Politics
and
the
English
Language
George
Orwell
1946
Most
people
who
bother
with
the
matter
at
all
would
admit
that
the
En-
glish
language
is
in
a
bad
way,
but
it
is
generally
assumed
that
we
cannot
by
conscious
action
do
anything
about
it.
Our
civilization
is
decadent
and
our
language
—so
the
argument
runs—
must
inevitably
share
in
the
general
collapse.
It
follows
that
any
struggle
against
the
abuse
of
language
is
a
sen-
timental
archaism,
like
preferring
candles
to
electric
light
or
hansom
cabs
to
aeroplanes.
Underneath
this
lies
the
half-conscious
belief
that
language
is
a
natural
growth
and
not
an
instrument
which
we
shape
for
our
own
purposes.
Now, it is clear that the decline of a language must ultimately have political
and
economic
causes:
it
is
not
due
simply
to
the
bad
influence
of
this
or
that
individual
writer.
But
an
effect
can
become
a
cause,
reinforcing
the
original
cause
and
producing
the
same
effect
in
an
intensified
form,
and
so
on
indefinitely.
A
man
may
take
to
drink
because
he
feels
himself
to
be
a
failure,
and
then
fail
all
the
more
completely
because
he
drinks.
It
is
rather
the
same
thing
that
is
happening
to
the
English
language.
It
becomes
ugly
and
inaccurate
because
our
thoughts
are
foolish,
but
the
slovenliness
of
our
language makes it easier for us to have foolish thoughts.
The point is that the
process is reversible.
Modern English, especially written English, is full of bad
habits
which
spread
by
imitation
and
which
can
be
avoided
if
one
is
willing
to
take
the
necessary
trouble.
If
one
gets
rid
of
these
habits
one
can
think
more
clearly,
and
to
think
clearly
is
a
necessary
first
step
toward
political
regeneration:
so
that
the
fight
against
bad
English
is
not
frivolous
and
is
not
the exclusive concern of professional writers.
I will come back to this presently,
and
I
hope
that
by
that
time
the
meaning
of
what
I
have
said
here
will
have
1
become
clearer.
Meanwhile,
here
are
five
specimens
of
the
English
language
as
it
is
now
habitually
written.
These
five
passages
have
not
been
picked
out
because
they
are
especially
bad
—I
could
have
quoted
far
worse
if
I
had
chosen—
but
because
they
illus-
trate
various
of
the
mental
vices
from
which
we
now
suffer.
They
are
a
little
below
the
average,
but
are
fairly
representative
examples.
I
number
them
so
that
I
can
refer
back
to
them
when
necessary:
1.
I am not,
indeed,
sure whether it is not true to say that the Milton who
once
seemed
not
unlike
a
seventeenth-century
Shelley
had
not
become,
out of an experience ever more bitter in each year, more alien [sic] to the
founder
of
that
Jesuit
sect
which
nothing
could
induce
him
to
tolerate.
Professor
Harold
Laski
(
Essay
in
Freedom
of
Expression
)
2.
Above
all,
we
cannot
play
ducks
and
drakes
with
a
native
battery
of
idioms
which
prescribes
egregious
collocations
of
vocables
as
the
Basic
put
up
with
for
tolerate,
or
put
at
a
loss
for
bewilder.
Professor
Lancelot
Hogben
(
Interglossia
)
3.
On
the
one
side
we
have
the
free
personality:
by
definition
it
is
not
neurotic,
for
it
has
neither
conflict
nor
dream.
Its
desires,
such
as
they
are,
are
transparent,
for
they
are
just
what
institutional
approval
keeps
in the forefront of consciousness;
another institutional pattern would al-
ter
their
number
and
intensity;
there
is
little
in
them
that
is
natural,
irreducible,
or
culturally
dangerous.
But
on
the
other
side,
the
social
bond
itself
is
nothing
but
the
mutual
reflection
of
these
self-secure
in-
tegrities.
