For many of my friends, the terms grammar nazi and Joseph are synonymous. While the title grammar nazi, ignoring its obvious potentially offensive historical implications, is a somewhat accurate description of my M.O. in social situations, it fails to encapsulate all facets of my linguist persona. In other words, it is a term that incompletely describes my relationship with language. Grammar is but one stud on the leather-clad body of my cruel and domineering, yet sweetly rewarding, lifelong mistress known as Language.
Yes, I die a little inside when people grammatically mutilate their sentences, and, yes, I tend to correct these people (both on the internet and in speech), but I’ve dialled it back significantly. I pick my battles nowadays; I reserve my breath for only the most repulsive concoctions of wording. It used to be a compulsive urge, but I’ve finally learnt to control it. (Now I mostly just judge people internally.)
Here’s what I can’t control: pretty much everything else linguistic.
You know how each person has his own “area” – a lens through which he views the world? For example, a classically trained musician might listen to a tune and instantly be able to break down all its elements, including metre, key, chord structure, form and timbre. Or, a geologist might go for a hike and be able to identify all the rocks and minerals in an outcropping. Or, a seasoned ballet dancer might walk down the street and point out those with good posture and those with poor posture. These people don’t have to think about it; their respective disciplines are ever-present in their minds and affect the way they interpret their surroundings.
For me, that discipline is language, as you should have surmised. Language has governed my thought as long as I can remember.
Let’s begin with my native tongue, English.
Now, English often gets a bad rap for its seemingly arbitrary spellings and word pronunciations, among other things. It receives disparagement both from people whose first language is not English and from people whose first language is English. It seems to be the cool thing to do, and the culprits, more often than not, are those from my generation on social media sites like Tumblr. You need not look any further than this Buzzfeed post to understand what I’m talking about.
The English language, overall, seems to be held in low regard – and too often is ignorance the cause, sadly. However, rooted in ignorance or not, this zeitgeist of contempt for English is not groundless. English, as with most languages, has a dynamic and exciting history – a history into which I will try to resist delving too deeply in this post, as it isn’t the only focus here.
Let me put on my hipster glasses for a moment and say that I had been noticing peculiarities in English since early gradeschool. One item that comes to mind is the difference in pronunciation of the word the, depending on whether the next word begins with a consonant or a vowel. I was a child of six or seven years noting, during story time, that we say “thuh dog,” but “thee end.” Before vowels, the takes the long /e/ sound instead of the reduced vowel known as a schwa. Of course, the other students didn’t give a rat’s ass when I pointed this out, and, if I recall correctly, the teacher didn’t really care, either.
This isn’t to say that my peers weren’t noticing oddities like I was, but what separated me from the rest was my insatiable thirst to discover why. “That’s just the way it is” was never good enough of an answer for me.
Why do we pronounce that word differently there? Why is that word spelt that way? I needed to understand the reasons for our language’s weirdness.
Another game-changer occurred while I was doing an English assignment in third or fourth grade. The homework didn’t take me long to complete, but I continued to sit at our dining room table for a minute or two because there was a “Try this!” kind of blurb at the bottom of the worksheet. Now, obviously I’m incapable of reciting something from so long ago, but it went something like this: “Say the word think. Do you hear the /g/ sound that sneaks in there, just before the /k/? Try this with other words like sink and pink!”
Needless to say, I tried it, and, lo and behold, it worked. And I tried it again. And again and again. And I went to bed, dwelling on this phenomenon. It really fucked with my head.
Of course, in the early twenty-aughts, when readily accessible home internet was still in its infancy, I didn’t exactly have the wherewithal to explore this matter further, and I had to live with the dilemma that words ending in [-ink] contain the [-ing] sound. Fast forward a decade, and Joseph can rest assured that the /g/ in [-ing] words is not, in fact, a true /g/ sound at all. In English phonetics, [ng] is used to represent the nasal sound that we automatically produce when we say words ending with [-nk], such as think or rank.
(This also explains why some people “omit” the /g/ in gerunds such as fishing or walking. If you hear someone say fishin‘ or walkin’, it shouldn’t be considered lazy speech. Don’t criticise him for leaving out a hard /g/ sound that wasn’t there to begin with.)
Anyway, while the [-ink] problem has since been resolved, back when I was a youngster, it only added fuel to my burning desire to increase my knowledge and understanding of English.
More fuel was subsequently added in eighth grade and early high school, when I was studying French and encountering cognates left and right. It’s a good thing I chose French over Spanish, for my comprehension of English language history might be far less than it is now otherwise. Any English speaker who has studied French will tell you just how lexically similar it is to English. English shares more vocabulary with French than with any other Romance language. And there’s a reason for that. But eighth grade Joseph wrongly assumed that all these cognates like accepter and le table and excellent were in English first and that French borrowed them.
