?-?

 

?-?

"A little learning is a dangerous thing;
drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring:
there shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
and drinking largely sobers us again." – Alexander Pope, An Essay on Criticism, 1709.

(2022-English translation: Learning a little about a subject can be dangerous; either go deeply into that subject or leave it alone. A mere sip from the well of wisdom can make you drunk with an egotistical sense of yourself as being “in the know,” and you’ll only sober up if you go back and “drink deeply” from the wisdom/knowledge well.)

There’s a saying about that goes something like this: people pronounce on subjects of which they have insufficient knowledge; unfortunately they lack the knowledge that would be necessary to realize that their knowledge is insufficient. Another, briefer way to put this might be, “My friend, you’re just too uninformed to realize how uninformed you are!” That wouldn’t be nice.

Pope’s four-line, often quoted, anecdote might well alert anyone who pronounces, pontificates on any subject through speech, reporting, blogging, in interviews or over Christmas dinner with family, to exercise a bit of humility, and maybe end their pronouncements with a question- rather than an exclamation-mark.

It might also seem to contain a logical flaw, since no one ever has been able to determine whether or not they possess all—or at least enough—knowledge to confidently hold a position, or even an opinion. Christians say of God that he is omniscient—all knowing—which point likely serves only to emphasize that we humans are not. All and enough defy measurement. Does a doctor know all he/she/they need(s) to to make a definitive diagnosis of a patient’s dis-ease?

If I were to say, “Politicians are to blame for the current financial crisis,” it would take no genius to recognize that I lack sufficient knowledge of politics and of economics to make my pronouncement trustworthy. Question is, would I be conscious of the fact that a whole heap of knowledge that I don’t possess would be necessary to conclude confidently that my pronouncement is trustworthy? Or would I, like so many, operate under the delusion that what comes out of my mouth is, de facto, true, just because… well, because… I believe it to be so.

If there is a planet where everything is orderly, where absolute, complete knowledge has been determined and catalogued and resides in the public domain, that planet is, most certainly, not this one. Here, we speak and write impressions and opinions as if they were facts, as if we possessed knowledge enough to speak with certainty on a given subject.

What we need is a new punctuation mark to indicate that our knowledge of a subject may still be wanting:

1.      In writing, “?-?” might indicate that what we are saying is an impression which is open to being modified if deeper knowledge should present itself. So the politicians-are-to-blame declaration would look like this: ?-? Politicians are to blame for the current financial crisis ?-?

2.      When speaking, we could raise a closed fist, then extend and curl the index finger twice before and after an utterance. This would indicate to hearers that we are expressing an impression, not an incontrovertible, proven fact.

?-? Because we must write and read, speak and understand, throwing out our impressions and opinions as if they were facts simply stifles the joint search for the very knowledge we crave and know we need; we could benefit by correcting for this ?-?

And a side note: An old saying goes:  “He who defends himself in court has a fool for a lawyer.” It could also read, “He who treats himself (with guidance from internet ads?) has a fool for a doctor.” People who spend years of time and energy accumulating knowledge in a field deserve respect. Not worship, but respect, and our carefully listening ears.  

?-? Opinion is never an equal to knowledge-supported conclusions, anymore than a brick is a reasonable substitute for a potato ?-?

Did you get that sentence, enclosed with “?-?” punctuation? I might deservedly be taken to task by someone who has found that a brick can be quite delightful when eaten with a flour, chicken broth, salt and pepper mortar—I mean, bechamel sauce… or maybe, peppermint-stucco gravy. That new knowledge should oblige me to modify my opinion, eh? To go back and drink more deeply from the Pierian Spring, maybe?

A little learning is a dangerous thing;
drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring:
there shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
and drinking largely sobers us again. – Alexander Pope, An Essay on Criticism, 1709.

Keep it Simple, Stupid?

 

I read this morning that Pierre Poilievre is proposing a law requiring government to make itself more understandable to more people by cutting the jargon, communicating in simple words and simpler, shorter sentences. Apparently, the USA and New Zealand have already passed such legislation.

How we logically determine which words are “simple,” or how many words there can be in a “simpler sentence” might be tricky. Depending on whether you grew up with English as your main—or only—language, or if you have a university education from an English institution, or have qualified as a specialist in a field where specific, even long words, are essential to precise communication with others in your field, or if you’re an avid reader and news junkie or feel yourself hard pressed to read the instructions on your pill bottles, all these and more factors come into play when judging what’s appropriate in a country where simplicity/complexity of language is an issue.

(The sentence above would have a hard time qualifying as a shorter, simpler example in New Zealand, one supposes.)

A mom of a three-year-old might say, “Does your tummy have an owwie?” She won’t ask, “Are you experiencing midriff pain distress due, probably, to a surplus of stomach acid?” Tailoring our speech and writing to match the vocabulary and the likely knowledge reserves of our audience is too obvious to merit debate. But to set language complexity to some three-year-old maximum would be as stupid as deliberately baffling the majority of your audience with specialized political, medical or any other jargon.

It seems obvious. Spoken and written communication is to human community and necessary progress as food is to life. Progress and well-being are and will always be beholden to the quality and clarity of communication. And yet, we treat it as one of many options in school curricula. Why do most of us go through life with a competency in communication stalled at the level we exhibited on the day we left school? If a generation grows up with substandard nutrition, is that the grocery store’s fault? And who’s to blame if a person educated in an English language system can’t make head nor tails out of a T1 Short, government document? can’t enjoy (or even follow) the insights in Naomi Klein’s This Changes Everything, for instance?

And in the end, is it simpler words, shorter and simpler sentences that pave the road to broader understanding? I’m sure every editor of every government document—or every letter, poem, novel, essay, column, meeting minutes, speech, for that matter—should have in mind that literacy levels vary. But there are counterweights to this consideration. Language doesn’t only communicate basic information. It can also provide clarity and nuance to thought, rhythm and musicality in its art forms, it can light fires of joy or indignation at its most expressive.

Before simple language legislation: “The overuse of garish colours and kitsch destroyed the ambience of what used to be a charming restaurant.”

After simple language legislation: “That place sucks now!”

The legislation: It is hereby enacted that no government communication may contain words of more than six letters or two syllables, and that no sentence may contain more than ten words. Abbreviations in order to circumvent the number-of-letters directive are not to be tolerated. (Simple language version of this directive: Keep it simple, stupid. {KISS})