Monthly Archives: March 2018

On wine tasting and grammar

I talk about word tasting regularly. But actual wine tasting has a lot in common with opinions on grammar.

I’ve tasted a lot of wine in a lot of places served by a lot of different kinds of people, and one thing that’s pretty consistent is that the people who know the least about it have the most rigid and snobby opinions. It seems they’re insecure and make up for it with bluster and strict rule-following. Meanwhile,those who know the most about it have a well-informed open-mindedness and are focused on enjoying it. Compare tasting experiences with different people pouring:

Person who has taken a one-day course in wine and wants to come off as an expert The winemaker
[wears business formal attire] [wears a puffy vest over an old button-up]
“You will taste blackcurrants, plums, and black pepper in this. Eucalyptus? No, there’s none of that.” “What do you think? …Eucalyptus? Yeah, I see what you mean! I think that’s the 5% tempranillo and maybe some of the terroir.”
“This wine matches well with roast beef and grilled meats. …Oh, no, never have red wine with white meat.” “Don’t tell anyone, but I opened a bottle of this red blend with Thanksgiving dinner. Turkey is just a stuffing and cranberry sauce delivery system, right?”
“That’s not ready for tasting. It needs three years in the cellar.” “Here, let me get you a barrel sample. We’re bottling this next year… It’s looking really promising.”
“Please. Let me get you a clean cup. You don’t want to contaminate the taste.” “Just use the same glass. The next one’s darker anyway. I’ll swap up when we get to the sweet wines.”
“Oh, those grapes are completely different. You could never mistake the one for the other.” “I thought I was trying a Merlot from Oregon and it turned out it was a Pinot Noir from California!”
“Never chill red wine!” “Try this Grenache chilled. You’ll be surprised how well it works! Refreshing, right?”
“This wine is a higher-quality wine at a higher price point.” “Taste this! You won’t believe how little it costs!”

You get the general idea. If you’re talking to someone who says “Never do that” or “Always do this,” you’re not talking to someone who’s spent their life enjoying wines. You’re talking to someone who’s more concerned with appearing to know something than actually knowing it and enjoying it. The fear of seeming ignorant is overriding – they associate lesser knowledge with lower status. Meanwhile, the people who really enjoy it and enjoy knowing about it also enjoy discovering it with other people.

So what does this have to do with grammar? It’s the same divide: The snobs don’t know a lot, and those who know a lot aren’t snobs. I’ve been a language professional for 20 years and I know a lot of other language professionals… and I’ve heard and seen no end of grammar grumblers. Here’s how it typically goes:

Grammar snob Language professional
[only reads literary fiction] [loves genre fiction and “trash”]
Ain’t ain’t a word!” “Say it ain’t so!”
“These Twitterers don’t even know how to use proper grammar.” “Twitter English is fascinating. It adds so many levels of nuance.”
“Never end a sentence with a preposition.” “Grammar superstitions aren’t something I really cotton to.”
“Misplaced apostrophes upset me so much! I have to fix them!” “Did you see what that nitwit with the marker did to that sign? Someone needs to get a life.”
“A sentence always has to have a subject and verb.” “Not really.”
“There is only one correct English.” “I don’t wear white-tie to the beach. Why would I use formal English in a beer ad?”
“Singular they is an abomination.” “Yay! We’ve added singular they to the style guide! About time.”
“The language is in a dire state. People don’t even know what words mean anymore.” “Hey, look! Merriam-Webster just added a whole bunch more words! Ooh, including some new verbings.”
“Swearwords are a sign of limited intelligence.” “Did you see? Another study showing smart people tend to swear more. F— yeah.”
“When someone makes an error, I just have to correct them.” “Ha. Say what you want. I’m off duty and I don’t do freebies.”

People who enjoy wine enjoy wine in as many ways as possible and want other people to join in that enjoyment. People who enjoy language enjoy language in as many ways as possible and want other people to join in that enjoyment.

That doesn’t mean anything goes – you’re unlikely to see a wine lover drinking cabernet sauvignon with a tuna sandwich, but just because they are unlikely to taste good together. And most wine lovers have their favourites and least favourites. Likewise, language professionals have things they like more or less (there are certain turns of phrase I’m almost allergic to, but I know that’s me), and they can recognize what’s not going to work well on a page and fix it. That’s why they’re professionals.

