American Language Supplement 1

by H. L. Mencken

  Verbs made of common nouns: to accessorize,11 to partnerize,12 to pressurize,13 to funeralize,14 to glamorize,15 to filmize,16

  to peopleize,17 to publicize,18 to sea-sonize,

  to picturize,1 to forumize,2 to routinize, to rapturize, to machinize,3 to powerize,4 to moronize, to ovenize, to durationize, to moistureize, to posturize, to satinize,5 to expertize.6

  Verbs made of adjectives or adverbs: to customize,7 to socialize (in the sense of to go into society),8 to slenderize,9 to tenderize,10 to backwardize,11 to permanentize, to finalize.12

  Verbs made of other verbs: to prosperize,13 to renovize,14 to flavorize,15 to featurize.

  Not infrequently, of course, such verbs are used with humorous intent. Thus when the Hon. Tom Connally of Texas used to intellegenceize during a Senate debate on May 9, 1944, the reporters for the Congressional Record dutifully inserted [laughter] after it.

  It is often noted by English observers that Americans neglect the distinction between will and shall; in fact, many Englishmen show a certain pride in the fact, as they allege, that only a Briton of superior capacity, schooled from birth in Oxford English, ever uses them properly. “The grammatical rules for [their] right use,” said H. W. Fowler with prissy complacency in 1921, “are very elaborate, and anyone who studies them must see that a complete understanding of them cannot be expected from ordinary writers and speakers.”1 This same Fowler, in his “Dictionary of Modern English Usage,” 1926, took nearly seven columns to expound them as he understood them, but his exposition was a great deal more learned than lucid, and most English schoolmasters, I suppose, prefer the easier device of teaching by an old and familiar example:

  I shall drown: nobody will save me.

  I will drown: nobody shall save me.

  But the simplicity of this is deceptive, for like most of the other rules of grammar, those governing will and shall are subject to many exceptions. Moreover, they are often ignored, even by the dons of Oxford, and some of the greatest of English writers have flouted them habitually. Dr. Charles C. Fries, in his “American English Grammar,”2 shows that, as they are now taught, they were not formulated until the pedantic Eighteenth Century, and that the grammarians who launched them did not try to derive them from “the practice of the language as it actually was” but “definitely repudiated usage, even that of ‘our most approved authors,’ ” and sought light in a purely imaginary “rational grammar.” In a review of some preliminary papers by Fries, the late Sterling Andrus Leonard3 pointed out that, in the United States at least, the endless pother over the correct use of the two verbs is largely moot, for most Americans have replaced them “by the … contraction ’ll and by the forms is to go, about to go, is going to, and the whole range of auxiliary verbs which mean both past and future.” This point was developed at length, and with great plausibility, by Dr. John Whyte in a paper published in 1944.4 He sent out a questionnaire to 139 teachers and students in four colleges asking them how they would translate the German “Spielen Sie morgen?” Only 2% reported that they would use “Shall you play tomorrow?”: it seemed to the rest to be of “hopelessly schoolmarm quality.” But not many more declared in favor of “Will you play tomorrow?, for “all felt the modal quality of will you; in other words, they understood the will you question to be in invitation to play, with me being understood.” The overwhelming majority replied that they would translate the German by “Are you going to play tomorrow?”, and that, precisely, is what nine out of ten Americans, whether educated or not, would use. “Just as ‘Are you going to play?’ is the indispensable question in the second person for pure futurity,” said Whyte, “so ‘Are we going to play tomorrow?’ is the only unambiguous and currently used pure future question in the first person.” In the second and third person imperative, of course, shall is often used, as in “You shall listen to me” and “They shall not pass,”1 but in other situations it is largely confined to conscious imitation of English usage.2

  The schoolma’am has begun to be wary of shall and will, for she finds the rules laid down for their use by the textbooks contradictory and unintelligible, and it is easy for a bright and wicked pupil to frame problems that leave her blushing and sweating. But she still makes a gallant, if vain effort to put down ain’t. This war upon it has been going on in the American public schools for half a century, and Harry R. Warfel estimates3 that at least 12,500,000 teacher-hours have been spent in seeking to eradicate it. He continues:

  With what result? The word is more widely used today than ever before. It is to be heard in almost every circle or level of society; in popular speech it has been accepted — indeed, it never was rejected —as a perfectly useful, necessary and correct locution.