Recall
the
definition
of
love.
Is
not
this
the
very
picture
of
a
small
academic?
Where
is
there
a
place
in
this
hall
of
mirrors
for
either
personality
or
fraternity?
Essay
on
psychology
in
Politics
(New
York)
4.
All
the
“best
people”
from
the
gentlemen’s
clubs,
and
all
the
frantic
fascist captains, united in common hatred of Socialism and bestial horror
at
the
rising
tide
of
the
mass
revolutionary
movement,
have
turned
to
acts of provocation, to foul incendiarism, to medieval legends of poisoned
wells,
to
legalize
their
own
destruction
of
proletarian
organizations,
and
rouse
the
agitated
petty-bourgeoise
to
chauvinistic
fervor
on
behalf
of
2
the
fight
against
the
revolutionary
way
out
of
the
crisis.
Communist
pamphlet
5.
If
a
new
spirit
is
to
be
infused
into
this
old
country,
there
is
one
thorny
and contentious reform which must be tackled, and that is the humaniza-
tion
and
galvanization
of
the
B.B.C.
Timidity
here
will
bespeak
canker
and atrophy of the soul.
The heart of Britain may be sound and of strong
beat,
for
instance,
but
the
British
lion’s
roar
at
present
is
like
that
of
Bottom
in
Shakespeare’s
A
Midsummer
Night’s
Dream
—as
gentle
as
any
sucking
dove.
A
virile
new
Britain
cannot
continue
indefinitely
to
be traduced in the eyes or rather ears, of the world by the effete languors
of Langham Place, brazenly masquerading as “standard English.”
When
the Voice of Britain is heard at nine o’clock, better far and infinitely less
ludicrous
to
hear
aitches
honestly
dropped
than
the
present
priggish,
inflated,
inhibited,
school-ma’amish
arch
braying
of
blameless
bashful
mewing
maidens!
Letter
in
Tribune
Each of these passages has faults of its own, but, quite apart from avoidable
ugliness,
two
qualities
are
common
to
all
of
them.
The
first
is
staleness
of
imagery;
the
other
is
lack
of
precision.
The
writer
either
has
a
meaning
and
cannot
express
it,
or
he
inadvertently
says
something
else,
or
he
is
almost
indifferent
as
to
whether
his
words
mean
anything
or
not.
This
mixture
of
vagueness and sheer incompetence is the most marked characteristic of modern
English
prose,
and
especially
of
any
kind
of
political
writing.
As
soon
as
certain
topics
are
raised,
the
concrete
melts
into
the
abstract
and
no
one
seems
able
to
think
of
turns
of
speech
that
are
not
hackneyed:
prose
consists
less and less of words chosen for the sake of their meaning, and more and more
of
phrases
tacked
together
like
the
sections
of
a
prefabricated
henhouse.
I
list
below,
with
notes
and
examples,
various
of
the
tricks
by
means
of
which
the
work
of
prose
construction
is
habitually
dodged:
Dying
metaphors.
A
newly
invented
metaphor
assists
thought
by
evoking
a visual image,
while on the other hand a metaphor which is technically
“dead”
(e.g.
iron
resolution)
has
in
effect
reverted
to
being
an
ordinary
word
and
can
generally
be
used
without
loss
of
vividness.
But
in
be-
tween
these
two
classes
there
is
a
huge
dump
of
worn-out
metaphors
3
which
have
lost
all
evocative
power
and
are
merely
used
because
they
save
people
the
trouble
of
inventing
phrases
for
themselves.
Examples
are:
Ring
the
changes
on,
take
up
the
cudgel
for,
toe
the
line,
ride
roughshod
over,
stand
shoulder
to
shoulder
with,
play
into
the
hands
of,
no
axe
to
grind,
grist
to
the
mill,
fishing
in
troubled
waters,
on
the
order
of
the
day,
Achilles’
heel,
swan
song,
hotbed.
