Learning the English idioms

Learning the English idioms « on: January 01, 2010, 09:48:47 PM »

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As every nonnative English learner soon discovers upon acquiring an adequate grasp of the language, many common English expressions don’t have the same meanings as those of their individual words. For instance, the verbal phrase “to ask (someone) over” means to invite someone to come and not to ask that person a question, and the noun phrase “finding a needle in a haystack” means a very difficult task and has nothing to do with actual needles and haystacks. In short, English is highly idiomatic—it often doesn’t mean exactly what it says—so it isn’t enough to simply learn how to string any of its estimated 625,000 words into grammatically and structurally correct sentences. The learner also needs to patiently find out the idioms or implicit meanings built by native English speakers into particular combinations of those words, then be able to use those particular idioms with confidence when the occasion calls for them.

Indeed, acquiring the estimated 20,000-25,000 words needed to be adequately proficient in English is child’s play compared to learning its more than 24,000 idioms. To sound natural when speaking or writing in English, or to be able to read English text well or to listen to spoken English with ease, the serious learner must know at least a sizable number of these idioms, which make so much of the language a dizzying labyrinth of hidden meanings. Not to do so will make the learner forever an outsider to the language, no matter how extensive his or her vocabulary or sentence-making skill becomes.

Idioms are of two basic types: transparent, those whose meanings can often be inferred from their constituent words, and opaque, those whose meanings aren’t as easily apparent. For instance, the idiom “lend a hand (to someone)” is transparent because it’s easily understood to mean to help someone; “walking on thin ice,” which means acting dangerously, is similarly transparent because its imagery can be easily associated with danger. But such an idiomatic expression as “to be wet behind the ears” (inexperienced) is opaque because its motivation or origin isn’t apparent on its face. Some idioms, of course, may fall in-between transparent and opaque, such as “keep a straight face” (pretend to be innocent) and “blow off steam” (release pent-up emotions).

English idioms take any of four grammatical forms: adjective phrases, noun phrases, prepositional phrases, and verb phrases.

An adjective phrase idiom is any phrase that modifies a noun or pronoun in a nonliteral way, like “head over heels” (smitten) in the sentence “Paris fell head over heels in love with Helen, triggering a ruinous war,” and “on a roll” (having great success) in “The partners are on a roll in their franchised business.”

A noun phrase idiom is one whose lead word is a noun or pronoun that often comes with a set of modifiers. Typical examples are the idiom “a straw in the wind” (unlikely) in “His winning was a straw in the windbecause his opponent had a stronger political machinery,” and the idiom “a square peg in a round hole” (misfit) in “As the feuding family’s arbiter, the veteran prosecutor was a square peg in a round hole.”

A prepositional idiom is one made up of a preposition, its object, and any modifier that comes after them, as the expressions “in the bag” (certain) and “in the nick of time” (a final critical moment), as in “The candidate thought his victory was already in the bag, but the election results proved him wrong” and “As always in Hollywood adventure movies, the hero saves damsel or village in mortal peril just in the nick of time.”

Finally, a verb phrase idiom—otherwise know as a phrasal verb idiom—is an expression whose meaning differs from that of its verb, as “put off” (postpone) and the following three “face” idioms: “face off” (compete), “face up to” (admit responsibility), and “face the music” (deal with an unpleasant situation). I’ll no longer give examples of their usage as I’m sure they are already part of most everybody’s conversational repertoire.

No matter what grammatical form they take, idioms make their component words transcend their dictionary meanings, and every new idiom learned brings the learner in closer touch with the heart and sinew of the English language. (February, 2 2007)

From the weekly column “English Plain and Simple” by Jose A. Carillo in The Manila Times, February 2, 2007, © 2007 by the Manila Times Publishing Corp. All rights reserved.

The reign of the dreadful clichés

The reign of the dreadful clichés « on: January 08, 2010, 11:56:02 PM »

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Precisely what’s so special about “at the end of the day” and “at this point in time” that probably one out of four Philippine legislators and public officials and probably the same ratio of TV talk-show hosts, news anchors, and guests are mouthing them much too often and with so much relish these days?

Nothing really. “At the end of the day” is simply a longer, flamboyant way of saying “ultimately,” “in the end,” or “after all,” while “at this point in time” is similarly a longer, flamboyant way of saying “now” and “currently.” And these two adverbial phrases—old-time grammarians call them “ablative absolutes”—aren’t really meant to call attention to themselves. Like such modifiers as “clearly” and “definitely,” they are designed simply to call attention to a point being made by the speaker, so they need to be used very sparingly to avoid irritating the listener or reader.

What’s very disturbing, however, is that many people think that liberally spicing their talk with these expressions is a sign of wisdom, discernment, and sophistication. Little do they know that on the contrary, “at the end of the day” and “at this point in time” have for several years now been condemned as the two most irritating clichés in the English language.

In a survey conducted in 70 countries in 2004 by the London-based Plain English Campaign, in particular, “at the end of the day” ranked first and “at this moment in time” (a variation of “at this point in time”) ranked second among the most hated English clichés world¬wide. As the group’s spokesman so aptly observed when the rankings of the most irritating clichés were announced, “Using these terms in daily business is about as professional as wearing a novelty tie or having a wacky ring-tone on your phone. When readers or listeners come across these tired expressions, they start tuning out and completely miss the message—assuming there is one.”

Again, in 2005, in a poll of 150 senior executives all throughout corporate America by the temporary staffing company Accountemps, “at the end of the day” ranked first among the 15 most annoying clichés.

Finally, in 2006, in a poll of 10,000 news sources that included 1,600 American newspapers, the Australian-based database company Factiva found “at the end of the day” at the top of the 55 most overused English clichés. But this is only the tip of the iceberg, to use a cliché, for that poll did not cover the US broadcast media where the overuse of “at the end of the day” is decidedly much more pronounced.

If “at the end of the day” and “at this point in time” have indeed become such dreadful banes to the English language, why is it that they are now enjoying such wide currency in the Philippines? They have become such pernicious semantic crutches for so many public officials, media people, and students, and their dependency level is such that they may no longer be able to speak their minds without overusing those two clichés.

I suspect that not so far back, a highly influential public figure either in government, media, or academe must have triggered this domestic overuse of “at the end of the day” and “at this point in time.” Perhaps he or she must have used these two clichés much too often during a major event that was covered live by all of the local TV networks, thus setting such a wrongheaded example for English-savvy speech for audiences all over the land.

It no longer matters who that culprit was, but there’s no doubt that we are now in the midst of an “at the end of the day” and “at this point in time” pandemic, and the only way to stop it is for all of us to totally retire these damaged semantic goods from our writing and speech—right now. (December 22, 2007)

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From the weekly column “English Plain and Simple” by Jose A. Carillo in The Manila Times, December 22, 2007, © 2007 by the Manila Times Publishing Corp. All rights reserved.

How verbs behave in the exceptional sequence

How verbs behave in the exceptional sequence « on: January 16, 2010, 03:32:15 AM »

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In these troubled and troubling times when people’s utterances—whether expressed in private or aired through the broadcast, cellular, or print media—are increasingly being viewed with mutual suspicion, it would be useful to make a quick review of the grammar of reported speech. This would require a reacquaintance with how verbs behave in the normal sequence of tenses and in the so-called exceptional sequence. People should clearly understand this behavior of verbs so they can have a clearer, unbiased perception of the chronology and logic of fast-breaking events as they happen in time.

Reported speech or indirect speech is, of course, simply the kind of sentence someone makes when he or she reports what someone else has said. For instance, a company’s division manager might have told a news reporter these exact words: “I am resigning to join the competition.” In journalism, where the reporting verb is normally in the past tense, that statement takes this form in reported speech: “The division manager said he was resigning to join the competition.”

The operative verb in utterances obviously can take any tense depending on the speaker’s predisposition or intent. However, when an utterance takes the form of reported speech and the reporting verb is in the past tense, the operative verb of that utterance generally takes one step back from the present into the past: the present becomes past, the past usually stays in the past, the present perfect becomes past perfect, and the future becomes future conditional. This is the so-called normal sequence-of-tenses rule in English grammar.

Now let’s review how this rule applies when that division manager’s utterance is stated in the various tenses:

Present tense to past tense. Utterance: “I am resigning to join the competition.” Reported speech: “The division manager said he was resigning to join the competition.”

Past tense to past tense. Utterance: “I resigned to join the competition.” Reported speech: “The division manager said he resigned to join the competition.” (The past tense can usually be retained in reported speech when the intended act is carried out close to its announcement; if much earlier, the past perfect applies.)