This highly erroneous assumption would be rectified some years later, after I used a word that I did not know does not exist in English. I was discussing how something was “inceived,” or how it began. My mother promptly told me that “inceive” is not a word. I was in disbelief by this assertion and decided to look up the word online to prove her wrong. To my alarm, inceive was not showing up in any web dictionaries.
“Did you mean conceive?” mocked the search engines. No, I couldn’t have meant conceive. Conceive means something different, obviously.
I’m the kind of guy who was always adept at recognising patterns, whether they be mathematical or linguistic. And, by this point in my life, I was already quite familiar with prefix and suffix patterns in English. The act of re-ceiving is reception, the act of de-ceiving is deception, the act of per-ceiving is perception and the act of con-ceiving is conception, so it stands to reason that inception, which I KNEW is a word, is the act of in-ceiving.
But, apparently, inceive was not a word. So, I turned to Google. I demanded answers.
Finally, some links I found shed some light on this problem. Receive, deceive, perceive and conceive and their respective noun forms are Latin-derived words that entered English via various forms of French during the Middle English period, which lasted roughly from 1100-1500. Inception came along a little later, toward the end of the period, directly from Latin, so its hypothetical verb form inceive never made it into our language. One must also consider that, while the other ceive words didn’t have any certain equivalents in English and, therefore, were embraced, inceive would not have been able to oust the native word beginnan (begin), which was in common use. English does have the verb incept, but it doesn’t carry any meanings of “beginning” or “starting.”
This marked a major turning point for me and my quest for complete understanding of English. The inceive mystery ignited a chain reaction of discoveries for me. Learning that the native English word beginnan resisted being purged from the language made me wonder: just how many native English words didn’t make it?
Most of them, actually. English lost most of its native vocabulary during the Middle English period, the beginning of which is marked by the Norman Conquest of 1066, when William, duke of Normandy (French territory) conquered England. For the next several hundred years, the nobility of England would be almost exclusively French-speaking, and their vocabulary would trickle down to the Anglo-Saxon peasants, replacing a great portion of the Old English lexicon until only its most basic words remained. Compounds such as boc-hus (literally “book-house”) yielded to their Latinic equivalents (in this case, library). This period of near-linguicide resulted in a heavily French-ified English and came to an end after the conclusion of the Hundred Years’ War, at which point the monarchy was restored to a definitively English status instead of French. But the damage had been done.
Today, we can hear in English echoes of the battles for dominance between words of Old English origin and those of Latin origin. For example, there is hardly any difference in meaning between oversee and supervise. Super- is a Latin prefix meaning “over, above,” and vise comes from a Latin verb meaning “to see” (think vision). Likewise, pairs such as aware-cognizant and forbid-prohibit and foretell-predict demonstrate how rampant synonyms are in the language.
My internet education, or should I say edification, allowed me to see the error in my naive assumption that English provided the French cognates and not the other way around. It also broadened my scope from simply grammar nazi to etymologist and, to a lesser extent, socio-linguist.
Also thanks to the internet, I have a firm understanding now not only of the English language, but also of the Indo-European language family as a whole, which includes, but is not limited to, the Indian languages (not Native American), Persian (Farsi), the Hellenic (Greek) languages, the Slavic languages (Russian, Ukrainian, Polish, Serbian, Bosnian, etc.), the Italic languages (Latin and its descendants), the Celtic languages (Irish, Welsh, Cornish, etc.) and the Germanic languages (German, Dutch, Gothic, the Scandinavian languages and, yes, English).
Don’t EVER tell me that English is a Romance language. I will spend an hour lecturing you on why you’re wrong. As I just finished explaining, Latin has had a substantial impact on our language, but English remains Germanic at its core.
It is likely that most of the words you have spoken today are of Old English (Anglo-Saxon) origin. In fact, most of the words in the previous sentence are of Old English origin. Ironically, the only words from that sentence that aren’t of Anglo-Saxon origin are Anglo and Saxon, which are the Latin-based renderings of the names of the Germanic tribes that settled on the island of Great Britain. (The Angles decided to rename the region “Angle-land.” Hmm. Angle-land…..Angland…..England?)
I’ve also become fascinated by the kinship between English and its Germanic cousins like German and Dutch. It’s remarkable how closely these languages’ basic vocabularies resemble each other’s. The simple English sentence, “What is your name?” would translate to “Wat is jouw naam?” in Dutch. The Beatles’ single I Want to Hold Your Hand was released in German as Komm, gib mir deine Hand, which any English speaker capable of sound reasoning should be able to figure out literally means, “Come, give me your hand.” We share other basic terms such as water (German Wasser, Dutch water), hound (German Hund, Dutch hond), house (German Haus, Dutch huis) and numerous simple verbs like to find (German finden, Dutch vinden).
Another noteworthy point (which is of particular interest to me, considering that I’m an actor) is the sound of Elizabethan English – specifically, the way Shakespeare’s plays would have sounded when they were first performed. We don’t have voice recordings from four hundred years ago, obviously, but we know, from studying various forms of linguistic evidence, a few things about what’s called “Original Pronunciation.” The coolest part about it is that it probably sounded more like American English than like modern-day English accents.
