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. 

A pause to reflect and wax lyrical

A little navel-gazing never hurt anyone (unless done whilst driving at high speeds), so I figure it's about time I actually wrote a little bit on what this blog is all about. Mentally prepare yourself for some seriously philosophical musing.

My first post aside — I still twitch everytime the toddler reaches for the music player —  I've thus far waxed lyrical on: the serendipity that can ensue when you take your headphones out; those of us that have a fetish for stationery; and, of course, advocated abusing your books.

The name of this blog, L'art de Vivre, wasn't chosen because I enjoy throwing around the odd French phrase to try and make myself sound cultured and worldly, a la Del Boy or various others (see what I did there, surreptitiously throwing in a sweet little "a la" in the hope no-one would notice?). And if the occasion does call for use of a non-English phrase, I hope and I pray that I resist the temptation to attempt to say it in its proper accent, thus trying to be respectful of the language yet somehow unintentionally achieving a mild form of racism ('l'esprit de l'escalier' is a particularly beautiful phrase, although I've not yet had the guts to try to use it).
Instead I chose L'art de Vivre because the concept of the 'the art of living' is one that truly struck a chord with me. All joking aside, surely there's enough that's serious and depressing in this world and in our daily lives without not stopping to truly enjoy and recognise the things that make us happy every now and again. And then giving ourselves the permission to actually enjoy them. So this is what I'm trying to get at with my monologues on fountain pens, paperbacks and talking to strangers in coffee shops. These are things that I, and others that I know, get enjoyment out of but don't necessarily always acknowledge that we do so.

I first stumbled across the phrase l'art de vivre in a post about detaching yourself from your work last year:

A French colleague once explained l'art de vivre (the art of living) to me. Enjoying small things on a daily basis — such as good bread, a favourite café, lovely flowers, using a nice pen, a brisk walk home, reading a book to your child, dinner with your partner, an hour to yourself with a glass of wine...

And just reading that little snippet, something inside me sparked in the way it does when you suddenly hear a new idea that subtly changes the way you look at the world, that shifts something fundamental within you. The other two phrases I referred to in my first post were: la dolce vita, which I came across in the book Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert (which, for the record, I didn't particularly enjoy) and means the good life, a life full of pleasure and indulgence; and a flâneur, which rather beautifully refers to the activity of walking the streets of a city in order to experience it, and is a notion I learned of in my undergraduate History degree. This triumvirate of concepts — enjoying the small things in life; living a life of pleasure; and truly experiencing a city by wandering aimlessly through its streets — have stayed with me. Funnily enough, on hearing them they gave me a feeling of joy that I'm trying to get across here. And so when it came to thinking through what I resolved to do in 2012, living my life more by these three little philosophies seemed as good a way to go as any.

I've always enjoyed the 'small things' and joked about the fact that I'm easily pleased by simple pleasures. It's when you suddenly find yourself smiling at something in the moment: an experience, an emotion, something you've heard or something you've seen. It comes out of the blue, and it's the recognition that you unexpectedly feel a little lighter on your feet, have taken a deep breath at the pleasure of it, are smiling to yourself, and for a few seconds that you were completely immersed in the experience, all other thoughts let go of. I never thought much of it but, actually, aren't these the little moments that keep us sane, keep us from getting completely caught up in the various stresses of daily life? That — dare I suggest it — make us happy?

I'm not necessarily advocating living the sort of hedonistic life that Oscar Wilde's Dorian Gray himself would have blushed at; we all have our own moral compasses, and they guide what we choose to do and the way we are with the people around us. As long as you're not harming others, I reckon live and let live. And I'm not naiive enough to think that all the world's ills would be cured if only we all allowed ourselves a two-hour bath on the odd occasion. I'm also painfully aware that this comes across as a particularly privileged way of looking at the world. But one of the things that struck me when reading Gregory David Roberts' Shantaram was the unshakeable happiness of Prabu, Roberts' happy-go-lucky guide to life in Mumbai, despite living in one of India's notorious slums. Again, I'm not romantacising the harsh realities of life. I'm simply saying that whatever our circumstances, whatever our bank balances, whether we live in a remote village or a bustling city, surely there can be no harm in pausing to recognise the happiness a piece of bread dipped in oil can bring us, or when the sun shines closing our eyes and turning our faces to the sky, or if it's raining then fleetingly enjoying the feel of that before we run for cover?