Present perfect to past perfect tense. Utterance: “I have resigned to join the competition.” Reported speech: “The division manager said he had resigned to join the competition.”       

Future tense to future conditional tense. Utterance: “I will resign to join the competition.” Reported speech: “The division manager said he would resign to join the competition.”

The exceptional sequence. There is, however, one very rare instance when the operative verb in reported speech does not conform to this normal sequence of tenses. In the so-called exceptional sequence, which applies if the information being reported is permanently or always true, the operative verb in reported speech doesn’t take a tense backward but retains the present tense.

For instance, to prove a point, the division manager might have surprised his subordinates by saying an eternal verity like this: “A square has four sides of equal length.” This time, using the normal sequence-of-tenses rule to report that statement would be silly: “Our division manager said a square had four sides of equal length.” All squares will forever have four sides of equal length, so the exceptional sequence applies: “Our division manager said a square has four sides of equal length.”

But should the reported speech for habitual things also follow the exceptional sequence rule? Say, for instance, that right after declaring his intention to resign, that same division manager adds: “I am always loyal to the company I work for.” Would this reported speech for that utterance be correct: “He said he is always loyal to the company he works for”? Definitely not. By his very words, the speaker has shown that loyalty is such a fickle thing, so the normal sequence-of-tenses rule applies to his reported speech: “He said he was always loyal to the company he worked for.” (March 6, 2006)

From the weekly column “English Plain and Simple” by Jose A. Carillo in The Manila Times, March 6, 2006, © 2006 by the Manila Times Publishing Corp. All rights reserved.

Too much boasting and nestling in

Too much boasting and nestling in « on: January 30, 2010, 01:04:35 AM »

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If I were to judge from my newspaper, magazine, and web readings in recent years, it would appear that we are not only a most boastful people but also one so predisposed to petty exaggeration in our language. This is strongly evident in our glib overuse of two English expressions, “boast of (something)” and “nestled (in),” particularly in newspaper and magazine journalism, in advertising, and in the tourist literature.

Let’s talk about “boast of (something)” first. Its dictionary definition is, of course, “to puff oneself up in speech,” “to speak of or assert with excessive pride,” or “to possess and call attention to a source of pride.” Of course, it can also simply mean “to have” or “to contain”—the unboastful denotation that’s actually what is meant in many “boast of” statements.

Now, from Google’s estimated 775,000 citations* of what are “boasted about” in the Philippines, the following representative high-level boasts are perhaps semantically justifiable and factually defensible: “the Philippinesboasts of some of the best beaches and scuba diving waters in the world,” “the Philippines boasts of a 94 percent literacy rate,” “the Philippines boasts (of) good English-language skills,” and “the Philippines boasts (of) some of the finest IT workers in the world.” Even so, if I were the drumbeater for these things, I’d be more circumspect and use “has” or “lays claim to” instead of “boasts of.” After all, levelheaded language often works much better than rank exaggeration in promotional talk of this kind.

Indeed, many of our boastings captured by Google are woefully out of proportion to the semantic enthusiasm expended on them: “Mindanao boasts of two new vapor heat treatment plants,” “(The library) boasts of a wealthy collection of multi-media materials on governance, productivity, and management,” “(The city)boasts of the first community-based breast screening program in RP,” “Domestic air travel market in Philippines boasts of a growth rate of 47 per cent,” and “One of the oldest in the province, this church boasts of a huge mural painting on its ceiling…” I think “boasts of” is out of line in all of these statements; the verb “has” could have done a much better job.

Now let’s talk about the terribly overused expression “nestled (in),” which means “settled snugly or comfortably” or “lying in a sheltered manner.” Google lists 288,000 citations for this expression in the Philippines alone, and when I looked at a representative sampling, I got the dreadful feeling that the expression is not only overused but subjected to severe semantic abuse as well.

Of course, there’s no doubt that the use of “nestled (in)” is semantically justified in these statements: “Nestled deep in the Cordilleras is Banaue, about nine hours from Baguio by bus,” “The first and only pine estate south of Metro Manila, (it) is a quiet sanctuary nestled in the gently rolling hills of Tagaytay,” and “Nestled atop a beachside cliff, (the resort) offers breathtaking views of the ocean from the balcony of your own private villa.” The sense of curling up comfortably and of restfulness is evident in all of these three statements.

But I think the writers had gone overboard in using “nestled (in)” in these highly contrived statements: “The Philippines lies nestled in the bosom of the East Asian growth area,” “Nestled in the center of everything worth the while, (the hotel) is located along Manila’s Roxas Boulevard fronting the Manila Bay,” “…the sophistication and elegance of a hotel (that’s) nestled right at the heart of Cebu’s bustling business district,” and “Taal Volcano—the word’s smallest volcano (that) is nestled in the middle of a scenic lake.”

Obviously, we can’t force everything to nestle into just anything for the sake of lending drama to our language. Instead of settling for a semantic near-miss, therefore, why not use a no-nonsense word like “lies,” “located” or “situated” instead? It will be right on the mark all the time. (August 23, 2008)
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*For some unknown reason, Google’s 775,000 citations for “boast of” in the Philippines on August 20, 2008 have dropped to 54,000 as of January 28, 2010.

** For some unknown reason, Google’s 288,000 citations for “nestled in” in the Philippines on August 20, 2008 have dropped to 70,400 as of January 28, 2010. 
From the weekly column “English Plain and Simple” by Jose A. Carillo in The Manila Times, August 23, 2008, © 2008 by the Manila Times Publishing Corp. All rights reserved.

The noun-to-verb conversion syndrome

The noun-to-verb conversion syndrome « on: February 05, 2010, 11:55:04 PM »

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One major word-formation process in English is to use the noun itself as a verb to express the action conveyed or implied by the noun, without changing the form of the noun in any way. This direct noun-to-verb conversion, one of the so-called “zero derivation” processes in linguistics, has been taking place since language began. It has given English such basic action verbs as “eye” to mean “to watch or study closely,” “nose” to mean “to search impertinently,” “face” to mean “to deal with straightforwardly,” “mouth” to mean “to talk in a pompous way,” “elbow” to mean “to shove aside,” and “stomach” to mean “to bear without overt resentment.” Rather than come up with a new word for the action that a body part typically can do literally or figuratively, English speakers simply made that body part stand for the action itself; later on, they did the same for tools, machines, and technologies. It has been estimated that by this process, something like one-fifth of all English verbs had been formed from nouns.

Creating verbs this way, which is facetiously called “nerbing” by some language observers, is particularly tempting in English because it saves time for the speaker or writer and simplifies sentence construction. For instance, rather than saying “She made a catalogue of the books,” we can use the noun “catalogue” as the verb itself, knock off the verb “made,” and say “She catalogued the books” instead. In the same token, rather than saying “The wealthy couple served as parents for the orphan until she reached legal age,” we can use the noun “parent” as the verb, drop the verb “served,” and say “The wealthy couple parented the orphan until she reached legal age.” A bonus in both cases is that aside from saving on words, the language is enriched by a new verb—a “nerb,” a synthetic term that we will use here simply for convenience.

Traditionally, jobs and the professions and occupations have been among the most prolific generators and users of English nerbs: “He mentored the student in the art of debating.” “She liaisoned with media for an entertainment company.” “He engineered the merger of the two companies.” “The unscrupulous accountantdoctored the corporate books.” “The government legal counsel secretly lawyered for the powerful political family.”

Scientific, medical, and manufacturing processes have also tended to produce a generous share of nerbs: “We centrifuged the donor’s blood to harvest stem cells for the leukemia patient.” “The laboratory technicianchromatographed the mixture for possible contaminants.” In this latter type of nerbs, the name of the machine is directly converted to a verb that describes its action, streamlining what would have been a longer phrase built around the verb “use” (as in “They used a centrifuge to harvest stem cells for the leukemia patient.”).

During the past few decades, of course, advances in information technology and computers became the richest and most frenetic source of “nerbs.” Totally new verbs grew out directly from the names of such new technologies as the telephone, photocopier, fax machine, and e-mail. Thus, practically all English speakers now use such highly efficient nerbing shortcuts as “They telephoned [phoned] me just now,” “She photocopiedthe contract,” “My assistant will fax you the document tonight,” and “I’ll e-mail you the file tomorrow.”

