Shirley you can't be serious

Hands in the air if you’re a user of language.

If you’re not looking like a surrender monkey right now, arms flailing about, then you might want to take a seat. I’ve got some hard news to break to you.

We all use language. That’s right, even you, reading this sat there in your underwear in a technology-induced stupor. Oh wait no, that's me in the mirror. Ahem. Moving swiftly on. Whether we’re deaf, blind, or an animal that’s not only learnt how to read English but also how to operate a computer and navigate to this blog (if you’re the latter, get in touch. I have a business proposition for you); we all use some form of language to communicate to others, to externalise our internal worlds, and to shape our thoughts. There’s spoken language, body language, the facial expression of a dog that’s commandeered some kitty treats, sign language. Whether we’re conscious of it or not, all of us are communicating all the time, sending out signals about ourselves and what we’re feeling and thinking, whether there’s someone available to pick up and interpret those signals or not.

Now. Hands in the air if you’re a lover of language.

My arms were emphatically up there until I realised I’m incapable of typing with neither my toes nor my nose.  I’m talking about the written or spoken word here, as opposed to the intricate language of what our gestures, postures and philtrums say about us. And I’m definitely not talking about a love of language adopted by those that militantly oppose a culture that embraces ‘verbing’ (turning nouns into verbs, eg “I favourited an article” and “Google it”), or deplore the fact that the ‘the youth of today’ speak in a language that no-one over the age of 18 can understand.

Rather, I’m of the ilk (and hopefully you are too) that loves language precisely because it evolves, because of the way words can be woven together to form lyrical phrases that sound like music, because of how it can be used to express ideas and feelings.

Here’s an example of precisely what I mean. Last month my friend and I were playing top trumps with our levels of boredom. Mine was caused by a slight quarter-life crisis moment, whereas hers was due to the experience of having to vacuum some kamikaze peas from her freezer. My response to the banality of her situation was, “I bow in deference to the mundanity of your boredom.” And the improvisation of that little phrase and the way it flowed and sounded instantly cheered me up. Quarter-life crisis successfully, if only temporarily, averted. At work there’s a few of us that are constantly playing with the meaning and sound of words, it’s a well-used pastime in my family, and I’ve had various playful arguments with a number of friends about use of words and their meaning. Those same friends also write, and we often read each other’s work, commenting on passages, ideas and use of words that we particularly like or think could be improved. (A few of them have blogs, which I definitely recommend and can be found on the left-hand side of this page.)

When you’re reading, or listening to a song, or a speech, or writing, or just chatting with your friends, it’s those moments where you can’t help but applaud the use of language. Maybe the idea that’s been conveyed has been expressed in such a way that it’s made you smile. Maybe it’s a word you’ve not heard in ages that evokes particular nostalgic feelings.

I’ve read a few authors this year whose writing styles I love. They couldn’t be more different from one another. On the one hand we’ve got Oscar Wilde and F. Scott Fitzgerald. Both are self-indulgent in their use of language, using words and phrases that are ripe with description, poeticism, and tangents. I don’t think I’ve come across any writers today who write like those of the past, where meaning and form are so interwoven, where complex feelings and philosophies are veiled within the vocabulary selected. I love it. I wish I could not only write like that, but get away with writing like that. On the other hand we have George Orwell. Putting his novels to one side, I’ve read a few of his non-fictional works this year. His use of language sits in such stark contrast to Fitzgerald's and Wilde's. It’s simple, matter-of-fact, there are very few trills or flourishes. He has a set of rules for writing that were created in opposition to a trend in political writing in the ‘40s that he raged against. He loathed the style that favoured recycling of metaphors and the use of twenty words where two would do. As one of my brothers wrote last month, sometimes simplicity is best.

All three authors have their own particular styles and ways that they choose to use words. I respect all three, and all three have passages that I’ve come across that have made me pause with admiration and jealousy at how they’ve expressed themselves. Yes it’s the ideas and story that they’re composing that have struck a chord. But – a bit like my amateur phrase on boredom (seriously, go back and say it out loud) – there’s something about the way they pluck out their words and combine them. It’s their masterful use of the language that we all have at our disposal, and it evokes a simple love of the infinite number of ways that we can play with what’s essentially a finite number of words. 

The choice of these three authors is indicative of another facet of language that I love. Although it evolves over time, and the meaning of words change, we can appreciate use of language from the past. There was an excellent programme on ITV earlier this year called Lenny Henry: Finding Shakespeare where Henry spoke to a number of people to find out about their feelings towards good ol' Bill (*shudder* Apologies). Two of the best parts of the programme were a blind test of Shakespearean phrases against hip-hop lyrics, and a kids' workshop run by actor Adrian Lester. Henry had a difficult time guessing correctly what was Shakespeare and what was Snoop Dog, whilst the workshop got the kids rapping and acting out Shakespeare. Both exercises were a fantastic way of thinking through the Bard's use of language and showing that, although written centuries ago, we can still enjoy his choice of words.

This is love of the written word (I’m including speeches and songs in that group, as they’re initially refined through writing), but there’s an equal love of the use of language that comes out in conversation. As I said, quite a few of my friends and work colleagues banter purely about the use of language and words. It might be about taking particular words out of context to change their meaning, about x-rated double entendres, arguing about the meaning of a word. It’s always playful, always quick-witted. Trust me, anyone who refuses to argue about semantics is missing out.  

So yes, I’m a lover of language. I think it has to be allowed to evolve because the world around us evolves, and we evolve. How else can we fully express ourselves unless language adapts to both reflect and shape what we’re thinking? Why shouldn’t we play with words and create new ones where the old don’t suffice, don’t reflect how our culture has shifted? But on an even simpler level, we should appreciate the words, the phrases – whether carefully crafted or spontaneous – that flow, that make us pause at their brilliance, make us laugh in wonder at their existence. We all have the same building blocks at our disposal. As Orwell says in his rules, we shouldn’t slip into lazily using the same language that we’ve heard before but be playful in our originality, creative in how we use those words. 

Go on, what's your favourite phrase, your favourite word? Do you play with language or do you find yourself getting stuck using the same phrases? (If your hands have been in the air all this time, I suggest you put them down before you type your answer. Unless you can in fact type with your nose. In which case I have a separate but equally good business proposition for you too.)

Whilst you're having a think, I'm just going to have a watch of this video overlaid with a monologue from Stephen Fry on language. If you've got the time, maybe have a watch too.