-
Telephone history series
Mobile telephone history
Telephone manual
Digital wireless basics
-
Cellular telephone basics
Jade Clayton's pages
Dave Mock's pages
-
Seattle Telephone Museum
Telecom clip art collection
-
Britney Spears & telephones
Bits and bytes
Packets and switching
-
-
-
TelecomWriting.com
Home
E-mail me!
-
-
|
George Orwell: Politics and the
English Language: Page Four
Pages (1)
(2) (3)
(4)
(5)
A rarity. Clear, direct political
writing. Solzhenitsyn's Archipelago Gulag .
In our time it is broadly true that political
writing is bad writing. Where it is not true, it will generally
be found that the writer is some kind of rebel, expressing his
private opinions and not a "party line." Orthodoxy,
of whatever color, seems to demand a lifeless, imitative style.
The political dialects to be found in pamphlets, leading articles,
manifestoes, White papers and the speeches of undersecretaries
do, of course, vary from party to party, but they are all alike
in that one almost never finds in them a fresh, vivid, homemade
turn of speech. When one watches some tired hack on the platform
mechanically repeating the familiar phrases -- bestial, atrocities,
iron heel, bloodstained tyranny, free peoples of the world, stand
shoulder to shoulder -- one often has a curious feeling that
one is not watching a live human being but some kind of dummy:
a feeling which suddenly becomes stronger at moments when the
light catches the speaker's spectacles and turns them into blank
discs which seem to have no eyes behind them. And this is not
altogether fanciful. A speaker who uses that kind of phraseology
has gone some distance toward turning himself into a machine.
The appropriate noises are coming out of his larynx, but his
brain is not involved as it would be if he were choosing his
words for himself. If the speech he is making is one that he
is accustomed to make over and over again, he may be almost unconscious
of what he is saying, as one is when one utters the responses
in church. And this reduced state of consciousness, if not indispensable,
is at any rate favorable to political conformity.
In our time, political speech and writing
are largely the defense of the indefensible. Things like the
continuance of British rule in India, the Russian purges and
deportations, the dropping of the atom bombs on Japan, can indeed
be defended, but only by arguments which are too brutal for most
people to face, and which do not square with the professed aims
of the political parties. Thus political language has to consist
largely of euphemism., question-begging and sheer cloudy vagueness.
Defenseless villages are bombarded from the air, the inhabitants
driven out into the countryside, the cattle machine-gunned, the
huts set on fire with incendiary bullets: this is called pacification.
Millions of peasants are robbed of their farms and sent trudging
along the roads with no more than they can carry: this is called
transfer of population or rectification of frontiers.
People are imprisoned for years without trial, or shot in the
back of the neck or sent to die of scurvy in Arctic lumber camps:
this is called elimination of unreliable elements. Such
phraseology is needed if one wants to name things without calling
up mental pictures of them. Consider for instance some comfortable
English professor defending Russian totalitarianism. He cannot
say outright, "I believe in killing off your opponents when
you can get good results by doing so." Probably, therefore,
he will say something like this:
While freely conceding that the Soviet regime
exhibits certain features which the humanitarian may be inclined
to deplore, we must, I think, agree that a certain curtailment
of the right to political opposition is an unavoidable concomitant
of transitional periods, and that the rigors which the Russian
people have been called upon to undergo have been amply justified
in the sphere of concrete achievement.
The inflated style itself is a kind of euphemism.
A mass of Latin words falls upon the facts like soft snow, blurring
the outline and covering up all the details. The great enemy
of clear language is insincerity. When there is a gap between
one's real and one's declared aims, one turns as it were instinctively
to long words and exhausted idioms, like a cuttlefish spurting
out ink. In our age there is no such thing as "keeping out
of politics." All issues are political issues, and politics
itself is a mass of lies, evasions, folly, hatred, and schizophrenia.
When the general atmosphere is bad, language must suffer. I should
expect to find -- this is a guess which I have not sufficient
knowledge to verify -- that the German, Russian and Italian languages
have all deteriorated in the last ten or fifteen years, as a
result of dictatorship.
But if thought corrupts language, language
can also corrupt thought. . .
Hold that text! Do you get this? It's
the point of the essay. Let's repeat it and then continue with
the paragraph as written:
But if thought corrupts language, language
can also corrupt thought. A bad usage can spread by tradition
and imitation even among people who should and do know better.
The debased language that I have been discussing is in some ways
very convenient. Phrases like a not unjustifiable assumption,
leaves much to be desired, would serve no good purpose, a consideration
which we should do well to bear in mind, are a continuous
temptation, a packet of aspirins always at one's elbow. Look
back through this essay, and for certain you will find that I
have again and again committed the very faults I am protesting
against. By this morning's post I have received a pamphlet dealing
with conditions in Germany. The author tells me that he "felt
impelled" to write it. I open it at random, and here is
almost the first sentence I see: "[The Allies] have an opportunity
not only of achieving a radical transformation of Germany's social
and political structure in such a way as to avoid a nationalistic
reaction in Germany itself, but at the same time of laying the
foundations of a co-operative and unified Europe." You see,
he "feels impelled" to write -- feels, presumably,
that he has something new to say -- and yet his words, like cavalry
horses answering the bugle, group themselves automatically into
the familiar dreary pattern. This invasion of one's mind by ready-made
phrases ( lay the foundations, achieve a radical transformation
) can only be prevented if one is constantly on guard against
them, and every such phrase anaesthetizes a portion of one's
brain.
George Orwell: Politics
and the English Language: Page Five
Pages (1)
(2) (3)
(4)
(5)
|