The developers of these new technologies themselves have been prodigiously creating nerbs to describe new technical procedures and processes: “You must firewall your computer to protect your system from hackers and spammers.” “Please refer to this manual to architect your new portal server-based dynamic workplace.” Management and industry have likewise been riding on this trend by using such nouns as “conference,” “leverage,” “impact,” and “office” into verbs that some grammarians find deplorable, as in “They’ll conferenceout of town next week” and “She now offices at home for convenience.”

Some language observers fear that direct noun-to-verb conversion has become such a serious syndrome in English, one that promotes confusion instead of understanding among its users. As Sir Kingsley Amis, the late English novelist, poet, critic, and teacher, had observed about the phenomenon, “There are times when this sort of verb seems to be growing too fast for comfort, and one suspects that now may be such a time…(Such verbs) may be quicker to say, but then cutting your arm off will reduce your weight faster and more irreversibly than any diet or exercise.”

It is highly unlikely that the nerbing syndrome can be stopped, however, but we can at least help prevent inappropriate nerbs from swamping English by using usefulness and aesthetics as criteria for evaluating nerbs before using them ourselves. This way, only those that foster brevity as well as accuracy and clarity to language can survive and become welcome entries to the English lexicon. (December 05, 2005)

From the weekly column “English Plain and Simple” by Jose A. Carillo in The Manila Times, December 5, 2005, © 2005 by the Manila Times Publishing Corp. All rights reserved.

Watching out against the material fallacies

Watching out against the material fallacies « on: February 21, 2010, 06:02:50 PM »

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Practically every language textbook cautions us against the logical fallacies, which have bedeviled mankind from the very beginning and even long after Aristotle had painstakingly classified them and issued strong cautionary words against them over 2,400 years ago. Logical fallacies are those errors in our judgment that often result from fuzzy thinking, errors that—on hindsight—we sometimes can correct not long after. For political ends, however, some propaganda practitioners have developed the high art of using language to deceive and to deliberately trap us into making such errors in judgment. This is the danger that logical fallacies foist on us in our everyday lives and much more so during hotly contested electoral campaigns.

We can group logical fallacies into three broad categories: material fallacies, fallacies of relevance, andverbal fallacies. Let us see now how they operate and attempt to befuddle the minds of even supposedly rational thinkers, including ourselves.

Material fallacies       

When we present an argument, we use two basic tools of language: premises and presuppositions. Ourpremises are what we start our arguments with; to be believable, of course, these arguments must be self-evident or are already part of so-called “common knowledge.” For instance, nobody will dispute the fact that the sun rises from the east, so everybody in his right mind accepts it as true, as a “given.” What we should be wary about, however, is the validity of our presuppositions. We fall victim to these presuppositions because they generally cannot be proved or disproved. We often take them for granted based on blind faith and nothing more

Take this statement, for instance: “More people die in cities than anywhere else. Therefore, living in the city will hasten your death.” The material fallacy here is, of course, assuming that one outcome is caused by another just because one happens after the other. In reality, the two outcomes could have both been caused by another event, or they could be totally unrelated, as in this case.

As we can see, a conclusion is not adequately proven when an argument’s premises contain wrong presuppositions, which of course are artfully hidden by the better propagandists or, in their more benign form, by well-versed academic debaters. With this in mind, we will now formally look into nine of the most common kinds of material fallacies: false cause, hasty generalization, misapplied generalization, false dilemma, compound question, false analogy, contradictory premises, circular reasoning, and insufficient or suppressed evidence.

False cause. This is the kind of material fallacy that was given as the first example above—the assumption that an event is caused by another event simply because it happens after the latter: “More people die in cities than anywhere else. Therefore, living in the city will hasten your death.” Statistically, because of the denser populations of cities, more people do die in cities than in the countrysides, but this is only because of the sheer number of city dwellers who will eventually die whether from natural or other causes. It doesn’t follow, though, that living in the city will hasten your death. For instance, if you are a sickly person, the modern medical facilities of city hospitals could very well prolong your life rather than hasten your demise.

The most common false-cause fallacies are, of course, superstitions. Despite being educated well, for instance, many people fall prey to this false-cause belief: “Never proceed on your way when a black cat crosses your path. It’s bad luck and many people had died when they did so.” It just so happened that sometime in the past, perhaps one or two people died from one cause or another after proceeding when a black cat crossed their path, but this doesn’t mean that this is a sure outcome of that eventuality.

Even more common is the false-cause fallacy of the chain letter: “Juan de la Cruz didn’t forward his copy of this e-mail to three other people, and three days later he died.” Who among us has not been taken in by this veiled threat?

Hasty generalization. We fall victim to this fallacy when we make a general rule based on only a few examples, or on examples that are really exceptions. This statement is an example: “His parents were great public administrators; therefore, he will be a great administrator, too.” What’s the hasty generalization there? It is the presumption that the traits and skills for good public administration can be passed on genetically to one’s offsprings without fail. If this were true, then all a country needs to do to be administered well perpetually is to breed a family—nay, a dynasty—of genetically excellent public administrators. As we all know, of course, this remains a pipe dream for all nations all over the world. All of them must still take a chance in apparently competent, experienced individuals to administer their country over a certain period of time and see what happens—for good or bad. Life’s like that.

Misapplied generalization. When we misapply a certain generalization to a specific case that’s actually an exception to the rule, that generalization becomes materially fallacious. Look at this generalization: “Vegetables are nutritious; therefore, this piece of cabbage must be nutritious.” Cabbage is nutritious, of course, but maybe that particular cabbage you are holding and want to cook may already be rotten and no longer edible—hence not nutritious anymore.

Here’s another such generalization, an even more scalding one: “The graduates of X University have not worked hard and made a genuine effort in college, unable to keep any of their appointments, and presented carelessly written papers.” The fallacy here, of course, is the misapplied generalization. Indeed, the accusation may be true of certain students, but it’s unlikely to be true to the students of X University in general. It would have been fairer and more accurate to specifically address the accusation to—and rebuke—the students who were actually guilty of such academic transgressions.

False dilemma. Who has not been fascinated by the sensuous sell? “I allow only X [bathing soap, body lotion, intimate ointment] to touch my skin.” “I wear Y [briefs, panties, jeans] or nothing at all.” This is the materially fallacious argument that prods us to overlook alternative possibilities, thus creating a false dilemma for us.

This type of fallacious reasoning is also called the “either-or fallacy”—someone poses what looks like a dilemma when there are actually other viable alternatives. For example, someone respectable may have demonstrated an apparent skill in correctly predicting the outcome of horse races. Would it be correct then to make the following statement about that person? “Either that man’s a fraud or he’s psychic. Since it’s obvious he’s not a fraud, he must be truly psychic.” That, however, is committing the fallacy of false dilemma, for it’s also possible that he’s a respectable person demonstrating psychic powers fraudulently, or a fraudulent person who truly possesses psychic powers. 

Compound question. You must have already encountered aggressive door-to-door preachers who, when politely told that you are too busy, would tell you in an aggrieved, mildly threatening tone: “You mean to say that you dare refuse God to enter your house?” This is the classic compound question, otherwise called thecomplex question or loaded question, devilishly phrased to limit the possibilities of one’s answer. Its simpler variation is the so-called persuasive definition, which deceptively fashions the terms of the argument to support the conclusion.

Also called “poisoning the well,” the compound question is designed to prevent or avoid any opposing arguments and incriminates the answerer regardless of the response he or she gives. This is because any answer would admit the preliminary conclusions built into the question.

Another example of the compound question is this: “Do you expect me to believe that lie?” If you answer “no,” you are countering the stated expectation but at the same time admitting that what you said is a lie; if you say “yes,” you are actually saying that you are lying but that you expect the lie to be believed.”

False analogy. When an analogy is drawn between dissimilar or totally unrelated objects or ideas, the result is a false, unreliable analogy—the well-known “mangoes and bananas” comparison: “Bananas are as delicious and tasty as mangoes.” But here’s a more complex, deceiving example: “Minds, like rivers, can be broad. The broader the river, the shallower it is. Therefore, the broader the mind, the shallower it is.” On closer scrutiny, we find that this analogy is false because minds and rivers are actually totally dissimilar and unrelated objects—the first abstract and the second physical—that are not at all amenable to such a simplistic comparison.

We all know how powerful an analogy could be. It can persuade us to transfer the feeling of certainty we have about one subject to another subject that we may not have an opinion yet. But analogies are often undependable and must always be viewed with extreme caution. This is because they rely on the questionable principle that because two things are similar in some respects they are similar in some other respects. Indeed, when relevant differences outweigh relevant similarities, a false analogy results.