One of my all-time favourite books, The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery, was given to me as a present by my cousin and is an all-time favourite precisely because it reminds us what it is to see the world through the eyes of a child. As one of my brother's observed on Twitter when the snow hit London earlier this year:

The moment #snow no longer instils a sense of giddy joy in you is the moment you become a legitimate adult #whoopforfrozenwaterintheair

He's 23 years old. I think we run the risk of losing this sense of wonder as soon as we refuse to recognise what the small things are that bring us a few seconds of joy before we resume our daily grind, whatever form that may take — both the few seconds of joy and the daily grind.

As I was mulling over what I wanted to write in this post last week, I stumbled across an article by Robert Crampton entitled Beta male: a few of my favourite things (I may as well be honest seeing as we're talking about small joys - I was flipping through The Times Magazine on the loo, as I'd left my iPhone elsewhere. Admit it. We all do it). This is basically a list of things that make Crampton happy. At first I was a little peeved, as he's basically done what I'm doing in this blog and most likely gotten paid for it, albeit my ramblings are a lot less succinct and I'm not a recognised journalist, or a journalist at all for that matter. Even more blasphemously he finishes off the article with what will hopefully be a familiar sentiment by now, saying that these are all unimportant things that he enjoys but that it's the small things that matter, particularly as you get older. The heathen! The thief! Then to make matters even worse, my very own 'beta male' friend said yesterday, totally unprompted and without influence from me or Crompton, his next post is going to be on the things that make him happy. Is there no end to the intellectual thievery!

Seriously though, both those encounters actually made me feel that warmness when you've suddenly recognised a kindred spirit. That someone else looks at the world, at least partly, in a similar way to you and isn't afraid to go out and say what it is that makes them happy.

So that's my tome for this week over, normal service shall now resume with what will most likely be a post on photography once I sit down to write it.

In the meantime, here's my own quick list of a small number of things that bring me uncomplicated joy, just off the top of my head:

The mini daffodils that pop up in the most unlikely of places this time of year. The smell and feel of clean sheets on a bed. A clever turn of phrase, linking old ideas together in new ways to make new ideas, surreal banter between friends that goes off on tangents. Seeing strangers talk to each other or help each other in a way that respects that we're all human as opposed to asking them to "please move down the carriage", or simply brushing past each other. The way that the girlfriend of one of my brothers enters some weird and wonderful place of childlike joy when she's overtired, coming up with all sorts of fantastic ideas and phrases. The heart-breaking comfort of holding a baby or a toddler, or seeing the look of mischievous joy on the faces of children let loose on the wary public. The joy of handing back said baby or toddler or knowing that those children high on sugar running around the cafe aren't mine. The witty phrases and observations my mother comes out with, watching my grandmother knit cardigans and hats for her two great granddaughters, the crude jokes my grandfather makes, the crude jokes my father makes. Overhearing my brother practice the guitar in another room, catching my other brother's eye in recognition of an unspoken shared thought. Crossing over Tower Bridge after work with the right song playing in my ears. The feeling of doing precisely whatever it is that I want to be doing and the knowledge that no-one I know is actually aware of where I am and that at that moment I have no-one to answer to. Spending time away from the world totally immersed in a book. Summer evenings on the porch with my best friend and a bottle (or two) of wine and Haribo Tangfastics. The suddenness of realising we've both just cackled together in exactly the same way at a funny joke or idea. Arsenal playing their beautiful football. Thierry Henry.

... I'd better stop as this is becoming more than a little self-indulgent. If I were to say to you, "Tell me something that brings you pure joy, tell me right now. Go!" what's the first thing that comes to you? What are the many things that come to you? (Steady now). There's an unassuming comment box below if the mood grabs you to write them down.