Many
of
these
are
used
without knowledge of their meaning (what is a “rift,”
for instance?), and
incompatible metaphors are frequently mixed, a sure sign that the writer
is not interested in what he is saying.
Some metaphors now current have
been twisted out of their original meaning withouth those who use them
even
being
aware
of
the
fact.
For
example,
toe
the
line
is
sometimes
written
as
tow
the
line.
Another
example
is
the
hammer
and
the
anvil
,
now
always
used
with
the
implication
that
the
anvil
gets
the
worst
of
it.
In
real
life
it
is
always
the
anvil
that
breaks
the
hammer,
never
the
other
way
about:
a
writer
who
stopped
to
think
what
he
was
saying
would
avoid
perverting
the
original
phrase.
Operators
or
verbal
false
limbs.
These save the trouble of picking out ap-
propriate verbs and nouns, and at the same time pad each sentence with
extra
syllables
which
give
it
an
appearance
of
symmetry.
Characteris-
tic
phrases
are
render
inoperative,
militate
against,
make
contact
with,
be
subjected
to,
give
rise
to,
give
grounds
for,
have
the
effect
of,
play
a
leading
part
(role)
in,
make
itself
felt,
take
effect,
exhibit
a
tendency
to,
serve
the
purpose
of,
etc.,etc
.
The
keynote
is
the
elimination
of
simple
verbs.
Instead
of
being
a
single
word,
such
as
break,
stop,
spoil,
mend,
kill
,
a
verb
becomes
a
phrase
,
made
up
of
a
noun
or
adjective
tacked
on
to
some
general-purpose
verb
such
as
prove,
serve,
form,
play,
render
.
In
addition,
the
passive
voice
is
wherever
possible
used
in
preference
to
the
active,
and
noun
constructions
are
used
instead
of
gerunds
(
by
examination
of
instead
of
by
examining
).
The
range
of
verbs
is
further
cut
down
by
means
of
the
-ize
and
de-
formations,
and
the
banal
state-
ments
are
given
an
appearance
of
profundity
by
means
of
the
not
un-
formation.
Simple
conjunctions
and
prepositions
are
replaced
by
such
phrases
as
with
respect
to,
having
regard
to,
the
fact
that,
by
dint
of,
in
view
of,
in
the
interests
of,
on
the
hypothesis
that;
and
the
ends
of
sentences
are
saved
by
anticlimax
by
such
resounding
commonplaces
as
4
greatly
to
be
desired,
cannot
be
left
out
of
account,
a
development
to
be
expected
in
the
near
future,
deserving
of
serious
consideration,
brought
to
a
satisfactory
conclusion,
and
so
on
and
so
forth.
Pretentious
diction.
Words like
phenomenon, element, individual
(as noun),
objective,
categorical,
effective,
virtual,
basic,
primary,
promote,
consti-
tute,
exhibit,
exploit,
utilize,
eliminate,
liquidate,
are
used
to
dress
up
a
simple
statement
and
give
an
air
of
scientific
impartiality
to
biased
judgements.
Adjectives
like
epoch-making,
epic,
historic,
unforgettable,
triumphant,
age-old,
inevitable,
inexorable,
veritable,
are used to dignify
the
sordid
process
of
international
politics,
while
writing
that
aims
at
glorifying
war
usually
takes
on
an
archaic
color,
its
characteristic
words
being:
realm,
throne,
chariot,
mailed
fist,
trident,
sword,
shield,
buck-
ler,
banner,
jackboot,
clarion.
Foreign words and expressions such as
cul
de
sac,
ancien
régime,
deus
ex
machina,
mutatis
mutandis,
status
quo,
gleichschaltung,
weltanschauung
,
are
used
to
give
an
air
of
culture
and
elegance.
Except for the useful abbreviations
i.e.,
e.g.,
and
etc.,
there is
no real need for any of the hundreds of foreign phrases now current in the
English
language.
