The grammar rule no one knows but everyone knows

English is a funny language. As author Bill Bryson put in his excellent book "The Mother Tongue," "Any language where the unassuming word fly signifies an annoying insect, a means of travel, and a critical part of a gentleman's apparel is clearly asking to be mangled."

When I was studying French back in high school, I was relieved to learn every expression of affirmation following a statement (termed a "tag question") was a simple, single phrase: "N'est-ce pas?" In English, however, every tag question differs depending on the preceding statement: "Isn't it?" "Aren't you?" "Haven't they?" "Wouldn't it?" "Don't they?" -- and so on through dozens of variations.

This alone must drive non-native English speakers nuts. Imagine trying to teach just the different expressions of affirmation in a classroom setting in, say, China.

Now imagine how comical it sounds to the ears of English-speakers when those tag questions get mangled: "It's a beautiful morning, aren't you?"

Consider another absurd diktat of the English language: ending a sentence with a preposition (in, at, to, for, etc.). Accordingly to Grammarly, "Grammar snobs love to tell anyone who will listen: You should NEVER end a sentence with a preposition! Luckily for those poor, persecuted prepositions, that just isn’t true." -- and goes on to give a few preposition guidelines, often distinguishing between formal and casual statements.

This English decree of never ending a sentence with a preposition is left over from the days when Latin ruled. Latin was considered the purest "and most admirable" language at the time, though imposing Latin rules on English structure "is a little like trying to play baseball in ice skates." Apparently because ending a sentence with a preposition in Latin is impossible, somehow that carried over into English, resulting in the contorted statement famously attributed to Winston Churchill: "This is the kind of thing up with which we shall not put!"

(Incidentally, the same Latin mandate is why it's considered improper to split an infinitive, the most well-known example of which is found in Star Trek's original opening: "To boldly go where no man has gone before." Splitting an infinitive is impossible in Latin, but it's easily done -- or should that be "easily it's done"? -- in English. But I digress.)

One of the reasons English is so odd is because modern English is a mishmash of influences -- notably Old German (and its derivatives) and Latin, but with enormous contributions from French (a Latin derivative), Celtic, and endless other influences. English took on not just vocabulary words from other languages, but also syntax and structure. Today we unthinkingly use words as far-flung as Icelandic ("saga"), Indonesian ("guru"), and Polynesian ("taboo"). Amazing, n'est-ce pas?

Anyway, this little excursion into orthography is to introduce a fascinating article I came across entitled "This is the most bizarre grammar rule you probably never heard of." (Oooh, ending a sentence with a preposition!)

Apparently native English speakers instinctively order their adjectives preceding a noun as follows: opinion-size-age-shape-color-origin-material-purpose-noun:

This blew me away when I read it because it's true. Mess with that order, and you're talking gibberish. (Now imagine trying to teach that tenet in, say, a Chinese classroom!)

Again when I was learning French, there were rules about the grouping of adjectives around a noun. You couldn't say "a pretty yellow dress" ("une jolie jaune robe"), you had to say "a pretty dress yellow" ("une jolie robe jaune"). To native French speakers, it was just the natural way to order adjectives.

I literally never (or should that be "Literally I never") gave this a moment's thought, but the same thing occurs in English. Who knew?

This order of adjectives was spelled out in a book by Mark Forsyth entitled "The Elements of Eloquence." Quoting the article:

"Forsyth says there are eight types of adjectives, which should be used in this order:
      1. Opinion
      2. Size
      3. Age
      4. Shape
      5. Color
      6. Origin
      7. Material
      8. Purpose

But then, the Cambridge Dictionary -- which certainly seems like an authoritative source -- offers a list of ten types of adjectives in a slightly different order:
      1. Opinion
      2. Size
      3. Physical quality
      4. Shape
      5. Age
      6. Color
      7. Origin
      8. Material
      9. Type
      10. Purpose

So, according to Cambridge, it should be a "lovely little rectangular old green French silver whittling knife," which seems completely wrong to me. My instincts say "old" should come before "rectangular," not the other way around. To further complicate matters, Cambridge lists "U-shaped" as an example of type, rather than shape as you might have expected.

In other words, even this supposedly ironclad rule that we all seem to know by instinct is tangled up and subject to debate. And don't even get me started on what to do if you have two adjectives of the same type, say a "lovely valuable little old green French silver whittling knife." Or when and whether you should use a comma, or the word "and."

As someone with an advanced degree in English, an amateur linguist, and a lifelong professional writer, my best advice is this: When it comes to adjective order, you should probably follow your instincts. And you should definitely not have ten, eight, or even four adjectives piled up ahead of a noun. Adding adjectives to your sentences should be like adding spices to your cooking: Use them thoughtfully, sparingly, and when they'll have the most impact. Not only will that make your writing better, it will save you from having to worry so much about putting adjectives in the right order."

Phew. A lot to take in, n'est-ce pas?

The interesting thing about grammar is I don't understand it at all. My eyes glaze over whenever someone delves into its intricacies. I attended high school in the late 70s, when grammar was being phased out in favor of more politically correct subjects, so my grasp is tenuous at best and purely instinctive (instinctual?). I am forever making blunders ... though that hasn't stopped me from becoming a writer.