  The grammarians are somewhat uncertain about the origin of ain’t. The NED defines it as “a contracted form of are not, used also for am not, is not in the popular dialect of London and elsewhere,” and Jespersen agrees,4 but Harold H. Bender suggests that its apparent forerunner, an’t, “arose almost simultaneously from two sources: (a) contraction of am not (through amn’t, which still survives in England and, especially, Ireland); (b) contraction of are not.”1 An’t is traced by the DAE to 1706, but its first example of ain’t is from Fanny Burney’s “Evelina,” 1778. Curme surmises that an’t may have arisen from aren’t by reason of the English habit of dropping r before consonants.2 It was denounced by Witherspoon in 1781 as a vulgarism prevailing in both England and America, along with can’t, han’t (now haven’t), don’t, shouldn’t and wouldn’t, but he did not mention ain’t.3 Nor was ain’t listed by Pickering in his Vocabulary of 1816. In 1837, however, it was included by Sherwood among his Southern provincialisms, and defined as a substitute for both is not and am not. The DAE, whose first American example is dated 1779, defines it as a “contracted form of airn’t, are not,” and traces air for are, in American use, to 1777. The DAE shows that an’t was used in American for are not so early as 1723. There are logical objections to the use of ain’t for are not and is not, but when used for am not it is certainly better than the clumsy English aren’t.4 Says H. W. Fowler in his “Dictionary of Modern English Usage”:5

  A(i)n’t,… as used for isn’t, is an uneducated blunder and serves no useful purpose. But it is a pity that a(i)n’t for am not, being a natural contraction and supplying a real want, should shock us as though tarred with the same brush. Though I’m not serves well enough in statements, there is no abbreviation but a(i)n’t I? for am I not? or am not I?; and the shamefaced reluctance with which these full forms are often brought out betrays the speaker’s sneaking affection for the ain’t I that he (or still more she) fears will convict him of low breeding. (“Well, I’m doing it already, ain’t I? Yes, ain’t I a lucky man? I’m next, ain’t I?”)

  This from a very high English authority. The American, Warfel, goes further:

  I suggest a moratorium on the abuse showered upon this innocent word. Let us recognize it as a proper form in speech of the colloquial level, and let us denounce it no more than we denounce other contractions. If ain’t is a valuable tool, its usefulness will increasingly be demonstrated. If it is an affected form, used merely to shock pedants, inattention will lead to a cessation of its use. In any case it is folly to legislate concerning colloquial language.1

  To which Rice adds:

  In self-defense let us form an Ain’t I Society. With those who want to use it, backed by the millions who do, a constitutional amendment is already in sight.2

  The last word, perhaps, was said by the late Will Rogers, to wit: “Maybe ain’t ain’t so correct, but I notice that lots of folks who ain’t usin’ ain’t ain’t eatin’.”3