Bad
writers,
and
especially
scientific,
political,
and
sociological
writers,
are
nearly
always
haunted
by
the
notion
that
Latin
or
Greek
words
are
grander
than
Saxon
ones,
and
unnecessary
words
like
expedite,
ameliorate,
predict,
extraneous,
deracinated,
clandestine,
subaqueous,
and
hundreds
of
others
constantly
gain
ground
from
their
Anglo-Saxon
numbers.
The
jargon
peculiar
to
Marxist
writing
(
hyena,
hangman,
cannibal,
petty
bourgeois,
these
gentry,
lackey,
flunkey,
mad
dog,
White
Guard,
etc.)
consists
largely
of
words
translated
from
Rus-
sian,
German,
or
French;
but
the
normal
way
of
coining
a
new
word
is
to
use
Latin
or
Greek
root
with
the
appropriate
affix
and,
where
nec-
essary,
the
-ize
formation.
It
is
often
easier
to
make
up
words
of
this
kind
(
deregionalize,
impermissible,
extramarital,
non-fragmentary
and
so forth) than to think up the English words that will cover one’s mean-
ing.
The
result,
in
general,
is
an
increase
in
slovenliness
and
vagueness.
Meaningless
words.
In certain kinds of writing, particularly in art criticism
and
literary
criticism,
it
is
normal
to
come
across
long
passages
which
are almost completely lacking in meaning.
Words like
romantic,
plastic,
values,
human,
dead,
sentimental,
natural,
vitality,
as
used
in
art
crit-
5
icism,
are
strictly
meaningless,
in
the
sense
that
they
not
only
do
not
point
to
any
discoverable
object,
but
are
hardly
ever
expected
to
do
so
by
the
reader.
When
one
critic
writes,
“The
outstanding
feature
of
Mr.
X’s
work
is
its
living
quality,”
while
another
writes,
“The
immediately
striking
thing
about
Mr.
X’s
work
is
its
peculiar
deadness,”
the
reader
accepts this as a simple difference opinion.
If words like
black
and
white
were
involved,
instead
of
the
jargon
words
dead
and
living
,
he
would
see
at
once
that
language
was
being
used
in
an
improper
way.
Many
political
words
are
similarly
abused.
The
word
Fascism
has
now
no
meaning
except
in
so
far
as
it
signifies
“something
not
desirable.”
The
words
democracy,
socialism,
freedom,
patriotic,
realistic,
justice
have
each of them several different meanings which cannot be reconciled with
one
another.
In
the
case
of
a
word
like
democracy
,
not
only
is
there
no
agreed definition, but the attempt to make one is resisted from all sides.
It
is
almost
universally
felt
that
when
we
call
a
country
democratic
we
are praising it:
consequently the defenders of every kind of regime claim
that it is
a
democracy,
and fear that they might have to stop using that
word
if
it
were
tied
down
to
any
one
meaning.
Words
of
this
kind
are
often
used
in
a
consciously
dishonest
way.
That
is,
the
person
who
uses
them
has
his
own
private
definition,
but
allows
his
hearer
to
think
he
means
something
quite
different.
Statements
like
Marshal
Pétain
was
a
true
patriot,
The
Soviet
press
is
the
freest
in
the
world,
The
Catholic
Church
is
opposed
to
persecution,
are
almost
always
made
with
intent
to
deceive.
Other
words
used
in
variable
meanings,
in
most
cases
more
or
less
dishonestly,
are:
class,
totalitarian,
science,
progressive,
reac-
tionary,
bourgeois,
equality.
Now
that
I
have
made
this
catalogue
of
swindles
and
perversions,
let
me
give
another
example
of
the
kind
of
writing
that
they
lead
to.
This
time
it
must
of
its
nature
be
an
imaginary
one.
I
am
going
to
translate
a
passage
of
good
English
into
modern
English
of
the
worst
sort.