Contradictory premises. A basic rule in logic is that a conclusion is valid only when its premises don’t contradict one another; thus, an argument with conflicting or inconsistent premises is automatically invalid. That is the problem with this classical question: “What will happen if an irresistible force meets an immovable object?” The fallacy here is that in a universe where an irresistible force exists, no immovable object could also exist because the force wouldn’t be irresistible.

Just three more of these brain-teasing fallacies: “Into what shape of a slot would a rectangular circle fit?” “If God is all-powerful, can he create a rock so huge and so heavy that he cannot lift it?” “If X is more popular than his rival Y, how can Y perform better than X in the same elective position?” Of course, since the premises of these questions cannot both be valid, there’s really no way of logically answering them.

Circular reasoning. This material fallacy results when the assertion to be proved is later used in the argument as an already proven fact. Also known as “begging the question” and as petitio principii in Latin, circular reasoning is common even among the intelligent; people just have a natural predisposition to it.

We engage in varying degrees of self-deception to keep our self-respect or massage our egos, which may not be an entirely bad thing psychologically: “I must be good-looking because I really think so.”

“I may not be as good as they are but they are actually no better than I am.” “Many of my intelligent friends believe in “manananggals” [bat-winged witches]. I believe not only in “manananggals” but in “tikbalangs” [giant man-horses] as well. Therefore, I must be more intelligent than my friends.” (Intelligence does not increase with higher levels of superstition.)

“Although I take bribes as a government official, I am a man of integrity because I treat people well and give generously to charity; I treat people well and give generously to charity because I am a man of integrity.” (Charity and kindness of this type, of course, doesn’t prove integrity.)

Circular reasoning becomes dangerous when large sectors of the population actively pursue it both as a way of life and as a communal pastime: “He or she will make a good president because he or she promotes [disease-prevention, better ways to do laundry, comradeship in drinking, vigilance against crime] by aggressively pitching a [multivitamin brand, detergent, rum, flashlight batteries].” This kind of perverse logic permeates the airwaves, the print media, many public forums, and our day-to-day interactions, forever trying to mesmerize us into making knee-jerk purchase and voting decisions. Indeed, it would be a wonder if a nation that habitually thinks like that can move forward at all.

Insufficient or suppressed evidence. This is the material fallacy that (1) uses as proof only the facts that support the predetermined conclusion, or (2) disregards or ignores all other pertinent facts. A loyal handmaiden of circular reasoning, this form of illogic gently prods people to close their minds to contrary evidence and decide solely on gut-feel.

Look at these examples from our social and political landscape:

“This buffoon makes me laugh so I’ll vote for him; he has no public service experience, but he’s a fast learner so I’m sure he’ll learn to govern fast enough.” (What happened to managerial competence?)

“We’ve had lawyer-presidents since way back when, and terrible things always happened to this country; so this time, I’m voting for any non-lawyer with low IQ and absolutely no experience.” (What about electing competent professional managers and tried-and-tested community leaders instead?)

“Let’s make Z our governor; he’s already a millionaire with no more motivation to steal.” (Since when was greed demonstrated to vanish when one becomes wealthy?)

This completes our discussion of the nine major kinds of material fallacies: false cause, hasty generalization,misapplied generalization, false dilemma, compound question, false analogy, contradictory premises, circular reasoning, or insufficient or suppressed evidence. We will take up the fallacies of relevance next to help us better analyze more complex premises and propositions. By seeing more of the intricate pathways and pitfalls of fuzzy thinking, we should be able to put a little more precision, a little more science, a little more hindsight, and a little more sense of history to both our personal and national decision-making.

As one teacher of formal logic beautifully puts it, good thinking is doing much better in “learning to navigate through logical space.”

(Next: The fallacies of relevance)

From the weekly column “English Plain and Simple” by Jose A. Carillo in The Manila Times, June 13-19, 2003, © 2003 by the Manila Times Publishing Corp. Revised and updated February 22, 2010. All rights reserved.

