Leah Eskin
Like it. Or not.
Published January 4, 2004
Words are a wonderful invention. Easy to transport, available in a variety of flavors and accepted almost everywhere. But, like many conveniences, words come with rules.
Nouns, for instance, must be accompanied by a verb at all times. No unchaperoned nouns roaming the streets, simply declaring their inherent person-place-or-thinghood.
Words should make an effort to get along, agreeably. No mixing plurals and singulars. It's unseemly.
Tenses must remain in their own lanes. No switching from past to present without signaling first, preferably with an explicit transition. "Now" is widely accepted.
Languages should be utilized one at a time. Interloping foreign phrases must register, in italics.
The mild-mannered writer knows that these regulations apply. She memorized them, right along with Driving is a Privilege, Not a Right. Twelve years' worth of English instructors can testify that she has been informed of her rights and responsibilities.
She is, in fact, fond of the slim wisdom of the Elements of Style and the lavish detail of the American Heritage Dictionary. She is attentive to usage, never claiming to feel nauseous. Unless, in the words of the revered Strunk and White, she is sure she has that effect on others.
And yet, she is guilty of certain transgressions. She knows this because readers tell her. Freelance critics patrol the back of the book, on alert for infractions. Glimpsing an odd verb they chase it down the far end of some truncated sentence and corner it, alone and frightened.
These are probably the same thugs who form missing-apostrophe posses. And yet, they abuse "their," forcing it stand in for "his or her." They shove nouns, quivering, into duty as verbs. They "office" downtown.
The writer remains calm. She rolls down her window. The leader of the pack, in dark shades, slaps her with a citation: Operating an intransitive verb without its usual preposition. The homemade orange ticket is sticky with sarcasm. It relies on non-standard syntax.
The writer understands the need for order. She wouldn't want to see anyone hurt in a tense collision or be overwhelmed by the suspense of a split infinitive. Yet she defends her infractions.
Because she remembers something from 4th period English that the vigilantes seem to have forgotten. That good grammar, though a good idea, isn't the law. No state imposes a syntax sin tax. Not even on prosaic prose that may be odd, preposition-deficient or nauseous. In our jurisdiction operating a rhetorical device is not a privilege. It's a right.
