BY THE time I finished graduate school in physics, I had mastered technical
speech. But I managed day-to-day conversation with all the grace of someone
whose foot catches on a crack in the sidewalk. Rather than continue to stumble
about among the potholes of my own elliptic metaphors, I made a decision. To
those anointed with PhDs, this may seem strange, but I decided that I wanted to
be understood.
I began by trying to finger someone as the cause of my problem. After all,
the first step to self-improvement is assigning blame. Maybe my environment
mucked up my verbal skills. I considered blaming my graduate school mentor, but
I鈥檝e hung enough of my deficiencies on him already. So perhaps some pesky gene
was the culprit. Alas, my father publishes poetry. Eventually I settled on
blaming Sir Isaac Newton. Surely, Principia has been polluting my
diction since childhood.
The next step required some distasteful self-examination. What was it about
my speech that made the eyes of the masses glaze over? I examined my scientific
publications and uncovered my shameful weakness. I, Francis Slakey, am addicted
to adjectives. There in my papers, mocking me, were the giveaway phrases:
鈥渙ptically induced metastable phase鈥�, 鈥渕agnetic-exchange Cooper-pair
interaction strength鈥�. The devilish adjective was my master, I was its pathetic
tongue-lolling junkie. There was only one way to kick the habit鈥擨 went
turkey.
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When I had finally re-established control over the adjective, I began
examining other aspects of my scientific speech. I discovered that while my
verbs were not a source of confusion, they were all quite boring. I did plenty
of 鈥渕easuring鈥� and 鈥渃alculating鈥� but I rarely 鈥渞eckoned鈥� and I never 鈥渃onjured
up鈥�. I needed to enrich my vocabulary.
As I began stocking my head with fresh verbs, I discovered that the adverb is
completely oversold. The adverb is a footstool for linguistic dwarfs who cannot
reach the right verb. For example, instead of saying a scientist 鈥渟poke
confidently鈥�, you should say 鈥渂abbled鈥�. Instead of saying the wise doctor
鈥渒eenly lectured鈥�, you should say 鈥渄roned on鈥�. What you find is that for every
quality verb you learn, you can discard at least one adverb. So, expanding your
verb inventory does not require any new mental shelf space. In fact, it is quite
the opposite. If you choose your verbs carefully, you will discover that when
you finish upgrading your inventory, you will have an impressive number of empty
mental shelves.
In the course of examining my speech, I found that I completely misunderstood
the semicolon. A typical sentence in my scientific paper would make a point, but
then additional little thoughts and fragments would trail along behind. The
semicolon was the glue for this verbal streamer. What I learnt, however, was
that a semicolon is the pennant of a dimwit, a waffler. So, uncertain whether to
use a full-stop or comma, the dimwit uses both鈥攕tacking them one on top of
the other.
Despite my best efforts, I haven鈥檛 mastered the paragraph. Apparently, the
purpose of the paragraph is to introduce more white space into the text,
breaking up what the eye would otherwise interpret as an endless blotch of ink.
Fortunately, a skilled editor rescues me in this matter. Though I must admit I
am uncertain whether this very sentence should be boxed between two others
or should conclude the paragraph.
Most of the linguistic rules I鈥檝e just described I worked out on my own, but
I have it from a respected source that they are, nevertheless, accurate.
Although this source is dead his writing confirms my theories. For example,
consider the following plausible scientific sentence: 鈥淚n order to achieve some
measure of progress, it was necessary for him to agitate the liquid repeatedly
with an exhausting twisting of his wrists.鈥� Now consider Ernest Hemingway鈥檚
version: 鈥淗e rowed and he rowed and he rowed.鈥� Magnifique! No adjectival
blockage, no semicolon irregularities, just smooth flow.
You may also have noticed that I don鈥檛 use the letter z. I recommend that you
drop this letter from your public alphabet. You will find it difficult at first,
because you have to avoid phrases like 鈥淶ener diode鈥� and 鈥渮irconium crucible鈥�.
Of course, that is precisely the point鈥攖hese phrases should not be used in
normal company. In fact, I believe we should drop the letter z from the
dictionary altogether. That would do away with the zodiac, making us all a lot
better off.
There is one final bit of self-editing that I do, the rhetorical equivalent
of the lowest common denominator. Before publishing anything, I check the
average word length. In graduate school, I could boast an average regularly in
double figures. Recently, a psychiatrist told me that an obsession with long
words is a sign of sexual insecurity. Now I try to keep my average under six
letters.
So, has any of this actually helped to improve my speech? Well, last week I
went to a local dive to try to communicate with some folk there. I found a
very promising fellow wearing a coat that had a strange odour about it. When he
asked me what I did, I said physics. 鈥淟ike it?鈥� he rasped. 鈥淚t beats
proctology,鈥� I observed. He called the bartender over and bought me a drink.