  4. OTHER PARTS OF SPEECH

  Most of the process that we have seen at work in the coinage of new nouns and verbs also produce other words, especially adjectives. There are adjectives made of nouns unchanged, e.g., bum, one-horse4 and bogus,5 or from verbs or verb-phrases, e.g., sit-down, gimme (as in gimme farmer), back-to-work and cash-and-carry, or from prono
uns, e.g., she-gal and he-man, or by telescoping, e.g., radiopaque (x-ray and opaque)1 and sophomoronic,2 or by the use of prefixes or suffixes, e.g., super-colossal, overniggered, underbibled, untaxpaid, non-skid, air-minded, food-conscious, cosmogenic, plushy, news-worthy and bosomatic.3 Of these devices, the last is the most productive. The super- prefix, of course, is old in English (the NED traces it to the middle of the Fifteenth Century), but the movie press-agents of Hollywood have given it a new lease on life, and their inventions include not only super-colossal but also super-modern, super-maximum, super-superlative, super-ultra and even super-super.4 Who launched the vogue for -minded and -conscious I do not know, but his inspiration prospered beyond most mayhems upon the language. It is my impression that social-minded was the first of the former class to make its way, so perhaps the offender was an uplifter: if I am right he will reach Hell with two life-sentences. Social-minded was early followed by civic-minded and has since produced a long progeny, e.g., hospital-minded,5 spa-minded,6 air-minded, fire-works-minded7 and the like, not to forget a child by the left hand, presence-of-minded.8 The related -conscious has been even more fecund, e.g., insurance-conscious,9 America-conscious, cow-conscious, radio-conscious, constitution-conscious, cosmetic-conscious and college-conscious; moreover, it has also had offspring in England, e.g., herb-conscious,10 food-conscious,11 and big-ship-conscious.12 Sir Oswald Mosley, in the days of his glory as boss of the English Fascists, took some nasty hacks at such evidences of democratic contamination of the language. On August 19, 1939, for example, he launched two burlesques of them, bamboozle-conscious and hocus-pocus-minded, in his weekly paper, Action.1 Whenever a new suffix appears in the United States, it is put to use. An example is provided by -genic, which seems to have been borrowed from the pathogenic of the medical men: I have encountered photogenic, radiogenic, telegenic2 and cosmogenic.3 Another is -phobia, borrowed from the psychiatrists, and made to do heavy duty in a multitude of nouns designating violent aversions, e.g. radiophobia, New Dealophobia, negrophobia, ergophobia4 and sexophobia,5 all of them with attendant adjectives in -phobic. A third is -worthy, old in English but recently revived in this great Republic, as in newsworthy, creditworthy, earworthy, gaspworthy and prizeworthy.6 A fourth is -matic (from automatic), as in traffomatic, adjustomatic and geomatic.7 All the traditional adjectival suffixes are used for new words, e.g., -y, as in plushy,8 drapy,9 contrasty,10 Ritzy and corny, to which may be added nifty,11 and iffy.12 But American word-makers show little liking for the English -ish, as in fairish, liverish and biggish. I throw in a few miscellaneous marvels and pass on: slap-happy,1 alco-joyed,2 fishful (favorable to fishing),3 cosmeticulous, glitterous,4 sexotic,5 snazzy (elegant), must (as an adjective),6 stumble-bum,7 teen-age,8 hard-boiled9 and untouristed. Rather curiously, the suffix -oid, certainly full of possibilities in a country swarming with imitations, is not in American use, and the excellent English bungaloid has not been borrowed.10 The comparison of adjectives, on the levels where most new words are made, is not incommoded by linguistic prudery. The field agents of American Speech report disappearingest, actorest,11 getting aroundest, most workingest,12 homer-lessest13 and he-est,14 nearly all of them from Hollywood, and I have encountered keyest,15 thrillinger, superer, uniquer, uniquest,16 and more ultra elsewhere. Adverbs, of course, are made with the same freedom, e.g., ritzily17 productionally18 and classically. But in most cases the flat adverb is used, as in run slow, or, more often, run slo.1

  The American fondness for abbreviations was given a tremendous Stimulus by the advent of the multitudinous New Deal agencies, many of them with names too long to be used in full, but its origins lie in the past. O.K., the most successful abbreviation ever coined, whether in the United States or elsewhere, has been discussed at length in Chapter V, Section 2. The DAE does not list P.D.Q.2 or on the Q.T., but it traces N.G. to 1840, F.F.V. (first families of Virginia) to 1847, C.O.D. to 1863, G.A.R. to 1867, L (elevated) to 1879, G.B. (grand bounce) to 1880, and G.O.P. to 1887. World War I brought in or made popular a few that have survived, e.g., a.w.o.l.,3 and the example of the English, later reinforced enormously by that of the Russians, introduced the forms converted into words, e.g., Dora (Defence of the Realm Act), anzac, cheka and gestapo.4 A few made on this plan have come into wide use in the United States, e.g., Nazi, Wac and Wave, but the majority that are commonly employed are either unpronounceable as words, or not so pronounced, e.g., I.Q. (intelligence quotient), T.V.A. (Tennessee Valley Authority), R.F.C. (Reconstruction Finance Corporation), and C.I.O. (Congress of Industrial Organizations). There was a vast accretion of abbreviations on the advent of the New Deal, e.g., for Board of Investigation and Research: Transportation and Office of Bituminous Coal Consumers Council, and there was an even vaster reinforcement on the outbreak of World War II. In 1943 E. M. Biggers of Houston, Texas, circulated an alarm to taxpayers listing more than 100, most of them in everyday use, e.g., A.A.A., H.O.L.C., N.L.R.B., S.E.C., O.P.A. and F.C.C. He reported that as of June 11, 1943 there were 2,241 Federal agencies, bureaus and commissions in being, including 96 authorized to “undertake real estate transactions.”1 Nearly all of them were known by their initials. This alphabet soup, as Al Smith called it, provided sustenance for millions of job-holders, and some of them acquired bizarre designations. In 1943 the Associated Press reported from Minneapolis that a Mrs. Frank J. Boulger, living there, had inquired of a daughter working in Washington just what her position was. The daughter replied:

