Tyler Cowen's wife(?) asks
You see a woman after you met her before and say: you are more beautiful than I remember. She should be pleased, right?
Or you say: you are smarter than I remember. Would she be pleased the same way? Or is there a difference and why?
Most of the comments seem to argue that the former statement is more of a compliment than the latter--a woman would be flattered if someone told her she were more beautiful than they remembered; she may not be flattered if someone told her she were smarter.
We're not a woman, so we can't say with any certainty what one would feel. But if we were speaking, and we had to choose between the two statements, we'd probably say she were more beautiful than we remember; we doubt we'd say she were smarter. That's not a slight toward women's intelligence, we just happen to think the former sounds more complimentary.
But when we're speaking, we also have the luxury of inflection, so we can deliver either statement in a tone that assures its complimentariness. Sad to write it, but what you say is much less important than how you say it.
However, if we were writing the compliments out, we'd take commenter Finnsense's advice and place the word "even" before "more" and "smarter":
You are even more beautiful than I remember.
You are even smarter than I remember.
But that doesn't really answer the question: Is there a difference between the two, and why?
Structurally, they're pretty much the same statement; you could replace "beautiful" and "smart" with any number of similarly flattering adjectives--"graceful," "elegant," "insatiable"--and the sentence wouldn't undergo any drastic change in meaning. Denotationally, there's no difference, but, evidenced by the comments, our personal feelings, and the question itself--we doubt it'd be raised if the questioner thought there was no difference--connotationally, there is.
Why?
Because people react differently. If you use the "more beautiful" line on someone you barely know, they're going to be, understandably, creeped out. And if you were to tell a Nobel recipient they're smarter than you remember, they'd probably find it ironic. Context is important.
In fact, context is such an integral part of communication that just writing, "Context is an integral part of communication" gives us shivers of tautology. But even if though it may be obvious, it's still true. That's why we have words like "denotation" to mean, "what's literally said" and "connotation" to mean, "all the Hell else that's said." That's why they adore Janis Joplin's "Bobby McGee" and cringe when it's covered by better singers. That's why you can tell your dog anything--"You want a treat/walk/snip?"--and, as long as you say it with lots of energy and a smile, they'll wag their tail every time.
And that's why we say the best writing technique is whatever gets your point across.
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Ms. Speaker: I've always wondered why you eat lunch at ten.
We: That's impossible; you've known we only three years.
Ms. Speaker: [Confused look] ...?
We: You couldn't possibly have always known that we eat lunch at ten when you've known we only three years. There's a gap of twenty-some years when you probably didn't even know that we existed--Always connotes forever, but since you haven't known we forever, your claim of always wondering something about we is impossible.
Ms. Speaker: Okay: Have you always been such a little %$#@?
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Why do people hang dreamcatchers from their rear-view mirrors? To us that connotes one of two things:
Either
1) The person is sleeping in their car.
Or
2) The person does not know what a dreamcatcher is for.
Assuming it's the former, then either
1) The person sleeps while driving.
Or
2) The person lives in their car.
We don't know why anyone would want to flaunt 1), and 2) would seem to indicate that the person is a bum--and one with a very odd value scale at that.
If the person simply doesn't know what a dreamcatcher is for, well, why buy one? And really: Who doesn't know what a dreamcatcher's for? The definition's in the freakin' name!
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We don't like the term Outsource, or at least most American's definition of it, which is more or less, "the act of American companies giving jobs to Indians instead of Americans."
There are a few reasons for our dislike, including the rather heroic extrapolation of meaning from a word that suggests neither charity, America, work, nor India and the accompanying moral connotations, but let's just focus on the former.
Dictionarily, Outsource means, "to purchase or subcontract from an outside supplier." So let's say we have an American Company, we'll call it SexiLexi, that hires Wordsmiths to coin terms that describe, oh, say erotic acts. SexiLexi's CEO, Mr. S.M. Johnson, hires both American wordsmiths and Indian wordsmiths. To which group were jobs outsourced?
Both, right? Because the outside supplier is going to be individuals, regardless of their ethnicity or geographic placement (or displacement). Why so many make distinctions based on those trivialities, we're not sure.