Here
is
a
well-known
verse
from
Ecclesiastes:
I returned and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift,
nor
the
battle
to
the
strong,
neither yet bread to the wise,
nor yet
6
riches to men of understanding, nor yet favour to men of skill;
but
time
and
chance
happeneth
to
them
all.
Here
it
is
in
modern
English:
Objective
considerations
of
contemporary
phenomena
compel
the
conclusion that success or failure in competitive activities exhibits
no
tendency
to
be
commensurate
with
innate
capacity,
but
that
a
considerable element of the unpredictable must invariably be taken
into
account.
This is a parody, but not a very gross one.
Exhibit (3) above, for instance,
contains several patches of the same kind of English.
It will be seen that I have
not
made
a
full
translation.
The
beginning
and
ending
of
the
sentence
follow
the original meaning fairly closely, but in the middle the concrete illustrations
—race,
battle,
bread—
dissolve
into
the
vague
phrases
“success
or
failure
in
competitive
activities.”
This
had
to
be
so,
because
no
modern
writer
of
the
kind
I
am
discussing
—no
one
capable
of
using
phrases
like
“objective
consid-
erations
of
contemporary
phenomena”—
would
ever
tabulate
his
thoughts
in
that
precise
and
detailed
way.
The
whole
tendency
of
modern
prose
is
away
from concreteness.
Now analyze these two sentences a little more closely.
The
first
contains
forty-nine
words
but
only
sixty
syllables,
and
all
its
words
are
those
of
everyday
life.
The
second
contains
thirty-eight
words
of
ninety
syl-
lables:
eighteen
of
those
words
are
from
Latin
roots,
and
one
from
Greek.
The
first
sentence
contains
six
vivid
images,
and
only
one
phrase
(“time
and
chance”)
that
could
be
called
vague.
The
second
contains
not
a
single
fresh,
arresting
phrase,
and
in
spite
of
its
ninety
syllables
it
gives
only
a
shortened
version
of
the
meaning
contained
in
the
first.
Yet
without
a
doubt
it
is
the
second
kind
of
sentence
that
is
gaining
ground
in
modern
English.
I
do
not
want
to
exaggerate.
This
kind
of
writing
is
not
yet
universal,
and
outcrops
of
simplicity
will
occur
here
and
there
in
the
worst-written
page.
Still,
if
you
or
I
were
told
to
write
a
few
lines
on
the
uncertainty
of
human
fortunes,
we
should
probably
come
much
nearer to
my imaginary sentence
than to
the
one
from
Ecclesiastes
.
As
I
have
tried
to
show,
modern
writing
at
its
worst
does
not
consist
in
picking out words for the sake of their meaning and inventing images in order
7
to
make
the
meaning
clearer.
It
consists
in
gumming
together
long
strips
of
words
which
have
already
been
set
in
order
by
someone
else,
and
making
the
results
presentable
by
sheer
humbug.
The
attraction
of
this
way
of
writing
is
that it is easy.
It is easier —even quicker, once you have the habit— to say
In
my opinion it is not an unjustifiable assumption that
than to say
I think.
If you
use ready-made phrases, you not only don’t have to hunt about for the words;
you
also
don’t
have
to
bother
with
the
rhythms
of
your
sentences
since
these
phrases
are
generally
so
arranged
as
to
be
more
or
less
euphonious.
When
you are composing in a hurry —when you are dictating to a stenographer,
for
instance,
or
making
a
public
speech—
it
is
natural
to
fall
into
a
pretentious,
Latinized
style.
Tags
like
a
consideration
which
we
should
do
well
to
bear
in
mind
or
a
conclusion
to
which
all
of
us
would
readily
assent
will
save
many
a
sentence
from
coming
down
with
a
bump.
By
using
stale
metaphors,
similes,
and
idioms,
you
save
much
mental
effort,
at
the
cost
of
leaving
your
meaning
vague,
not
only
for
your
reader
but
for
yourself.
This
is
the
significance
of
mixed
metaphors.
The
sole
aim
of
a
metaphor
is
to
call
up
a
visual
image.