Watching out against the fallacies of relevance

Watching out against the fallacies of relevance « on: February 27, 2010, 12:49:00 AM » Arguments that seek to persuade people to accept evidently non-logical propositions are called the fallacies of relevance. In this form of fallacy, the premises and evidence offered are actually irrelevant to the conclusion, but are couched in language that makes them psychologically or emotionally persuasive. People often have very strong opinions about the issues in this type of fallacy, so they seldom notice that their attention is being diverted from the real issue. On the strength of a finite person’s persuasion alone, fallacies of relevance are often so obviously false that they can hook in only the unwary, the predisposed, and the gullible. But with the growing sophistication of their practitioners in using the modern mass media, particularly television and radio, this form of illogic has developed enough power to break the rational defenses even of the intellectually sophisticated and astute. The fallacies of relevance had already been identified and catalogued as early as 2,600 years ago during Aristotle’s time, fascinating logicians and charlatans ever since. So widely discussed in philosophical and political circles were they that most of their Latin names became part of the English lexicon. The 13 most common of them are the fallacies of irrelevance (ignoratio elenchi), personal ridicule (ad hominem), appeal to the people (ad populum), appeal to authority (ad verecundiam), appeal to ignorance (ad ignorantiam), appeal to pity (ad misericordiam), appeal to force (ad baculum), appeal to money (ad crumenam), emotive language, tu quoque, genetic error, anthropomorphism, and non sequitur. We will now look at their anatomy, dissect a few specimens, and show why their kind of reasoning should really not be given any credence. Fallacies of irrelevance. Better known as ignoratio elenchi (irrelevant conclusion), this broad category covers practically all of the fallacies of relevance. They try to establish the truth of a proposition with arguments that support an entirely different conclusion. Example: “I have been accused of fathering my secretary’s child, but she actually signed an affidavit that the child is actually the fruit of artifical insemination. Therefore, I could not have possibly fathered that child.” That the woman declared under oath that her child was conceived through artificial insemination would seem to clear the man of wrongdoing. However, it really isn’t conclusive proof that he didn’t father that child. What if the woman, out of love or terror or poverty or charity, is simply trying to protect his reputation? The affidavit—that all-purpose device of law to support truth and falsehood alike—doesn’t really settle the biological and parental aspect of the premises. The only thing it proves is that the woman signed it. (Thankfully, modern science has developed the DNA test to spare us from the dilemma put forth by fallacies of this type.) Personal ridicule (ad hominem). When one ridicules another instead of directly addressing the premises of his or her argument, one commits the fallacy of personal ridicule: “You wouldn’t believe someone of such low social stature, would you?” “She maybe right about the country’s economic situation, but don’t you remember that she was outrageously wrong twice during the past 10 years?” Easily the most popular variety of this fallacy is the so-called “straw man,” the tactic of misrepresenting someone’s argument to make it easier to refute. The trick is to distort an aspect of someone’s premises to make it less credible, attack the now distorted position, and then claim that the whole argument has been refuted. As an example, take the following conversation: Niece to uncle: “Uncle, I’d like to take up mass communications instead of nursing. I think I’m not really cut out for nursing.” Uncle to niece: “You unthinking moron! Mass communications graduates are dime a dozen. Nursing is the most in-demand job abroad these days!”) Appeal to the people (ad populum). This is the fallacy of using the presumed feelings, actions, and prejudices of the general population to support an invalid argument: “67.8% of our TV texters think that that high official couldn’t be guilty of corruption. He really must be innocent!” Three insidious varieties of this fallacy are mainstays in product advertising and political campaigns: •   The bandwagon:  “Nine out of every 10 doctors use X toothpaste. It’s high time you did!” •   Appeal to belief:  “All of the people in this town are true believers. You must be the son of the Devil if you aren’t.” •   Appeal to common practice:  “Everybody cheats during elections, so I will not be left behind in my exercise of a legitimate political right.” Appeal to authority (ad verecundiam). This is the fallacy of supporting dubious or patently false premises with the opinion of a leader, authority, or expert in a field other than the field being discussed: “Our beloved Brother Y got a message from Heaven that M should be our next president. We really have no choice but to vote for M.” It may sound ridiculous, but the danger to modern society is that fanaticism of all stripes almost always makes this kind of fallacy work with people of certain persuasions—especially clueless believers. Appeal to ignorance (ad ignorantiam). This is the fallacy of assuming that a premise is correct because it cannot be disproved. Here’s its basic form: “There’s no proof that what you say is true; therefore, what you say isn’t true.” The same illogic runs here: “We have no evidence that intelligent life exists elsewhere in the universe, so no intelligent life must exist elsewhere in the universe.” The same faulty reasoning props up the “guilty until proven innocent” fallacy, in which police authorities make their suspects wear the orange garb of prisoners and allow the broadcast and print media to feast on them. They score media and political points in doing this, of course, but they are actually engaging in a blatant appeal to ignorance. It runs roughshod over the legal presumption that someone is “innocent until proven guilty,” and there’s absolutely no way of erasing the stigma of guilt on those so treated even if they are eventually found innocent of the crime imputed to them. (When suspects are caught in the act or if the evidence of wrongdoing is strong, their detention away from intrusive and prejudicial media exposure is probably a more rational, just, and humane thing to do.) Appeal to pity (ad misericordiam). Trying to get support for one’s premises not on logical grounds but on compassion is known as the fallacy of appeal to pity. In Philippine parlance this is the “paawa” (“have mercy on me”) effect; elsewhere it is known as the “victim mentality.” This form of illogic marks many court pleadings, as when a defense lawyer asks for leniency towards his self-confessed client: “Your Honor, he may have killed the winning candidate but he is a highly intelligent law graduate whose conviction will forever ruin what could be a most illustrious legal and political career.” When their academic performance falters, some scholars are also known to resort to this fallacious tack: “Ma’am, if you give me a grade of 2.0 I’ll lose my university scholarship. I’d be forced to stop schooling because my family is dirt poor.” Appeals to pity often work not because they are logically sound but because they tug at our emotions and sense of magnanimity. Appeal to force (ad baculum). When the usual means of persuasion fail, some people use threat and intimidation to compel others to accept their argument. This is the appeal to force, and it’s the most insidious fallacy of all because it marks the end of civility and the beginning of belligerence: “Park here at your own risk.” “If I hear that line from you again, you better start looking for another job.” “If they convict me in this court case, they will have another ‘People Power’ in their hands.” “Mr. Senator, you have just called me a crook. Say that again without parliamentary immunity and I’ll slap you with a twenty-million-peso libel suit!” The protection racketeer’s appeal to force is, of course, the most viciously audacious of them all: “You have such nice glass panels in your jewelry boutique, Mr. de la Cruz. My organization sees to it that such nice things remain that way. That’s good for business, and good for us, too. Tomorrow, at 12:00 noon, my man will come here to tell you how little it will cost you.” Appeal to money (ad crumenam). This is the fallacy of thinking that money is a reliable standard of correctness, and that the more moneyed one is, is more likely one will be right. Passing motorist commenting on a car collision: “That Ford Expedition is obviously not the aggressor because it’s brand-new and much more expensive than that old Beetle, and it was that respectable-looking executive driving it. Look, that careless driver of the Beetle is not even shaven and is only in a dirty undershirt!” In the so-called appeal to poverty (argumentum ad lazarum), this fallacy works in reverse: “That Ford Expedition is obviously at fault because it’s much sturdier and bigger than that old Beetle. The Expedition’s driver must have bullied the poor Beetle’s driver and raced him to the intersection.” Of course, these are both illogical ways of looking at the situation, for we know that neither greater wealth nor poverty indicates greater good or truth. Emotive language (argumentum ad populum). This is the fallacy of using emotionally loaded words to establish a claim without proof; the appeal is not to reason and logic but to the beliefs or feeling of the majority of the people towards a particular issue. One remarkable example of emotive language in history is the response of Spain’s Queen Isabella when Christopher Columbus broached to her the idea that based on his trans-Atlantic voyage, the Earth must be a sphere. She said: “The Earth must be flat. Millions of people know that it is. Are you trying to tell them that they are all mistaken fools?” (Based on modern scientific knowledge, of course, they were!) As we all know, emotive language is the bread-and-butter stuff of political advertising: “Manuel Villar: Sipag at Tiyaga” (Hard Work and Perseverance), Noynoy Aquino: Hindi Ako Magnanakaw” (I Am Not A Thief), “Gibo Teodoro: Galing at Talino” (Expertise and Intelligence), “Joseph Estrada Pag May Erap, May Ginhawa” (Where there’s Erap, There’s Great Relief). By using a powerful emotional appeal, each of these political slogans tries to short-circuit logical evaluation of the candidate’s fitness for the Philippine presidency. Tu quoque (“You also” or “You, too” fallacy). This is the fallacy of demolishing someone’s position by presenting evidence that his or her past actions or beliefs are inconsistent with the position or view he or she is presenting now. A very common example in Philippine elections is this argument: “Your party cheated heavily to win in the last elections, so why is your party advocating honesty now and condemning my party for preparing to do what you did in the coming elections?” It’s the obnoxious tit-for-tat mentality that bedevils supposedly free and democratic elections. Genetic error. This is a variation of the ad hominem (personal ridicule) fallacy, one that doesn’t necessarily attack the person directly but attacks instead the origins of the position he or she is proposing. This fallacy is termed “genetic” because it’s based on the notion that the original source of an idea is a reliable basis for evaluating its truth or reasonableness. One example of the genetic error fallacy is this argument: “You believe that that there are measurable differences in IQ among the different human races? You must be a despicable racist then!” This highly emotional diatribe is invariably raised against scientists who as much as privately and quietly raise such a possibility based on their objective and dispassionate researches. Understandably, people of any race would find such a view so horrid and patently unacceptable, but this belief has no bearing at all on whether such IQ differences do, in fact, exist. Indeed, where an argument comes from is irrelevant in an honest-to-goodness effort to establish logical proof. Anthropomorphism (pathetic fallacy). This type of fallacy treats animals or inanimate objects as if they had human feelings, thoughts, or sensations. Although using the pathetic fallacy can be a good way to make complex concepts or difficult ideas more easily understood, it can be carried to unreasonable, illogical extremes. One useful pathetic fallacy is this personification of the behavior of gases: “Air hates to be crowded, and when compressed it will try to escape to an area of lower pressure.” Of course, being an inanimate entity, air is incapable of hating and of trying to escape; it just behaves according to natural law. Still, attributing human traits to air makes its behavior more comprehensible to us.  Anthropomorphism, however, can take a less useful and more odious form: superstition. For example, growing a fortune plant right outside the door of the house is supposed to bring good luck to the homeowner. However, when the fortune plant doesn’t grow well despite being adequately taken care of, it’s the extreme in anthropomorphism to conclude that the fortune plant detests the homeowner and won’t bring good luck to him or her. Conversely, it’s also the extreme in anthropomorphism to believe that when the fortune plant grows robust, it will bring great fortune to the homeowner. In reality, regardless of whether its owner has good or bad luck, the fortune plant will grow largely on its own accord, depending only on the care that it gets. Non sequitur (Latin for “it doesn’t follow”). In formal logic, a non sequitur is any argument whose conclusion doesn’t follow from its premises. The conclusion may either be true or false, but the fallacy in the argument arises from a disconnect between the premise and the conclusion. Indeed, all of the formal fallacies we have taken up above are special cases of non sequitur. There’s no need to look far for examples of non sequiturs, for the campaign trail for the 2010 Philippine national elections is littered with them: “Kung Walang Corrupt, Walang Mahirap” (If No One’s Corrupt, No One will Be Poor); “Para sa Mabilis na Pag-aahon” (For Quick Recovery); “Pagbabago Sigurado” (Change for Sure); “Ipagpatuloy ang Magandang Simula” (Let’s Continue Our Beautiful Beginning). Simple scrutiny of each of these slogans will quickly show that the conclusion doesn’t follow from the premise; in other words, the statement is a fallacy, often unrealistic and logically indefensible. Their only legitimate use is as attention-getters—nothing else. Next: The verbal fallacies From the weekly column “English Plain and Simple” by Jose A. Carillo in The Manila Times, June 13-19, 2003, © 2003 by the Manila Times Publishing Corp. Revised and updated February 25, 2010. All rights reserved.