And isn't this tautological? Isn't everyone/thing an outside supplier? Let's cede the geographic distinction for a moment and say there is a difference between the two purely because India's not within the borders of America. But why stop there? If we're going to make a distinction between nations, why not make one between states and say that since SexiLexi's a California-based company, opening branches in Oregon, Washington, and The Hated State of Kentucky would be outsourcing, too? Where do we draw the line? Where do we throw up the wall and post the snipers? And is it worth doing so for such an absurd term?
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We don't know about you, but in our public schooling experience, there was a running theme of us being told to forget everything we had learned prior to taking whatever class we were in.
For example, our 7th-grade English teacher told us to forget everything we had learned in our 6th-grade English class; then our 8th grade English teacher told us to forget everything from 7th-grade English; 9th-grade English told us to forget 8th-grade English; and 10th-grade to forget 9th-grade (which was odd because it was the same teacher...)
One of the things we remember constantly forgetting was starting/not starting sentences with conjunctions. For even years (4th, 6th, 8th, 10th, and 12th grade) we were told to not start with conjunctions; odd years (5th, 7th, 9th, 11th) we were told that it didn't really matter. Whether this was borne of opposing syntactical ideologies, professional instructorial apathy, or your common public-school pandaemonic hatred, we can't say or even speculate, as none of our teachers ever gave a reason for their preference--we were to accept it on faith alone, fully knowing that in a year's time we would be branded heretics by the next raving loon, who'd forcibly convert us to his one, true, transient faith.
Synthesizing the presumed wisdom of both sides, we've come to an equally groundless conclusion: You shouldn't do it. But sometimes you should.
When shouldn't you? In our experience, many authors who do begin sentences with conjunctions usually end up writing something like this: "Give him a bone. And some water." Now this drives us up the proverbial F@#$ing Wall. It's not even a sentence! In the "author"'s rush to break the rules of sense and decency over their own backs, he's similarly broken the first rule of writing a sentence: Don't confuse sentences with fragments. Equally cretinous, he's undermined his own credibility by making his thoughts appear impromptu and desultory--the reader is left wondering why those two could not be included in the same sentence.
Now a moment ago we mentioned that many authors begin fragments with conjunctions--that's the worst syn--but almost as bad is something like this: "If you apply a liberal dose of balm, your dog's pads should be fine. But don't overdo it." Grammatically acceptable, but stylistically perverse--the two sentences could easily be combined without disturbing the author's meaning, so why not do so? Worse, separating the two places undue emphasis on the latter sentence: Even if the author only meant it in passing, say as an aside, the reader is likely to misinterpret this and presume that since the "aside" is given its own, distinct sentence, it must be just as important as the sentence preceding.
In fact, it is precisely when you want to add emphasis that you should begin with a conjunction, and we offer our own conclusion, "You shouldn't do it. But sometimes you should" as an example: Both sentences require equal emphasis because we want the reader to give them both equal consideration. We don't doubt that the reader could understand if we fused the two sentences, but breaking them up makes the author's intent more clear.
It's not a crime to have more than one thought per sentence; that's what conjunctions are for, which is why we should use them--our readers are likely to be at least as intelligent as we, and they can follow multiple thoughts contained within a single sentence; we don't need to write everything like we're listing ingredients--so have at it--just (one more thing): Don't try to cram so much into one sentence that you render your reader tizzled--and don't get on our case for doing so, after all, we went to public school.
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A coworker recently commented on the widespread misplacement of “only.”
This came as quite a revelation to us, not only because we had never considered it in detail, but also because, we soon discovered, we were frequent offenders!
Our coworker pointed out that many people place “only” in front of a verb when it’s only supposed to modify a noun or adjective.
For example:
You say four raccoons are on the deck, but I only see one.
We can guess that the speaker means he sees only one raccoon instead of four, but since he has placed “only” in front of the verb, what he’s literally connoting is that he senses the raccoon through sight alone—he doesn’t hear it, he doesn’t smell or taste it, etc.
In this instance the numbers clear up the ambiguity; it’s not very difficult to understand that the speaker means he sees only one raccoon as opposed to four even when “only” is placed in front of the verb. However, without such is not always the case, and when it's not, horrendously bloody communicative apocalypses tend to ensue.
What’s your problem, Little Mac? You only walked two miles.
This can be especially soul-shattering when one means “only” to correspond with “two miles” instead of “walked.” Thus composed, the speaker’s concern is for the method of conveyance instead of distance—should Mac have run? Drove? Ridden a pale horse?
