The language of language

Most of you probably hated English class. I was one of those weirdos who didn't, but I know a lot of people, then and now, who are still wondering why we had to read Shakespeare and write essays and wasn't Ben Franklin's autobiography the absolutely most mind-numbing read in the history of printing. I don't blame them for not getting excited about it. Motivating my students was always my biggest challenge in teaching.

But, apart from all the prim and proper, upstanding, prudish, school-marmish notions of English instruction that we all had to suffer through, there is another -- darker, more fun, livelier, and challenging -- side to it as well. It's about communication, but not as any of you who have had to suffer through a communication class are now imagining. English (and here, any of you can substitute your own native language from your own native culture ... everything I have to say applies mutatis muntandis for your own) is about the magic -- and I use the word consciously -- of language. The person who said the pen was mightier than the sword knew what he was talking about. Words -- and I can't say this often or emphatically enough -- are the most powerful weapons known to (hu)man(ity).

We suspected it for a long time. When the notion of higher education first arose, you studied the Trivium after your general education. The Trivium consisted of just three subjects (and you need to think this as analog to a bachelor's degree today): grammar (how words are fit together to make sense), logic -- actually dialectics (how to combine ideas to make sense), and rhetoric (how to influence others with what you say). That's it. It was all about using language to make friends (and enemies) and influence people. No more, no less. These days we all complain about most people's terrible spelling and using 50 words when 5 would have done the trick and pull our hair out trying to figure out what they meant in the first place. Oh yeah, we've come a long way, haven't we?

Regardless, I'd like to ask you to do a little exercise. It won't take long and I guarantee it will tell you more about yourself than you ever really wanted to know. This is it; I call it Fivers:

1. Which are the 5 words you find most uplifting?
2. Which 5 words upset you the most?
3. Who is your favorite person to listen to?
4. Who is your least favorite person to listen to?
5. List the last 5 books you've read and the years in which you read them.

Now comes the hard part: Look at your answers and think long and hard about how they relate. Satisfied? Regardless, the answers to those five simple questions tells you (and everyone else) all they need to know about what floats your boat, what gets your goat, how they can get you to go along, and whether they even have to worry about you figuring out what they're doing.

Really. Think about it.

Looks are deceiving

The mirror is a very powerful image. I didn't want to just let it drop with the glancing remark made last time. Two of the reasons it is so powerful is that (a) it is simply accurate, and (b) it has been around for a rather long time. A one time popular image to depict this is one know as "The Ancient of Days" (but not to be confused with Blake's watercolor) and as "The Great Symbol of Solomon". It really doesn't matter what you call it, as pictures are worth a thousand words, as you can see. And I wouldn't let all the Latin bother me either. One phrase says that the Macrocosm is like the Microcosm, the other says "As above, so below."

For me, the important features of this meaningful image (German: Sinnbild) is the clarity of the image above the waterline and the murky, unclear, unfocused form of the image below it. We don't have to be Platonic idealists, nor do we have to believe in a particular metaphysics to recognize that things around us are not a clear-cut, as clearly defined nor as sharply in focus as we often like to think. All that the image tells us is that there could be more, there could be more clarity, more sharpness, and that we can imagine, if we chose, to picture what this might be if we simply acknowledged that the murky image exists. Recognition is the first step to resolution, and the metaphor of backwardness, of the unclear mirror image is a helpful one.

There are too few rich and too many poor people. Some folks simply have way too much, most of which they don't need at all, and too few people have the bare necessities. We have crazy notions like more force will make people more obedient, that draconian penalties are a sign of compassion, that taking things away from people who don't have enough will make them try harder, that bailing out crooks (see the banking crisis) will make them more generous. None of that is true, none of that works, and none of it can work, because it's simply doing backwards things.

Don't get me wrong, I don't think many who need to are going to grasp this all too soon, but one can hope. And that's one of the reasons I really don't get tired of reminding whomever I can: for the most part, we've simply got it backwards.

The wisdom of fools

Yesterday was April Fool's Day (or All Fools' Day, or even April Fish Day (go figure) in some places). No one is really sure where it originated or why we really celebrate it (well, it's not a real holiday after all) or why it has any significance at all. But, little things like that have never stopped us before, and April Fool's is no exception.

We all think we know a lot of fools, sometimes that we're surrounded by them in fact. I would contend, however, that true fools are few and far between.

Anyone who has read any Shakespeare will immediately know what I'm talking about. My favorite Shakespearean fool is in King Lear, and he is simply known as Fool. How appropriate. The fool is the one who knows truth from lies, right from wrong, the fool is the one with comprehension, insight, and ultimately wisdom. Lear is really a classic example of foolishness gone wrong. Our tragic hero, sovereign lord of the realm, descends into madness after foolishly dividing his kingdom among two of his three legitimate heirs, all of whom are daughters. How could that possibly work out for the best? I know, William nailed it all in this one.

Lear, of course, as so many who are in power, succumbs to flattery. So many of us who pretend or even strive to power fall prey to this as well. Flattery, of course, is a form of dishonesty, and we see again and again that the root of almost all power structures, in particular hierarchical ones (like we find in government, business, the church, etc.), are based on dishonesty. Oh, I know we like to think that these representatives are well-intended, upstanding and forthright, but we all know different. Lord Acton spoke truth when he noted that power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely. The forms the lies take vary naturally: sometimes they are simple omissions, sometimes slight (to major) shifts of emphasis, and sometimes they are simply outlandish fabrications, but we like to think that the perpetrators are being driven by forces greater than themselves, but they are not. And this where the fool comes in.

Not only in Shakespeare, it is the fool who is honest. It is the fool who not only calls things as he sees them, he is the one who sees them for what they are. It is the fool who is aware of the foils, the weaknesses and shortcomings of those supposedly in power. By virtue of his position - the Fool - it is he who may speak the truth, who may say how things are, without fear of reprisal.

Yes, someone must be allowed to speak the truth, and if it be the fool, then so be it. We live in very dishonest times. We are confronted with crisis after crisis all of which were brought about by the same weakness: the dishonest striving for power. But who is there to "tell it like it is"? Who do we have today who can speak unhindered and unabridged? Who can point out to us the error of our ways? We're in need, again, of the Fool. Or are we simply not listening?