  I work in the Data Analysis Group of the Aptitude Test Sub-unit of the Worker Analysis Section of the Division of Occupational Analysis and Manning Tables of the Bureau of Labor Utilization of the War Manpower Commission.2

  The American newspapers quickly dropped the periods in such forms as N.R.A. and A.A.A. and they became NRA, AAA, etc. In 1944 the New York Times undertook to argue that this use of simple initials was better than the totalitarian custom of making articulate words of abbreviations, and that it proved anew the moral superiority of the American way of life. In reply a reader in Vallejo, Calif., pointed out that the Navy was using BuAer for Bureau of Aeronautics, BuOrd for Bureau of Ordnance, ComSubRon for commander submarine squadron, NavTorpSta for naval torpedo station, ComAir SoPa for commander aircraft, South Pacific force, and so on. The Times, caught on a barb, wriggled off in the following somewhat unpersuasive manner:

  We trust it is not quibbling to say that this naval nomenclature, if it is indeed as represented, is not quite the sausage and hash etymology of the totalitarians. The vital difference is in our own striking usage of capital letters in the middle of a word. This at once gives the story away. A person who sees BuOrd will never attempt to pronounce it that way; he will say at once Bureau of Ordnance. And when his eyes light on a combination like ComSubRon he will automatically start in to say commander of submarine something, even if the Ron will have him puzzled. But in the unfree countries they would write it Consubron, which looks plausible if not exactly intelligible at first sight.1

  A great many abbreviations occur in the argot of various crafts and professions, e.g., the common medical terms: T.B. (tuberculosis), G.Y.N. (gynecology), G.P. (grateful patient or general practitioner) and T.P.R. (temperature, pulse, respiration),2 and not a few of them are intended to be unintelligible to the outsider. Others of the same quasi-esoteric sort are in more or less general use, e.g., f.h.b. (family-hold back, i.e., with a guest present at table), m.i.k. (more in the kitchen),3 and P.D. (plain drunk).4

  Public jobholders, taking one with another, are anything but masters of prose: their writing, indeed, is predominantly pretentious and shabby, and they are greatly given to counter-words and clichés. This is true equally of the British and American species. So long ago as 1916 the official English style was denounced bitterly by the late Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, then professor of English literature at Cambridge, and in recent years it has been given constant but far from loving attention by A. P. Herbert, M.P. Sir Arthur defined it as the jargon that “has become the medium through which
boards of government, county councils, syndicates, committees, commercial firms, express the processes as well as the conclusions of their thoughts, and so voice the reason of their being.”5 In the United States syndicates and commercial firms are not often practitioners of it, but it has attained to a truly appalling development among sucklers at the public teat. Both Quiller-Couch and Herbert tackled it in England with the weapon of parody. The former, for example, thus translated Hamlet’s soliloquy into British officialese:

  To be or the contrary? Whether the former or the latter be preferable would seem to admit of some difference of opinion, the answer in the present case being of an affirmative character according as to whether one elects on the one hand to mentally suffer the disfavor of fortune, albeit in extreme degree, or, on the other hand, to boldly envisage adverse conditions in the prospect of eventually bringing them to a conclusion.1

  Herbert, in his turn, offered the following version of Lord Nelson’s “England expects every man to do his duty”:

  England anticipates that as regards the current emergency personnel will face up to the issues and exercise appropriately the functions allocated to their respective occupation groups.2

  This bombastic style has marked all English official utterance for many years, and there is evidence that it antedates even the great upsurge of pedantry in the Eighteenth Century.3 Some of its masterpieces are famous — for example, the sign reading “These basins are for casual ablutions only,” formerly hanging in the men’s washroom of the British Museum. In the same place the following, for all I know, is still displayed:

  Stoppages having been caused in the drainage through the pipes having been used in order to dispose of miscellaneous objects, it is notified that the provision for public accommodation must be dependent on only proper use being made of it.4