинают плохого студента три тысячи восемьсот девяносто второй раз.
2. Трёх тысяч восьмисот девяноста двух преподавателей достаточно, чтобы вкрутить лампочку с три тысячи восемьсот девяносто второго раза.
3. Трём тысячам восьмистам девяноста двум преподавателям пришлось ещё раз дать по башке три тысячи восемьсот девяносто второму (в рейтинге успеваемости) студенту.
4. Три тысячи восемьсот девяносто двух преподавателей наказали за избиение три тысячи восемьсот девяносто второго (в рейтинге успеваемости) студента.
5. Тремя тысячами восьмьюстами девяноста двумя преподавателями (в смысле, таким большим составом) можно доехать на работу три тысячи восемьсот девяносто вторым троллейбусом (ПКиО — Юпитер)
6. О трёх тысячах восьмистах девяноста двух преподавателях можно составить в три тысячи восемьсот девяносто два раза больше бессмысленных предложений, чем о три тысячи восемьсот девяносто втором кабинете главного корпуса (тем более, что такого нет).
   

Which is not to say I don’t love English. I do. It just has other strengths. All of them derived from Latin and German, obviously.