A friend asked me recently, “When did Americans lose their British accents?” I responded by saying that the more accurate question would be, “When did Brits lose their American accents?” When the early Puritan settlers arrived in the New World during the Elizabethan-Jacobean period, they brought with them their dialects of English. While mainland English accents evolved over time, the English spoken in the Americas remained relatively unchanged. American English can, therefore, be considered “snapshots” of 16th and 17th century English and, by extension, a superior guide to pronouncing Shakespeare. If you’re an American actor practising Shakespeare, my informed linguistic recommendation is to eschew affecting a contemporary English accent; your natural American accent is likely better suited for the Bard’s work.
What’s most remarkable to me, however, is the notion of a common language that united the Proto-Indo-European settlers thousands and thousands of years ago. As these groups began to disperse and became separated from each other, the aforementioned sub-families such as Germanic and Slavic and Celtic started to develop. Indeed, to a linguist like me, English and Welsh and French and German and Russian and Albanian and Greek and Sanskrit are not separate languages, but rather distant dialects of the same parent tongue.
Does my language fixation affect the way I interact with the world? Well, I strive toward impeccable grammar and usage in both speech and writing, I can effortlessly and almost instantaneously dissect a sentence and indicate which words descend from Old English and which ones do not, I’ve studied sound shifts and word origins and can, as a result, recognise cognates and other relationships where most people cannot.
So, to answer my question, I would say that, yes, it absolutely does. My brain doesn’t take any breaks when it comes to language. I will analyze just about anything thrown at me. I’ll notice grammatical errors, of course, but also your word choices and the way you pronounce your words and everything else. I can’t control it, and, to be frank, I’m all right with that.
Before ending this post completely, there is something else I wanted to include here. It’s the idea of “interchangeable Latin roots.” Remember the receive-deceive-perceive-conceive pattern that I discussed earlier? It’s the same deal, but greatly expanded. I wanted to design an Excel-styled chart that illustrates relationships between a bunch of Latin-derived words in English.
On the y-axis, I’ve included Latin-derived verb bases. On the x-axis, I’ve listed some of the most common Latin prefixes, which can be attached to the verbs to slightly alter their meanings and yield different common English words.
Before you view the chart, here is your handy-dandy reference guide:
ject – “throw”
spect – “look”
tain – “hold”
mit – “send”
fer – “bear”
port – “bring, carry”
duce – “lead”
sist – “stand firm”
fuse – “pour”
scribe – “write”
tract – “draw”
pend– “hang, weigh”
form – “shape, form”
in- “in, into”
ex– “out (of), from”
re– “back, again, against”
de– “down (from), away”
com– “with, together”
sub– “under, below, beneath”
pro– “forth, forward”
ad– “toward, at”
ob– “to, toward”; sometimes used as intensifier
trans– “across, beyond”
dis– “apart, away”
ab– “off, away from”
per– “through, thoroughly, utterly”
Any word with the abbreviation obs. (obsolete) attached to it means that it has fallen out of common usage. While these words are almost never encountered in speech and writing, I feel that they still must be included, as they demonstrate the kind of word construction I’m spotlighting.
One last thing to keep in mind before you examine the graphic is that, for each combination, I tried to find a verb. If a combination didn’t correspond to any English verb, then I used another part of speech such as noun or adjective if one was available. One such example is the combination of com- and ject, for which I included the noun conjecture, as the verb conject does not exist in English.
*Demit has two separate etymologies: one with the de- root and one with the dis- root.
**Note the stress on the first syllable of suffer, offer and differ. These words were in English longer than others and had more time for their stress patterns to shift.
***While fuse is the base commonly seen in English verbs, the “correct” form would be found, a root preserved in confound. “Fuse” actually comes from fusus, which is the past participle of fundere, the infinitive of the verb meaning “to pour.”
****While the verb conscribe, meaning “enlist,” is the correct form here, conscript is more common.
*****”You forgot perform!” Well, as it turns out, the form in this word is actually a corrupted version of the unrelated Old French verb fornir (to furnish), so it doesn’t count. I was just as surprised as you are.
I hope that this chart was able to help you see relationships in English vocabulary that you may not have noticed before. If you refer to the guide I created above it, then you can use it to break down each word and discover its literal meaning. Let’s take transport, for instance. Trans- (across) + port (bring) = bring across.
Or, how about subject? When somebody is “subjected” to punishment, the person is being “thrown under” punishment.
Or, when an electronic device emits a signal, it’s “sending out” a signal.
Or, finally, when you are attracted to someone, you are (usually quite literally) “drawn toward” that person.
All right, I’m done. Still working on finding a suitable length for my posts. This one is considerably shorter than the previous, but it probably still exceeds most readers’ attention spans. As always, if you bothered to read the whole thing, thank you. I’m always welcoming feedback and other thoughts, so feel free to comment!