Watching out against the verbal fallacies

Watching out against the verbal fallacies « on: March 06, 2010, 02:04:59 AM » We began our discussion of the logical fallacies by grouping them into three broad categories: material fallacies, fallacies of relevance, and verbal fallacies. We have already taken up the material fallacies, or conclusions that are not adequately proven because they contain wrong presuppositions, as well as the fallacies of relevance, those arguments that seek to persuade people to accept evidently nonlogical propositions. This time we will focus on the verbal fallacies, or the false statements or conclusions that result when words are used improperly or ambiguously, whether by ourselves or by other people. They are the fallacies of ambiguity, equivocation, amphiboly, composition, division, and abstraction. We must keep in mind that the problem with verbal fallacies is not so much faulty logical thinking as the inadvertent or deliberate lack of clarity in language. This generally results from the wrong or slippery use of words, whether spoken or written, and it sometimes happens by accident, as in a slip of the tongue, an error in penmanship, or hitting the wrong key of the word processor. Normally, no great harm is done in such cases. When used deliberately with malice or ill intent, however, these misuses of language can trick or mislead people into making wrong decisions or choices. This is particularly true during major political campaigns, when candidates frenetically engage in all sorts of verbal legerdemain to prop themselves up or demolish their opponents. Let’s now take up the verbal fallacies one and by one and give illustrative examples of each:  Ambiguity. The use of undefined words or words whose meaning is vague constitutes an ambiguity. For example, let’s take a look at this campaign slogan of a presidential candidate that’s currently airing on Philippine radio: “Candidate X: Pinili ng Taong Bayan” [Chosen by the People]. These obvious questions arise: What was he chosen for and in what context and in what manner? And who were those people who chose him and how many were they? And even if they chose him, so what? The answers to these questions are perplexing and unclear, thus putting such slogans in the class of verbal fallacies by ambiguity. Another case of an arresting verbal ambiguity is this slogan of another presidential candidate, currently airing on radio: “Panata Ko—Tapusin Ang Kahirapan!” [My Pledge—Put an End to Poverty!]. It’s a magnificent but vague commitment—and really now, how plausible is it? Precisely how will the candidate end such an intractable sociological problem as poverty? What if the listener happened to be enormously rich—would that promise still apply to him or her? Pledges like this, no matter how well-intentioned, constitute a verbal fallacy by looseness of language. And here’s a slogan in the TVcommercial of a senatorial candidate: “Gusto Ko, Happy Ka!” [I Want You to Be Happy!]. Sounds arresting and disarmingly candid, but what does it really mean? And how does the candidate’s desire to make you happy relate to his fitness for the position he’s gunning for? The  problem with this slogan lies in its vague, seemingly child-like message, putting it the class of fallacies by ambiguity. On a less political note, the fallacy of ambiguity also results when the writer’s definitions of the words he uses don’t match those of the reader’s. Take this newspaper headline: “Helicopter powered by human flies” (“Human-powered helicopter flies” better?). Or this newspaper passage: “The sociologists visited the Tasadays [a supposedly Stone Age tribe in the Philippines, later shown to be of doubtful authenticity] and took photographs of their half-naked women, but they were not properly developed.” (How was that again? Which or what were not properly developed? The women’s bodily features or the exposed photographic negative? Try fixing that sentence in your mind.) Equivocation. People commit this fallacy when they loosely use a word in more than one sense, yet give the impression that they mean only one. Since they sometimes can’t even differentiate the meanings, they may not even know they are equivocating. Here are some examples of the fallacy of equivocation: “All fair things are virtuous. My fiancée is fair; therefore, my fiancée is virtuous.” Here, the word “fair” is being used in two senses: in the first, “impartial and honest,” and in the second, “lovely and pleasing.” Likewise, the word “virtuous” is also being used in two senses: in the first, “righteous and morally upright,” in the second, “chaste.” Both premise and conclusion therefore aren’t valid here, so the statement is actually a verbal fallacy of equivocation. ‘Be Intelligent. Use Iodized Salt Every Day.” This was the slogan of a multisectoral nutrition campaign a few years ago that promoted the regular intake of iodized salt. It’s a catchy slogan, of course, but note that while it uses the word “intelligent” in more than one sense, it gives the impression that only one is meant. In the process, it commits two verbal fallacies in a row—that you can make yourself intelligent simply by an act of will, and that using iodized salt every day will make you intelligent. These are obviously oversimplifications—verbal fallacies, in fact—that are unworthy of serious belief. Literature, too, has its share of fallacies of equivocation—but largely for the pleasure to be derived from wordplay. In particular, the playwright William Shakespeare was an inveterate punner, one who wasn’t above using words in four different senses all at once. In his play Love’s Labour’s Lost, a character rhapsodizes: “Light, seeking light, doth light of light beguile.” (Here, “light” is used to mean “intellect,” “wisdom,” “eyesight,” and “daylight.”). The Bard of Avon would also willfully mix up the use of verbs, adjectives, and nouns, as when a character says in this line from The Merry Wives of Windsor: “I will description the matter to you.” (Try that in English grammar class and your teacher’s sure to flunk you!) Amphiboly. This fallacy results from ambiguous or faulty grammatical structures. The error is not with a specific word but with how the words connect or fail to connect. English is particularly susceptible to amphiboly because its vocabulary is so rich and its sentence structures so flexible. Here are two examples: “Slow Men At Work” (Without ambiguity: “Slow: Men At Work”). Here, of course, proper punctuation makes all the difference. “Big Bargain: New highchair for toddler with a missing leg” (Without ambiguity: “Big Bargain: New toddler’s highchair with a missing leg”). Here, we have a misplaced modifying phrase that needed to be relocated to its proper place. A classic case of amphiboly arises when the adverb “only” is variously positioned in these sentences: “Sheonly wrote that.” “Only she wrote that.” “She wrote only that.” “She wrote that only.” Four possible positions in all! A careless writer could very well chose a position for “only” that makes the statement yield a meaning other than what he or she intended, and that statement would be an amphiboly. Composition. This is the fallacy of assuming that a group as whole will have the same attributes as the individuals that comprise it. Consider the following examples: “Atoms have no color. Flowers are made up of atoms.Therefore, flowers have no color.” (What's true of the part isn't necessarily true of the whole.) “The numbers 3 and 5 are both odd. 3 and 5 are parts of 8. Therefore, the number 8 is odd.” (8, of course, is very much an even number!) “An elephant eats more food than a human; therefore, elephants as a group eat more food than do all the humans in the world.” (We humans grossly outnumber the elephants, so we consume more food than they.) Division. The converse of the fallacy of composition, this fallacy assumes that the individuals in a group have the same qualities as the group itself. In reality, though, what is true of the whole isn’t necessarily true of its parts.) “The United States is the world’s richest country; therefore, all Americans must be rich and live very well.” (This simply couldn’t be true, for there are slums in the U.S., too!) “That rock band is the best our city has; therefore, its members are also the city’s best rock band players.” (For all we know, that band may only have a so-so bass guitarist.) “The average Filipino family has 3.3 children. The de la Cruzes are a Filipino family. Therefore, the de la Cruzes must have 3.3 children.” (This conclusion obviously doesn’t follow. Apart from the fact that the size of the average family won’t necessarily be equal to the the size of any family among the whole set of families, it’s also an impossibility for a family to have a fractional number of children.) Abstraction. This fallacy is the classical error of postulating or believing that everything that one comprehends through pure reasoning can actually happen in reality. This is the audacious illogic in the following quote in some inspirational posters: “Everything your mind can conceive, your body can achieve.” Sounds a very desirable possibility indeed, but saying it is actually the height of naiveté or lack of knowledge about the ways of the world. Another form of the abstraction fallacy is taking a quoted statement out of context. For example, a London newspaper carried a review with this critique of a theatrical performance: “I couldn’t help feeling that, for all the energy, razzmatazz and technical wizardry, the audience had been shortchanged.” The promoters of the stage play then pared this statement down to this blurb in their newspaper advertising: “…having ‘energy, razzmatazz and technical wizardry.’” That, of course, is a fallacy of abstraction that shamelessly distorts the intent and spirit of the original statement. Politics is often replete with such fallacies of abstraction. Take a look at this slogan of a presidential candidate: “Di pa tapos ang laban, ipagpapatuloy ko” [The fight’s not over yet, I’ll continue it!]. Precisely what fight was that and whose fight was it? Against whom or what? And what’s the point of wanting to continue that fight? And finally, will the voter automatically benefit from that fight being continued by this particular candidate? The slogan of another presidential candidate also makes use of a similar fallacious abstraction: “Pag May Erap, May Ginhawa” [If There’s Erap, There’s Great Relief]. This, of course, is wordplay using a popular Filipino folk saying, “Kung may hirap, may ginhawa,” where the Tagalog word “hirap” (suffering) has been deftly and ingeniously replaced by the similar-sounding nickname of the candidate. It’s obviously an inspired and memorable slogan, but it can easily be shown to have no bearing with reality at all.  Indeed, against all the verbal fallacies we have discussed above, vigilance over language—whether those of others or our own—is actually our only sure and effective line of defense. Let’s keep that in mind particularly in this frenzied political campaign season.  From the weekly column “English Plain and Simple” by Jose A. Carillo in The Manila Times, June 25, 2003, © 2003 by the Manila Times Publishing Corp. Revised and updated March 5, 2010. All rights reserved.