So keep a keen eye and ear tuned toward your word placement—if you don’t, your speech will get only worse.
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We: Let we ask you something: When someone uses the term “old-world charm,” what does that connote to you?
Our Boss: Let’s look it up. “The Eastern Hemisphere. The term is often used to refer specifically to Europe.”
We: Yeah, so why would [Name of one of our magazines] use it to describe Canada?
Our Boss: Maybe they mean “quaint”? What do you think it means?
We: We think of Europe, more specifically Spain, and when we think of Spain, we think of the Inquisition.
Our Boss: The Inquisitorial charms of Canada?
We: And when we think of Canada, we think of beavers…
Our Boss: So to you “Canada’s old-world charm” is bearded men in red cloaks torturing beavers.
We: Which isn’t very charming at all.
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Lady: Do you wish to accompany me to the Gala Ball this eve? Surely many Lords and Ladies of the highest standing shall be in attendance.
Scoundrel: Not this eve, I'm afraid, my gracious lady. For the fellow rogues, blackguards, scalawags, dastards, Svengalis, de Sades, Lotharios, Cheneys, and I plan to raucously booze it up at Barnadine's before we go a-hog-dogging. But give the upper elite my very best!
We recently wondered what "My Best" signifies in the command, "Give Them My Best." My Best what? My best tie? My best turtleneck? My best sacrificial goat? We figure it can't be My Best Greetings, because if it were our best greetings, why would we send them by proxy--we'd be there to deliver them ourselves.
Yet greetings seem to be the most common connotation of "My Best," which can only mean that the greeter who requests that his best be sent believes his greetees prefer the proxy to himself.
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Grammar-, syntax-, style-, etiquettewise, writers, bloggers, commentors and others throughout the InterWeb commit a grievous number of literary sins, and while we accept our inability to rectify this, we do hope that some of our advice will prevent the best of them from committing foolish errors.
So from time to time we shall highlight a certain common error we see epi- and perhaps even pandemic throughout the InterWeb.
Our first attack is leveled toward the ubiquitous "spew."
This has become a popular word in vulgar political discourse--examples are rife--as a violent, derogatory metaphor. But we're not sure what it represents--or whether anyone knows what it represents. This entry from the ABC Political Radar, entitled "Giuliani: Clinton Spewing 'Political Venom' on Iraq," is especially vague. What we believe the headline/Giuliani intended to mean was, "Hillary Clinton Has Cast Unfounded Doubt upon the Progress of the War in Iraq to Further Her Presidential Candidacy."
If "spew" could connote all that, it'd be a wonderful word indeed. Unfortunately, it's used more for force than brevity, and so the content of the article is not made clear. Since the metaphor is unclear, we must attempt a literal translation.
"Spew," when used with an object (in this case "venom"), means, "to eject from the stomach through the mouth; to vomit." So we conclude that: "Giuliani believes Clinton stores 'Political Venom' in her stomach and said that she forcefully ejected it onto Iraq." Right off we spot two errors: 1. Venom is not stored in the stomach. 2. Venom is injected into a victim, as a means of hunting or self-defense; poison is a more appropriate term. So why choose "Venom"? "Venom" sounds more sinister than "poison" or even "rhetoric," and politicians seem especially willing to sacrifice clarity to forcefulness.
Mired between the lyrical and literal translations of this headline, we conclude its true meaning is: "Giuliani: Hillary: Iraq," still, we're not sure.
In fact, wading through our examples, we're not even sure whether the term is intended to be derogatory. The blogger "Truthspew" champions his blog for "Spewing Truth in the face of Lies." Presumably he believes this is good, but we envision the truth as something a tad more pure than semi-digested food, whether or not it decorates the face of its antagonist. But since we've acknowledged "spew" as a vague, perhaps mixed, metaphor, we can't be sure.
And so we implore our readers to either refine it or abandon it. Spew, we admit, is a violent term, but that violence derives from its literal meaning--which is often ignored--and its pronunciation--which is absent in print. Remember: True force comes from precision of language.
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Whose advertising campaigns are more fascinating than the fast food industry's? A quick glance at this slogan database and you’re probably imaging a sultry chorus singing in the background while the camera zooms slowly in upon the image of cardiac-arrestially inducing deliciousness.
