Origins of the Specious: Myths and Misconceptions of the English Language - Hardcover

Patricia T. O'Conner; Stewart Kellerman

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 1400066603 ISBN 13: 9781400066605

Publisher: Random House, 2009

Synopsis

Do you cringe when a talking head pronounces “niche” as NITCH? Do you get bent out of shape when your teenager begins a sentence with “and,” or says “octopuses” instead of “octopi”? Do you think British spellings are more “civilised” than the American versions? Would you bet the bank that “jeep” got its start as a military term and “SOS” as an acronym for “Save Our Ship”? If you answered yes to any of those questions, you’re myth-informed. Go stand in the corner–and read this book!

In Origins of the Specious, word mavens Patricia T. O’Conner and Stewart Kellerman explode the misconceptions that have led generations of language lovers astray. They reveal why some of grammar’s best-known “rules” aren’t–and never were–rules at all. They explain how Brits and Yanks wound up speaking the same language so differently, and why British English isn’t necessarily purer. This playfully witty yet rigorously researched book sets the record straight about bogus word origins, politically correct fictions, phony français, fake acronyms, and more. English is an endlessly entertaining, ever-changing language, and yesterday’s blooper could be tomorrow’s bon mot–or vice versa! Here are some shockers: “They” was once commonly used for both singular and plural, much the way “you” is today. And an eighteenth-century female grammarian, of all people, is largely responsible for the all-purpose “he.” The authors take us wherever myths lurk, from the Queen’s English to street slang, from Miss Grundy’s admonitions to four-letter unmentionables. This eye-opening romp will be the toast of grammarphiles and the salvation of grammarphobes. Take our word for it.

About this title

About the Author:

Patricia T. O’Conner, a former editor at The New York Times Book Review, has written four books on language and writing–the bestselling Woe Is I: The Grammarphobe’s Guide to Better English in Plain English; Words Fail Me: What Everyone Who Writes Should Know About Writing; Woe Is I Jr.: The Younger Grammarphobe’s Guide to Better English in Plain English; and You Send Me: Getting It Right When You Write Online.

Stewart Kellerman has been an editor at The New York Times and a foreign correspondent for UPI in Asia, Latin America, and the Middle East. He co-authored You Send Me with his wife, Patricia T. O’Conner, and he runs their website and blog at grammarphobia.com. They live in rural Connecticut.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

Chapter One
Stiff Upper Lips

Why Can’t the British Be More Like Us?

Winston Churchill gave the folks at Bartlett’s plenty of fodder for their books of Familiar Quotations: “so much owed by so many to so few” . . . “blood, toil, tears, and sweat” . . . “this was their finest hour” . . . and more. But he didn’t describe England and America as “two nations divided by a common language,” though thousands of websites say so. What he did, though, was pass along a great story about how the two nations were indeed divided by their two Englishes at a meeting of Allied leaders during World War II.

“The enjoyment of a common language was of course a supreme advantage in all British and American discussions,” Churchill wrote in The Second World War. No interpreters were needed, for one thing, but there were “differences of expression, which in the early days led to an amusing incident.” The British wanted to raise an urgent matter, he said, and told the Americans they wished to “table it” (that is, bring it to the table). But to the Americans, tabling something meant putting it aside. “A long and even acrimonious argument ensued,” Churchill wrote, “before both parties realised that they were agreed on the merits and wanted the same thing.”

I’m no mind reader, but I’ll bet the Brits at the table felt their English was the real thing, while the Yanks felt apologetic about theirs. If there’s one thing our two peoples agree on, it’s that British English is purer than its American offshoot. My in-box gets pinged every week or two by a Brit with his knickers in a twist or an American with an inferiority complex. A typical comment: “Why do you refer to ‘American English’ and ‘British English’ Surely it should be ‘American English’ and ‘proper English.’” Ouch! Is their English really more proper—that is, purer—than ours? Which one is more like the English spoken in the 1600s when the Colonies and the mother country began diverging linguistically?

First of all, “American English” and “British English” are how authorities refer to the two major branches of English, and reflect the changes in the language since the Colonies separated themselves linguistically from England. The differences are many, but they’re minor from a grammarian’s point of view. Most have to do with spelling, pronunciation, and usage. En?glish grammar is English grammar no matter where you live, despite a few exceptions here and there.

The truth is that neither English is more proper. In some respects American English is purer than British English: We’ve preserved some usages and spellings and pronunciations that have changed over time in Britain. But the reverse is also true. The British have preserved much that has changed on our side of the Atlantic. In many cases, it’s nearly impossible to tell which branch has history on its side. Take “table,” the word that gave those Allied leaders such grief. In the eighteenth century, the phrase “to lay on the table” could mean either to bring up or to defer. By the nineteenth century, the Brits had preserved one of those meanings and the Yanks the other. So the verb “table” meant one thing there and quite another here.