But I find linguistics and etymology, including the origin of English, fascinating ... even if I do regularly mangle the details. Or regularly do mangle the details. Whatever.

Gud speling isnt nesesary

Oh great. A Newcastle University (U.K.) professor has stated that students no longer need to learn spelling "because children can correct mistakes on their mobile phone or computer."

"Sugata Mitra, professor of educational technology at Newcastle University, said that good grammar was necessary 'maybe 100 years ago' but 'not right now,'" says this article.

I read this out loud to the girls, and both groaned. "Why are people so stupid?" mused Younger Daughter. "Oh wait -- it's because they're not teaching things in school."

Or, as a commenter at the end of the article said, "Eye thinks its thyme this per fesser gets hiss self better hearing form the pee pull. Spelling just b not as impotent as it was used too bee. Looks at me. I talk n spill real good. Eyes no so cousin my calm pewter did nun red let hers."

Personally, eye just no that if eye tryd two spel however eye wanted as a riter, my editers wood kil me. And my reeders woodnt bee two happy eether.

This professor also said that youngsters should be encouraged to communicate in other ways, such as via text messaging. For the record, I call such children "texting monkeys" since they appear unable to adequately communicate either in the written or the spoken word.

To be fair, the British organization National Association for the Teaching of English defended teaching correct grammar in schools.

Thank God.

Ode to English

A reader sent this. I've seen it before but it's always a good read. UPDATE: Someone suggested it is most effective if read out loud.
________________________________

We'll begin with a box, and the plural is boxes,
But the plural of ox becomes oxen, not oxes.
One fowl is a goose, but two are called geese,
Yet the plural of moose should never be meese.
You may find a lone mouse or a nest full of mice,
Yet the plural of house is houses, not hice.

If the plural of man is always called men,
Why shouldn't the plural of pan be called pen?
If I speak of my foot and show you my feet,
And I give you a boot, would a pair be called beet?
If one is a tooth and a whole set are teeth,
Why shouldn't the plural of booth be called beeth?

Then one may be that, and three would be those,
Yet hat in the plural would never be hose,
And the plural of cat is cats, not cose.
We speak of a brother and also of brethren,
But though we say mother, we never say methren.
Then the masculine pronouns are he, his and him,
But imagine the feminine: she, shis and shim!

Let's face it - English is a crazy language.
There is no egg in eggplant nor ham in hamburger;
neither apple nor pine in pineapple.
English muffins weren't invented in England.
We take English for granted, but if we explore its paradoxes,
we find that quicksand can work slowly, boxing rings are square,
and a guinea pig is neither from Guinea nor is it a pig.

And why is it that writers write but fingers don't fing, grocers don't
groce and hammers don't ham? Doesn't it seem crazy that you can make
amends but not one amend. If you have a bunch of odds and ends and
get rid of all but one of them, what do you call it?

If teachers taught, why didn't preachers praught?
If a vegetarian eats vegetables, what does a humanitarian eat?
Sometimes I think all the folks who grew up speaking English should be
committed to an asylum for the verbally insane.

In what other language do people recite at a play and play at a recital?
We ship by truck but send cargo by ship.
We have noses that run and feet that smell.
We park on a driveway and drive on a parkway.
And how can a slim chance and a fat chance be the same,
while a wise man and a wise guy are opposites?

You have to marvel at the unique lunacy of a language
in which your house can burn up as it burns down,
in which you fill in a form by filling it out, and
in which an alarm goes off by going on.

And in closing, if Father is Pop, how come Mother's not Mop?

Tudoring me

I came across a website recently that focused on a controversial subject. While glancing through it I came across this surprising and totally unrelated announcement:

For those aspiring to take the IELTS examination AND/OR speak flawless English, I teach English Euphonics, grammar, spelling and punctuation. I will grade your papers, tudor you and prepare you for your examination.

No thanks, I can tudor myself.

Similes and metaphors

As a writer, these cracked me up. I confess my favorite is #23.
_______________________________

Every year, English teachers from across the country can submit their collections of actual similes and metaphors found in high school essays. These excerpts are published each year to the amusement of teachers across the country. Here are last year's winners:

1. Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides gently compressed by a thigh Master.

2. His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.

3. He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.

4. She grew on him like she was a colony of E.Coli, and he was room-temperature Canadian beef.

5. She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.

6. Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.

7. He was as tall as a six-foot, three-inch tree.

8. The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated because of his wife's infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free ATM machine.

9. The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't.

10. McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup.

11. From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you're on vacation in another city and Jeopardy comes on at 7:00 p.m. instead of 7:30.

12. Her hair glistened in the rain like a nose hair after a sneeze.

13. The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.

14. Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.

15. They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan's teeth.

16. John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.

17. He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant, and she was the East River.

18. Even in his last years, Granddad had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long, it had rusted shut.

19. Shots rang out, as shots are known to do.

20. The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.

21. The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.

22. He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame, maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.

23. The ballerina rose gracefully en Pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.

24. It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with power tools.

25. He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.