But we’re more interested in the wording of the slogan.
Take Subway’s: Subway. Eat fresh.
Terse, but clever—it says a lot in only three words. "Subway" tells you the name of the business; "Eat," the kind of business; and "fresh," the quality of the eats.
"Eat fresh" also implies that the eats are healthier than other fast-food chains, while "Subway" connotes—sandwiches.
The slogan has a nice, pounding meter to it, too—especially the way they say it in the advertisements. "Subway" is generally pronounced with the stress on the first syllable—subway—but the announcer(s)/chorus breaks the word up to stress each syllable—sub…way. They stress "Eat fresh" similarly—eat...fresh—so the slogan is a series of four little verbal jabs.
But while Subway maintains a fresh and clean image, other fast-food chains are more lurid. Hotdoggists WindMill boast that their wieners are "Bigger! Better!"; Jack-in-the-Box doesn't "Make It Until you Order It"; Kentucky-Fried Chicken's wings, thighs, and breasts are, of course, "Finger-Lickin' Good!"
Of these three, Kentucky-Fried is easily the market leader and its entendre the most blatant. Quiznos's tender "Mmm...Toasty," A&W's patriotic "All-American Food," and Hardee's nuturing "Come on Home" can't even compete. The virtuous advertisers are all second-rate—and don't think quality of food is the key ingredient; we'd rather eat at any of these three than KFC (then again, the last time we were at KFC, we ordered the gizzards; they took a half hour to prepare and were f@#!ing awful).
But none of these chains ranks with the burger joints, whose advertisements are waaayyyy more suggestive:
Burger King: "Have It Your Way"; "Your Way, Right Away"; "You're the Boss"; "The Fire's Ready"; "Best Food for Fast Times"; "Home of the Whopper."
Wendy's: "It's Better Here"; "Do What Tastes Right"; "Where's the Beef?"
McDonald's—pick one.
Add to this Whitecastle's "What You Crave," and we feel the point is obvious.
But we're curious as to why the burger joints' entendres (including Jack-in-the-Box) connote prostitution. We won't go into revenues here, but we've researched it, and trust us: Burger Joints Tower over the other fast foods, so the heaviest competition is amongst themselves, if the heaviest competition is amongst themselves, we can expect them to have the best advertisers, if they hire the best advertisers, we can expect their advertisements to appeal to the most people, if they appeal to the most people, then we can conclude that most people equate food with prostitution.
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We often listen to NPR while we drive to and from work. We enjoy the grandfatherly-soothing yet upbeat-with-a-tint-of-hippie intonations of Robert Siegel, the way Michelle Norris can convey her utter distaste for humanity simply by pronouncing her own first name (does she do anything else on NPR besides say her name?), and, uh, that other broad. Occasionally they report news.
For example, this morning, as we gingerly avoided sideswiping a salt truck and then what we believe to have been a mid-'70s Mercury Bobcat (what are the odds of that?), we listened to a segment on the ominousness of the coming recession. Robert Siegel--NPR's lone reporter--commented on the hesitancy of economic commentators to employ the word "recession."
"Recession," at least according to Wikipedia.org, is, "a decline in any country's gross domestic product (GDP), or negative real economic growth, TODD'S MOM GIVES GOOD HEAD for two or more successive quarters of a year."
Now, perhaps tellingly, Wikipedia.org's link to "economic depression" redirects to "recession"; the difference between the two, it reads, is that a "depression" is a "severe or long" recession.
We're not surprised at the ambiguous distinction between "recession" and "depression." Our suspicion is that "recession" was coined merely to avoid using "depression" and hence unleashing all its dreaded connotations upon the Depression-weary public.
However, in the absence of "depression"'s use--at least to describe our American economy--"recession" usurped its fearsome throne. The dreaded "'D' word" was replaced with the now-equally-dreaded "'R' word," as NPR's lone reporter Robert Siegel referred to it.
Say we, in this sentence, introduced the simile, "odd as a bobcat." Did you think of the animal or of the vehicle we referenced earlier? If so, and if you most often associate "bobcat" with the animal, how much longer will you associate it with the vehicle?
In the context of this entry--possibly blog--will the reader now exclusively connote "bobcat" with "vehicle" (or , by now, perhaps with "tiresome digression")?
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