Which words pack the most wallop

Which words pack the most wallop « on: March 13, 2010, 01:54:37 AM »

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Background - Are the last words of a sentence really the most emphatic?

In his original 1918 edition of The Elements of Style (that was long before E. B. White came up with a chapter on style that made him a co-author of the book), William Strunk, Jr. came up with this perplexing prescription in his discussion of the principles of exposition:

“The proper place for the word, or group of words, which the writer desires to make most prominent is usually the end of the sentence…The word or group of words entitled to this position of prominence is usually the logical predicate, that is, the new element in the sentence…”

Strunk gave the following example to illustrate his point:

The modifying phrase at the tail-end of the sentence: “This steel is principally used for making razors, because of its hardness.”  

The logical predicate at the tail-end of the sentence: “Because of its hardness, this steel is principally used in making razors.”

To writers steeped heavily in the journalistic writing tradition, this prescription obviously seems counterintuitive at the outset. Almost to a man or woman, they would say that to give the most prominence to a word or group or words, it should be positioned right at the beginning of the sentence—like a good news lead should, as in this example from a recent front-page lead story of the Philippine Inquirer:

“President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo has declared a state of calamity in Mindanao, a move that will allow cities, towns and provinces on the island to release 5 percent of their budgets so they can quickly procure generators to address the acute power shortage.”

Few would hazard submitting to their editor that same lead sentence constructed this way:

“A state of calamity in Mindanao has been declared by President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo, a move that will allow cities, towns and provinces on the island to release 5 percent of their budgets so they can quickly procure generators to address the acute power shortage.”

In his book, Strunk conceded that a subject coming first in its sentence may be emphatic—as in the case of the noun form “President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo” in the sentence above—but hardly by virtue of its position in the sentence alone. Indeed, apart from the journalistic tradition of preferring the active voice to the passive voice, the newsworthiness of the noun form (the subject or the doer of the action) normally merits its placement up front in the sentence over and above other factors in composition.

So far, so good.

But then Strunk made the surprising corollary that “any element in the sentence, other than the subject, becomes emphatic when placed first.” He gave the following inverted sentence to prove his point:

“Deceit or treachery he could never forgive.”

On close inspection, we find that this construction indeed gives strong emphasis to the “deceit or treachery,” as opposed to this normal sentence order for that statement:

“He could never forgive deceit or treachery.”

But Strunk then emphasized that as a rule, the subject of a sentence must take the position of the predicate to receive special emphasis. He offered the following sentence as an example:

“Through the middle of the valley flowed a winding stream.”

The normal construction for that sentence is, of course, this:

“A winding stream flowed through the middle of the valley.”

The first version of the statement, which puts “a winding stream” at the tail-end of the sentence, is evidently more emphatic than the second, which puts “a winding stream” at the front of the sentence.

For his final words on the subject, however, Strunk made the following provocative—and as I already said, perplexing—prescription:

“The principle that the proper place for what is to be made most prominent is the end applies equally to the words of a sentence, to the sentences of a paragraph, and to the paragraphs of a composition.”

Now that’s really a harder proposition to fathom.

At about this time in 2004, I wrote an essay in my column in The Manila Times in an attempt to make sense of this puzzling prescription by Strunk. I’m sure that this prescription still perplexes many serious students of English composition, so I am now posting that essay in the Forum in slightly modified form to help clarify the matter.

I am aware, though, that some of the points discussed in my essay remain debatable or controversial, so I would welcome all comments for and against the positions I have taken.

Which words pack the most wallop

One basic principle in writing more powerful sentences, as prescribed by William Strunk, Jr. in his book The Elements of Style, is this: the last words of the sentence are the most emphatic. In keeping with this prescription, I think that one way to give the strongest emphasis to our most important idea is to maneuver it toward the tail end of the sentence. In this manner, we can assure our main ideas of a prime position where they can get remembered best.

Take a look at this sentence that violates that rule: “One characteristic that I detest in Candidate X is his irritating presumption that we can read his mind by not speaking at all even if he absolutely has to.”

Although we can perfectly understand that sentence, we can see that it’s a bit mixed up in its construction. And notice that eight words into the sentence, the opening phrase “one characteristic that I detest in Candidate X” has not yet formed a complete idea; worse, the ending phrase “even if he absolutely has to” trails off into a dangle. The result? The most important idea has been shunted into the phrase “his irritating presumption that we can read his mind by not speaking at all,” which in turn got buried between a strong but insubstantial phrase and a dangling phrase.

In contrast, we can easily unleash the main ideas of that sentence by putting them in prime positions—namely at or near its beginning or, best of all, at or near the end: “Candidate X remains silent even when he absolutely must speak out, irritatingly presuming that we can read his mind; this is something I really detest in the guy.” This version immediately zeroes on the subject, clearly pinpoints his weakness, then demolishes him with a powerful clause—“this is something I really detest in the guy”—at the strategic end-position of the sentence. The ideas at the front and end flanks of the sentence—at the end flank most of all—now command our undivided attention. And this construction yields still another bonus: it gives the sentence the natural flow and rhythm of speech.

It should be obvious by now that the final building blocks for emphatic sentences are the words we use to end them. Aside from ensuring that they are in prime positions in the sentence, however, we must also be conscious of the kind of the words we are using. Indeed, to choose those words wisely, we first need a clear appreciation of the relative semantic strengths of the various parts of speech in the English language. Their hierarchy of strength, from the weakest to the strongest, is as follows: prepositions, conjunctions, adverbs,adjectives, verbs, and nouns.

That the prepositions and conjunctions are low on the semantic totem pole is evident in our day-to-day experience; newspaper headlines, for instance, routinely eliminate prepositions and conjunctions and yet are able to retain the core message of the full statements. To be sure, prepositions and conjunctions smoothen the linkages between ideas and make language more elegant, but when push comes to shove they are actually dispensable.

This is why it’s not a very good idea to end sentences with a preposition or conjunction, as our previous sample sentence did when it ended itself with the preposition “to”: “One characteristic that I detest in Candidate X is his irritating presumption that we can read his mind by not speaking at all even if he absolutely has to.” Remember that old caveat against dangling prepositions? It doubtless took root from the fact that prepositions like “to” and “with” are such weak words for ending sentences.

Adverbs, in turn, are generally unhealthy to prose when they are used to end sentences; this is particularly true with “the bad, old adverbs” ending in –ly, like “ecstatically” and “fantastically.” Worse, sentences that end with them are often not only emasculated but embarrassing: “They embraced and kissed each othergenuinely and affectionately.” Adjectives as endings fare much better than adverbs, but are still rather icky: “Their embrace and kiss were genuine and affectionate.”

In contrast, verbs as endings are a vast improvement over prepositions, conjunctions, and adverbs, as we can see in this sentence: “With genuine affection, they embraced and kissed.” But nouns as endings are the most emphatic and most euphonic of them all: “They embraced and kissed with genuine affection.”

Also, we normally condemn the nominalization of verbs because they often rob verbs of their strength and sinew. From the stylistic standpoint, however, verbs-turned-into-nouns often make the best sentence endings, laden as they are with the valuable tagging information that resides in nouns and the action of the verbs that congealed in them. Compare the following two sentences, the first ending with verb phrases and the second with those same verbs turned into nouns:

Ending with verbs: “When all is said and done, our prime objective is to totally control and dominate the seas.”

Ending with nouns: “When all is said and done, our prime objective is to exercise total control and dominionover the seas.” 

There should be little doubt as to which of the two sentences packs the stronger wallop.

From the weekly column “English Plain and Simple” by Jose A. Carillo in The Manila Times, March 10, 2004, © 2004 by the Manila Times Publishing Corp. Revised and updated March 12, 2010. All rights reserved.

The English mealtime vocabulary

The English mealtime vocabulary « on: January 22, 2010, 11:43:23 PM »

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A few days ago, while I was going over my e-mail archives for my column in The Manila Times, my eye was drawn to this postscript from a Filipina reader who had written me from London over six years ago: “Oh, also, they call lunch here ‘dinner’ and dinner, ‘tea.’” I didn’t give this remark much thought at the time, thinking that the reader—perhaps oppressed by the thick fog that often blankets London—simply had mixed up her English mealtime vocabulary. This time, though, the discordant bit of information intrigued me and I casually mentioned it to my wife Leonor.