In case you’re wondering who should get the credit for that crack about “two nations divided by a common language,” the answer is nobody exactly. George Bernard Shaw was quoted in 1942 as saying, “England and America are two countries separated by the same language.” But nobody is certain where or when he said it. What we do know is that Oscar Wilde said the same thing in different words in 1887: “We have really everything in common with America nowadays, except, of course, language.”

Sound Bites

We’ve all seen My Fair Lady, on stage or screen or iPod or whatever, and we all have our favorite scenes. One of mine is the bit where Henry Higgins, the arrogant professor of phonetics, first encounters the flower girl Eliza Doolittle at Covent Garden and is appalled by her Cockney accent. Higgins belittles her for turning the language of Shakespeare and Milton into “such disgusting and depressing noise,” and she screeches, “Ah-ah-aw-aw-

oo-oo.” Fed up with her “detestable boo-hooing,” he sings, “Why can’t the English learn to speak?”

So what would a real Professor Higgins make of the way Americans speak? We don’t have to look hard to find the answer, and many apologetic Americans may be surprised to hear it. Professor William A. Read, a distinguished linguist, put it this way in a journal of philology: “The pronunciation of educated Americans is in many respects more archaic than that of educated Englishmen.” This should be no surprise, he said, since “the phonetic basis of American pronunciation rests chiefly on the speech of Englishmen of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.” And those Englishmen sounded much like the Americans of today. The “English accent” that we now associate with educated British speech is a relatively new phenomenon and ?didn’t develop until after the American Revolution.

Look at the way the letter r is pronounced (or not pronounced), perhaps the most important difference in the speech of educated people in the US and the UK. Since Anglo-Saxon days, the English had pronounced the r in words like “far,” “mother,” “world,” “church,” and “mourn.” English speakers on both sides of the Atlantic pronounced the r’s in these words when the Colonies broke away from England. Most Americans still do. But educated people in Britain began dropping their r’s in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. The Americans most likely to drop their r’s were those, like New Englanders, who had strong commercial and social ties with the mother country.

This dropping of r’s in Britain ?didn’t happen all of a sudden, and the sticklers of the day ?didn’t take it lying down. “The perception that the language was ‘losing a letter’ was a cause of profound upset to some writers,” the linguist David Crystal has written. The poet Keats, for example, was cruelly upbraided by critics for rhyming “thoughts” with “sorts,” and “thorns” with “fawns.” Lord Byron blamed a critical article for hastening Keats’s death in 1821: “’Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle, / Should let itself be snuffed out by an Article.” But by the time Keats died, the dropped r was a standard feature of educated British pronunciation.

The other letter that’s a dead giveaway in telling a Brit from a Yank is the a in a word like “past.” We all know how an American would say it—with an a like the one in “cat.” And as anyone who’s watched Masterpiece Theatre can tell you, the standard British pronunciation is PAHST. But it wasn’t always so. The Brits used to say it the same way Americans do now. Here again, the Americans stuck with an old way of speaking, one the British abandoned about the same time they dropped their r’s.

The a, like the r, has ping-ponged in British pronunciation. Until the 1500s, the English did indeed pronounce words like “bath” and “laugh” and “dance” with an “ah.” But in the sixteenth century they began pronouncing the a in what we now consider the American way (as in “cat”). So things remained for the next two or three hundred years. This is the a that went to America on the Mayflower in 1620. And this is the a that both the Redcoats and the Colonists used during the Revolutionary War. Not until the 1780s did Londoners begin pronouncing their a’s like “ahs” again, and for a few decades the broad a and the short a battled it out. But by the early 1800s, educated Britain was saying BAHTH and LAHF and DAHNCE.

That’s also about when literate Britons started pronouncing the h in “herb.” Before the nineteenth century, both the English and Americans pronounced it ERB. In fact, the word was usually spelled “erbe” for the first few hundred years after it was borrowed from the Old French erbe in the 1200s. The h was added later as a nod to the Latin original (herba, or grass), but the letter was silent. Today, Americans pronounce “herb” the way Shakespeare did, with a silent h, while the Bard wouldn’t recognize the word in the mouths of the English.

Speaking of aitches, some British speakers, especially on the telly, use “an” before words like “historic” or “hotel,” and some Anglophiles over here are slavishly imitating them. For shame! Usage manuals on both sides of the Atlantic say the article to use is “a,” not “an.” The rule is that we use “a” before a word that begins with an h that’s pronounced and “an” before a word that starts with a silent h. And dictionaries in both Britain and the United States say the h should be pronounced in “historic” and “hotel” as well as “heroic,” “habitual,” “hypothesis,” “horrendous,” and some other problem h-words.

When the British aren’t adding or subtracting an h, stretching out an a, or dropping an r, they’re chopping off whole syllables from words like “secretary,” “necessary,” “military,” “extraordinary,” “satisfactory,” “literary,” and others. “Secretary,” for example, is shortened to SEC-ruh-tre...

About this edition

• Publisher: Random House
• Publication date: 2009
• ISBN 10: 1400066603
• ISBN 13: 9781400066605
• Binding: Hardcover
• Number of pages: 266