Directory of Lost Causes (By Quentin S. Crisp)

One more slap can't hurt you

Well, this blog seems to be full of hate recently, but, unfortunately, that can't be helped. It's not something I feel proud of. I suppose I'm just not inclined to hide it. Not when I write, anyway. Sometimes I think I'm the kind of person who could end up taking a shotgun into a shopping centre out of sheer frustration. It's probably better all round if I only give it both barrels figuratively here on the blog, though. Speaking of which, my first target tonight is people who misuse the word 'literally'.

Let's look at the dictionary definition of literally, shall we:

...taking words in their usual or primary sense and applying the ordinary rules of grammar, without mysticism or allegory or metaphor...

Well, as usual, the dictionary definition is less than definitive, but we'll have to work with it, focusing particularly on "without mysticism or allegory or metaphor".

The other night, I saw a trailer for some history programme or other recounting the voyage of Columbus. The narrator, speaking of sailors suffering from extreme thirst and malnutrition, told us that their lives were "literally hanging by a thread".

Okay, first of all, no they weren't. What you meant to say was "figuratively hanging by a thread". Secondly, I don't think it's even possible for a person's life to hang by a thread in a literal manner. How would you attach the thread to the person's 'life'? Because that's what you would have to do if the phrase were to be literal. You could say the people themselves were hanging by threads, if that were physically true, although they would probably have to be very strong threads.

This abuse of the word 'literally' makes me angry for a number of reasons. First of all, I'm an unashamed pedant - or, anyway, only half-ashamed - and I think it's actually a good thing to care about language and the preservation of its proper use so that, like a delicate tool, it remains sharp, not blunted in the hands of the clumsy. I am not a snob. I did not have a great education. In fact, I rather resented the fact that by the time I was at school, it was deemed patronising to teach children how to speak English. I was taught virtually no grammar at all, and had to educate myself in this area afterwards. I am still in the middle of educating myself, so I know that we all make mistakes. I don't think that a person should be shot merely because he or she says "there's some plates in the kitchen" instead of "there are some plates in the kitchen". As I say, everyone makes mistakes. However, some mistakes are harder to endure than others. The abuse of 'literally' is a case in point. Why? Well, this brings me to my other reasons. In the case of 'literally', the word serves a purpose that is served by NO OTHER word in the English language. In other words, if this popular misuse of the word is eventually accepted as correct usage, because of the sheer number of people habitually committing the error, we no longer have any word to say what 'literally' is meant to say.

Let me give an example. When people misuse the word 'literally', they are generally trying to say that something is 'really' the case in an emphatic way. In other words, they are trying to say that they are not exaggerating. This habit has obviously come about because people are so prone to exaggeration in the first place. (Exaggeration, by the way, has ruined many good words in English. 'Awful' once meant what is says, full of, or inspiring awe. Now, something that is 'awful' is more likely to inspire contempt.) For instance, Brian may have found his friend Frank's jokes fairly amusing. They caused him to chuckle. He relates this to his other friend, Linda, and says, casually, that he was killing himself laughing. Linda senses that this is an exaggeration. She doesn't think he found the jokes extremeley funny, simply reasonably funny. Therefore, when she sees Frank accidentally cut off the tip of his finger with the paper guillotine, and laughs so much it hurts, she wants to convey to her friend Michelle that she is not exaggerating her mirth, and she says that she was "literally killing [herself] laughing". However, the use of the word 'killing' here is metaphorical. It is a figure of speech. For Linda to have been literally killing herself laughing, she would have to have succumbed to a heart attack on the spot, or, in her hysterical glee, siezed up a letter-opener and disemboweled herself with it.

Sorry for those of you who know this already. I am writing this in the (no doubt) vain hope that the narrator of that history programme has decided to browse the Opera blogs. And that brings me to the final reason this makes me angry. It's bad enough when people do this in daily life, but we can forgive them because, as I said, everyone makes mistakes. However, there are some people who should be setting an example in the language they use. These people are especially those in education and the media. Put the two together and you have, well, the narrator of a history programme. That such a person still does not know how to use the word 'literally' makes me want to approach him with the aforementioned shotgun and make him read this blog entry at gunpoint. "It says in my blog that you are an idiot," I will say, "That is assassination, but only metaphorically - assassination of your character. This, however, is literal assassination." And perhaps he would understand, finally, the difference between the two as I literally put the end of the barrel in his mouth, literally pulled the trigger and literally blew his head off.

My second target this evening is the Post Office - the Royal Mail. Now, the Post Office resembles the rail 'service' for me in that I theoretically support them both. I like the idea of public transport; I like the idea of writing and receiving letters. However, the reality of both is so utterly shoddy that I wish all those involved in Hell. Since it's late and I'm tired, I'm afraid my invective will have to be brief. Let me express my loathing for the Post Office, then, in the form of a question. If you were in a restaurant, and the meal was taking a long time coming, and you asked the waiter whether it was going to come at all, would you find it reasonable if he replied, "Well, it might do, or it might not. We couldn't really say. You'd have to pay for a registered meal, or a special order meal if you wanted to guarantee that sort of thing."?

I suspect the answer is 'no'. And yet, that is precisely the absurdity with which the drunken bandits at the Post Office get away every single day of the year.

In a recent post, I said that I would soon have some news about my writing. The news is that I recently signed a contract with a publisher. It's too early for me to give any details yet, and I know enough about publishing not to 'count my chickens' at any point. However, I am sure I will be able to give further details in the fullness of time. Anyway, I sent the contract I had signed to the publisher some weeks ago. It has yet to arrive. Since it seemed to have gone astray, and since I knew from bitter, anguished experience that the Post Office are jeeringly unhelpful if anything ever goes astray (IE, if one of their lackeys dumps your letter and five hundred others in a ditch somewhere while he's throwing up after a heavy night), I sent another copy of the contract, this time by recorded delivery. I sent it first class. A week later it still has not arrived. I know this because I phoned their number to 'track my item'. I told the man that my first letter had not arrived at all - no apology, nothing but the usual offensive cheerfulness, which seems designed to say, "It's not my fault. Don't blame me. There's nothing you can do, anyway." I then reiterated the fact that it had been a week since I had sent the second letter FIRST CLASS AND BY RECORDED DELIVERY. The letter, apparently, had not yet arrived, but was "still going through the system". This is code to make the process sound more complicated than it is. It means, "I haven't got a clue where your letter is. What are you going to do about it, mate?" I asked if there was some problem with the mail service at the moment. Apparently - I pause to give full effect to the heavy irony of what I am about to write - there was none. He asked me for the address. I gave it to him. Apparently there was no problem with mail going to that address, either. Well, I'm glad to know that. Nothing I send there is actually arriving, but I'm reassured to know that this is not a problem.

Well, what more can I say? I asked how long I'd have to wait before I could make some kind of claim. Fifteen working days, he told me cheerfully. But I don't want to make a claim. I just want my mail to arrive where it's supposed to. Either that, or I want to put my shotgun barrel in your mouth and teach you a lesson about 'service'. "Will I blow your head off, or won't I? I don't know. The impulse to pull the trigger is still going through my nervous system. If you want a guarantee one way or another, you'll have to pay me for it, although, it has to be said, it won't actually guarantee anything at all. But you will be able to get your money back... After I've scattered your grey matter to the four winds."

I do this far too often for people to think of me as anything other than obsessive, I'm sure, but recently I've been rather wondering about my relations with other human beings, and this rather struck a chord with me. I don't think I can say any more on the subject right now.