When
these
images
clash
—as
in
The
Fascist
octopus
has
sung
its
swan
song,
the
jackboot
is
thrown
into
the
melting
pot
—
it
can
be
taken
as
certain
that
the
writer
is
not
seeing
a
mental
image
of
the
objects
he
is
naming;
in
other
words
he
is
not
really
thinking.
Look
again
at
the
examples
I
gave
at
the
beginning
of
this
essay.
Professor
Laski
(1)
uses
five
negatives
in
fifty
three
words.
One of these is superfluous, making nonsense of the whole passage, and
in
addition
there
is
the
slip
—alien
for
akin—
making
further
nonsense,
and
several
avoidable
pieces
of
clumsiness
which
increase
the
general
vagueness.
Professor
Hogben
(2)
plays
ducks
and
drakes
with
a
battery
which
is
able
to
write
prescriptions,
and,
while
disapproving
of
the
everyday
phrase
put
up
with,
is unwilling to look egregious up in the dictionary and see what it means;
(3),
if
one
takes
an
uncharitable
attitude
towards
it,
is
simply
meaningless:
probably
one
could
work
out
its
intended
meaning
by
reading
the
whole
of
the
article
in
which
it
occurs.
In
(4),
the
writer
knows
more
or
less
what
he
wants
to
say,
but
an
accumulation
of
stale
phrases
chokes
him
like
tea
leaves
blocking
a
sink.
In
(5),
words
and
meaning
have
almost
parted
company.
People who write in this manner usually have a general emotional meaning —
they
dislike
one
thing
and
want
to
express
solidarity
with
another—
but
they
are
not
interested
in
the
detail
of
what
they
are
saying.
A
scrupulous
writer,
in every sentence that he writes,
will ask himself at least four questions,
thus:
8
1.
What
am
I
trying
to
say?
2.
What
words
will
express
it?
3.
What
image
or
idiom
will
make
it
clearer?
4.
Is
this
image
fresh
enough
to
have
an
effect?
And
he
will
probably
ask
himself
two
more:
1.
Could
I
put
it
more
shortly?
2.
Have
I
said
anything
that
is
avoidably
ugly?
But
you
are
not
obliged
to
go
to
all
this
trouble.
You
can
shirk
it
by
simply
throwing
your
mind
open
and
letting
the
ready-made
phrases
come
crowding
in.
The
will
construct
your
sentences
for
you
—even
think
your
thoughts
for
you, to a certain extent— and at need they will perform the important service
of
partially
concealing
your
meaning
even
from
yourself.
It
is
at
this
point
that
the
special
connection
between
politics
and
the
debasement
of
language
becomes
clear.
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
what-
ever
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
mechani-
cally 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
9
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
offyour
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
10
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.
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
transforma-
tion
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.
I said earlier that the decadence of our language is probably curable.
Those
who deny this would argue, if they produced an argument at all, that language
merely
reflects
existing
social
conditions,
and
that
we
cannot
influence
its
development
by
any
direct
tinkering
with
words
and
constructions.
So
far
as
the
general
tone
or
spirit
of
a
language
goes,
this
may
be
true,
but
it
is
not
11
true in detail.
Silly words and expressions have often disappeared, not through
any evolutionary process but owing to the conscious action of a minority.
Two
recent examples were
explore every avenue
and
leave no stone unturned
, which
were
killed
by
the
jeers
of
a
few
journalists.
There
is
a
long
list
of
flyblown
metaphors
which
could
similarly
be
got
rid
of
if
enough
people
would
interest
themselves
in
the
job;
and
it
should
also
be
possible
to
laugh
the
not
un-
formation
out
of
existence,
to
reduce
the
amount
of
Latin
and
Greek
in
the
average
sentence,
to
drive
out
foreign
phrases
and
strayed
scientific
words,
and,
in
general,
to
make
pretentiousness
unfashionable.
But
all
these
are
minor
points.