Leonor, who grew up and had her primary and secondary education in once-British-controlled Malaysia, readily agreed that my reader had probably mixed up her terms. She said that from what she remembers, the British call dinner “supper” and reserve the term “tea” for late-afternoon refreshments consisting of tea along with sandwiches, crackers, or cookies. Of course, she said she was talking about her Malaysian experience, not that of Great Britain itself, so I decided to further clarify this vocabulary issue at least to my own satisfaction.

As I was to discover, one’s English meal vocabulary depends as much on class distinctions as on national and regional geography. If you are Philippine-based all your life, though, there should be no problem at all. In our supposedly egalitarian democratic society, the American English for mealtime has long been in vogue: “breakfast” for early morning, “lunch” for midday, and “dinner” for evening—period. But when you travel from one English-speaking country to another, you’ll be surprised to find that the language for mealtime makes nothing less than tectonic changes.

To avoid confusing ourselves, though, let’s first talk about the commonality of terms. On “breakfast,” there’s broad agreement that it refers to the first meal of the day, especially when taken in the morning. It’s also universally accepted that “dinner” refers to “the principal meal of the day”; in fact, this English word comes from the French dejeuner, which means “to dine,” although “dinner” before the Middle Ages could either be a morning or midday meal.

In England today, however, the terms for mealtime appear to be largely determined along class lines. From what I can gather, at midday the upper class takes “lunch” while the working class takes “dinner.” At about 4:30 p.m., the middle class and the upper class take “tea,” which is a light meal of tea and finely cut sandwiches. Then, by early evening, the working class takes “supper,” a meal of bread and “dripping” (fat and juices drawn from meat during cooking)—usually their very last meal for the day. At about this time, the middle class and upper class take “high tea” (a fairly substantial meal), followed at about 8 o’clock with “dinner.”

Within the United Kingdom itself, however, even this class-determined meal vocabulary changes depending on regional location. I gathered that people in northern England almost invariably refer to their midday meal as “dinner” and their evening meal as “tea”—this confirms my Filipina reader’s postscript—but those in southern England call their midday meal “lunch,” their light afternoon meal “tea,” and their evening meal “dinner.” In the English midlands, though, it appears that “dinner” is always the evening meal, and that people use the term almost interchangeably with “tea.” In Ireland, in contrast, “lunch” is the midday meal and evening meals are either “tea” for large ones and “supper” for light ones, while “dinner” is only used to refer to a formal meal.

As most of us know, of course, the English mealtime vocabulary varies very little over at the United States. “Tea” hardly figures in the language, and whether you are in New England, in the Midwest, or in Texas, it’s “lunch” for the midday meal, with “dinner” and “supper” often used interchangeably for the evening meal or the final meal of the day. (March 7, 2009)

No earthly reason why the clergy should be bad in English grammar

No earthly reason why the clergy should be bad in English grammar « on: March 20, 2010, 02:05:25 AM »

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In their efforts at evangelization, should the major organized religions just rely on the momentum and stickiness of their respective belief systems? Or should they make a purposive and continuing effort to be better communicators and defenders of the faith, whether using English or any other language for that matter?

I have often pondered these questions over the years and even wrote an essay about the subject, “The Grammar of Clerics and Preachers,” sometime in 2003 after listening to a priest give his homily during a mass in Metro Manila. That priest had bungled his English grammar and had stumbled on his English phrases and idioms far too often for comfort, and I felt that this was an untenable state of affairs that needed the immediate action of the church leadership.

Within a few hours after my essay came out in the Internet edition of The Manila Times, however, I received the following e-mail from one of the faithful overseas: 

“Regarding your column on the grammar of preachers, let me say that none of us is perfect. I must admit that I’m not that great either when it comes to English grammar. We even have a Filipino priest who has been here in America for over 10 years, but who still finds it next to impossible to correctly pronounce just a simple English word; he also doesn’t know the difference between ‘she’ and ‘he,’ but of course I know what he means. However, if you listen closely to the message of God that he is trying to tell you through the homily, you will be surprised that all those grammar errors fade away. Let God’s message reach your heart and mind instead. And for their big and little imperfections, our priests need our prayers, too.”

I really wonder if the church hierarchy should follow the line of least resistance being advocated above and leave everything to God, or start being really proactive and make sure that its seminarians and even its full-fledged priests will get much more intensive, rigorous grounding in English grammar and usage from now on.

The grammar of clerics and preachers

A few Sundays ago, my two sons and I attended Holy Mass in one of those improvised worship halls put up inside Metro Manila malls. The priest, in his late thirties or early forties, read the opening lines of the Eucharist in pleasantly modulated English, his voice rippling the familiar words and phrases like the chords of a well-tuned piano. His cadence and pronunciation reminded me of the late Fr. James Donelan, S.J., then chaplain of the Asian Institute of Management, who used to say morning mass at the institute in the late 1970s and early 1980s. He would regale the middle-aged management students with English-language homilies of simple beauty and depth, and then, in his formal humanities class, he would lecture them with delicious erudition about the cultural wealth of Western civilization. Now, listening to the young priest at the mall, I thought that here at last was one more man of the cloth of possibly the same weave. I thus settled down on my chair confident of hearing a well-delivered homily to strengthen my resolve as a believer for the week ahead.

That expectation was soon dashed to pieces, however, for as soon as the priest no longer read from the book and started speaking extemporaneously, it became clear that his command of English left a lot to be desired. He could not even make the form of his verbs agree with the number of his nouns and pronouns, and his grammar was so gender-blind as to be irritating (“The woman walked in the storm and go under the tree to deliver his baby.”). His command of the prepositions was likewise disturbingly inadequate, and he stumbled on his English phrases and idioms far too often for comfort.

I therefore listened to the rest of his homily with increasing distress. Of course, I couldn’t presume that the rest of the congregation shared my discomfort; perhaps I was just too exacting in my English grammar that I tended to magnify what could really be minor mistakes. But two weeks later, I asked one of my sons—then a high school senior—to validate my impressions of that homily. Having attended grade school in a Jesuit-run university, he would normally be squeamish about criticizing priests about anything, but he told me without batting an eyelash that he thought the priest’s English grammar was bad because he kept on messing up his noun-verb agreement and gender usage. I really needed no better confirmation of my impressions than that.

Looking back to that incident, I think that the country’s priests and preachers—more than anybody else in our highly Anglicized society—need better than just average English-language skills to effectively practice their vocation. We expect TV and radio broadcasters to have good English so they can properly report or interpret the news for us; we expect classroom teachers to have good English so they can effectively instruct our children on well-established, often doctrinaire areas of learning; and we expect lawyers to have good English to ably defend us in our mundane civil entanglements or prosecute those who have criminally acted against us and against society. But priests and preachers have a much more difficult job than all of them, for their goal is to teach us modes of belief and behavior that are matters not of fact but of faith. They ask us to believe with hardly any proof. And whatever doctrine they espouse, their mission is to help us experience the sublime, to make us shape our lives according to the hallowed precepts of prophets or sages of a bygone age. This is a definitely a tall order even for one with the gift of tongue, for it demands not only the fire of belief but also good or excellent command of whatever language he or she uses to preach.

Since I was a child, my impression has always been that priests and preachers stay in school the longest—ten to eleven years if my memory serves me well—because they have to master the craft of language, suasion, and persuasion better than most everybody else. My understanding is that this is why seminarians study for the priesthood far longer than students pursuing a degree in medicine or law. I would think that those years of long study could give them a truly strong foundation in English grammar and usage, in listening skills, and in reading skills, then imbue them with a facility with the language that couldn’t be matched by lesser mortals. However, as shown by the fractured English of that priest delivering that homily at the mall and of so many other priests I have listened to over the years, that foundation has been resting on shaky ground indeed.

I therefore think it’s high time that the church hierarchy took steps to remedy this problem. This might be a tall order, but if nothing is done about this, I’m afraid that the established religious faiths would lose more and more of their flock to less virtuous but more English-savvy preachers—preachers who may have rickety or dubious religious platforms but who have honed their gift of tongue and powers of elocution to a much higher degree. I therefore suggest, for their own sake and for the long-term survival of the faith, that all seminarians and even full-fledged priests be given a much more rigorous grounding in English grammar and usage. They need to effectively smoothen out the grammatical and semantic kinks in their English to become more able promoters and defenders of the faith.

As the old saying goes, God helps only those who help themselves. (May 23, 2003)

From the weekly column “English Plain and Simple” by Jose A. Carillo in The Manila Times, May 23, 2003, © 2003 by the Manila Times Publishing Corp. All rights reserved.