The point is to get as much from it as you can. If you’re rigid about rules and who’s right and who’s wrong, you don’t really care about what you claim to care about. You just care about status. But since your pursuit of being “right” is making you wrong a lot of the time, well, as the saying goes, you just went hunting and shot your dog.

kaleidoscope

A kaleidoscope seems such a quaint thing now, so… analogue: a tube like a telescope in which little flakes of stained glass (or plastic) collide and are mirrored. A literal physical collide-o-scope! A toy patented in 1817, so much simpler than the incessant stream of fragmented digital images that now fill our days with brain flakes.

The word kaleidoscope doesn’t come from collide, mind you. It’s καλός kalos ‘beautiful’ plus εἶδος eidos ‘form’ plus σκοπος skopos, which I’m sure you know has to do with looking; it traces to the verb σκέπτεσθαι skeptesthai ‘look out’ which, yes, is also the source of skeptic. So a kaleidoscope is an instrument for looking at beautiful forms.

Which, in my view, is just my eyes. The world is full of beautiful shapes, from the simplicity of soft shadows from stained glass to the intense complexity of people passing in a shopping mall or on an urban street – and I can have both within a quick walk of each other.

Nothing is unproblematic, of course; in our world we bounce off each other, and our frictions and collisions generate heat. But where would the world be without warmth and interaction? No need to take all at face value; there is beauty in wisdom, and wisdom comes from seeing twice, seeing deeper, seeing past, doubting what you see. Enjoy looking, but look out, be skeptical. See the slivers in the floor that is so prettily dappled with coloured light. Get the picture – and see how your own self getting the picture gets in the way of seeing it all clearly. And enjoy that too.

sh, shh

Is sh a word? Sure. It’s even in dictionaries. They call it an interjection, though it really functions as an imperative – when you say “Sh!” you mean ‘shut up’ or ‘be quiet’ or ‘shut your festering gob’ or ‘stop making that dreadful noise’. But we can’t say it really is an imperative, syntactically, unless there are other forms that show it to be a verb: “Will you sh?” “OK, I am sh-ing. I have sh-ed.” Doesn’t really work, at least on paper.

We could say “Will you shush, I am shushing, I have shushed,” but we all know that shush is not sh. No, shush is almost polite. There’s nothing polite about sh. It’s most often a high-handed command issued with full assumption of the right to correct and boss around. When not irritable, it is at least familiar: a winking correction to a friend or descendant.

Well, OK, I suppose that’s all more true of shh. The shorter form, sh, is quicker and less expressive, a drive-by hushing. Conversely, a more forceful one would be shhh. Or maybe sshhh? Hm. Hmm. Are those different words or are they multiple versions of the same word? Hmmm.

Well, at least hm, hmm, and hmmm are clear enough in the spelling department. We lean towards shhh over sshh by convention, but it’s all just one sound, not two; there’s no place where s ends and h starts – that would be something of a mishap. We need two letters just because we got saddled with this alphabet from a language that didn’t have the sound we spell sh at the time the alphabet was set.

Just that little movement of the tongue back towards the palate can make the difference between peccadillo and tibia (sin and shin), between drink and transport (sip and ship), between being seated and… you get the idea. The “sh” sound, which linguists render in the International Phonetic Alphabet as /ʃ/, is palatalized. While /s/ belongs to the higher-pitched “hissing” fricatives, /ʃ/ belongs to the lower-pitched “hushing” ones. Both are sibilants; both are stridents. Both are audible at some distance, but I’d say “sh” carries more.

Well, I’ll say for sure that you can hear it across a theatre. It is irrefutable evidence of the presence of someone who does not have proper respect for others or for the occasion. Seldom do I attend a live performance of music, dance, or drama without hearing someone on the far side of the place issuing a “Shh!” to some noisemaker near them. I rarely hear the person they’re addressing; the quiet speech that provokes it doesn’t carry nearly as far. One ought not to talk during performances, of course; it’s not very considerate. But far less considerate is the person who, instead of leaning forward or back and quietly saying, like a proper Canadian, “Sorry, could you please not talk?” prefers to issue a loud passing of gas through tongue and palate audible across the auditorium and almost certainly on the stage. So rude – far worse than the offence that provoked it. For heaven’s sake, shushers, do be less strident.