On Prescriptivism

Language use is a game of hide-and-seek with coy teasing laughing fairy words. They flit about your head but then dart away whenever you want to use them. Even if you catch them they will only wriggle free again. They are lively and delightful but they can't sit still long enough to mean anything.

(To write with them you must be patient, you must be coaxing. You cannot give them orders; they will only scowl and fly away. But if you sing to them then sometimes they will waltz for you. Then afterwards when they are tired, they will alight soft-footed on your shoulders and nuzzle up against your neck.)

Sometimes people grow frustrated with words: they are capricious, unreliable. These people put up great nets to catch words in. The goal is to tranquilize them, pacify them, so that they will finally just hold still. You must understand: when words stop squirming they can be made useful. They can be lashed together into any shape. They can even be tied into bundles, then crammed into cardboard boxes and shipped across centuries.

Their proponents say: "See how efficient they are! They mean today what they meant ten years ago, and they will mean the same in another twenty. This is the way of the future. This is modern industry at its best."

But as I look at them lying still I note their waxy skin, their dull eyes. They cannot fly anymore for their wings have been clipped. It is said they have a longer shelf life, but to what end? Is the only purpose of language to ship more meaning at a cheaper cost?

It is true that words in the wild are inefficient, that they are not optimized. But I find it delightful to watch them dance.

Lovely

The child had filled up his shelves not with books but with dolls: lines and lines of them, all wearing pink. To each one he had given a name—Esther, or Julia, or Sue, or Cindy. He would take up each in turn and play with it for a while. With their distinct personalities they suited his several moods: one was gentle and good, another feisty; a third cried a lot and always clung to him. Towards them all he showed kindness and benevolence: he complimented them, and he doted on them, and indulgently he showered them with gifts.

Late at night when he was lonely, he would look out from his bedstead at the pretty pink dolls and watch their distinct features melt together in the fading light until there were only the lines (stretching on forever) of pleasing pretty pinkness; and then drifting softly to sleep he would murmur: "Oh! that is lovely. Oh oh! that is lovely."