The
defense
of
the
English
language
implies
more
than
this,
and
perhaps
it
is
best
to
start
by
saying
what
it
does
not
imply.
To
begin
with
it
has
nothing
to
do
with
archaism,
with
the
salvaging
of
obsolete
words
and
turns
of
speech,
or
with
the
setting
up
of
a
“standard
English”
which must never be departed from.
On the contrary, it is especially
concerned
with
the
scrapping
of
every
word
or
idiom
which
has
outworn
its
usefulness.
It
has
nothing
to
do
with
correct
grammar
and
syntax,
which
are
of
no
importance
so
long
as
one
makes
one’s
meaning
clear,
or
with
the
avoidance of Americanisms, or with having what is called a “good prose style.”
On
the
other
hand,
it
is
not
concerned
with
fake
simplicity
and
the
attempt
to
make
written
English
colloquial.
Nor
does
it
even
imply
in
every
case
preferring
the
Saxon
word
to
the
Latin
one,
though
it
does
imply
using
the
fewest
and
shortest
words
that
will
cover
one’s
meaning.
What
is
above
all
needed
is
to
let
the
meaning
choose
the
word,
and
not
the
other
way
around.
In
prose,
the
worst
thing
one
can
do
with
words
is
surrender
to
them.
When
you
think
of
a
concrete
object,
you
think
wordlessly,
and
then,
if
you
want
to
describe
the
thing
you
have
been
visualizing
you
probably
hunt
about
until
you
find
the
exact
words
that
seem
to
fit
it.
When
you
think
of
something
abstract
you
are
more
inclined
to
use
words
from
the
start,
and
unless
you
make
a
conscious
effort
to
prevent
it,
the
existing
dialect
will
come
rushing
in
and
do
the
job
for
you,
at
the
expense
of
blurring
or
even
changing
your
meaning.
Probably
it
is
better
to
put
offusing
words
as
long
as
possible
and
get
one’s
meaning
as
clear
as
one
can
through
pictures
and
sensations.
Afterward
one
can
choose
—not
simply
accept
—
the
phrases
that
will
best
cover
the
meaning,
and
then
switch
round
and
decide
what
impressions
one’s
words
are
likely
to
make
on
another
person.
This
last
effort
of
the
mind
cuts
out
all
stale
or
mixed
images,
all
prefabricated
phrases,
needless
repetitions,
12
and
humbug
and
vagueness
generally.
But
one
can
often
be
in
doubt
about
the effect of a word or a phrase, and one needs rules that one can rely on when
instinct
fails.
I
think
the
following
rules
will
cover
most
cases:
1.
Never
use
a
metaphor,
simile,
or
other
figure
of
speech
which
you
are
used
to
seeing
in
print.
2.
Never
use
a
long
word
where
a
short
one
will
do.
3.
If
it
is
possible
to
cut
a
word
out,
always
cut
it
out.
4.
Never
use
the
passive
where
you
can
use
the
active.
5.
Never use a foreign phrase, a scientific word, or a jargon word if you can
think
of
an
everyday
English
equivalent.
6.
Break
any
of
these
rules
sooner
than
say
anything
outright
barbarous.
These
rules
sound
elementary,
and
so
they
are,
but
they
demand
a
deep
change
of
attitude
in
anyone
who
has
grown
used
to
writing
in
the
style
now
fashionable.
One
could
keep
all
of
them
and
still
write
bad
English,
but
one
could
not
write
the
kind
of
stuffthat
I
quoted
in
those
five
specimens
at
the
beginning
of
this
article.
I
have
not
here
been
considering
the
literary
use
of
language,
but
merely
language as an instrument for expressing and not for concealing or preventing
thought.
Stuart Chase and others have come near to claiming that all abstract
words
are
meaningless,
and
have
used
this
as
a
pretext
for
advocating
a
kind
of
political
quietism.
Since
you
don’t
know
what
Fascism
is,
how
can
you
struggle
against
Fascism?
One
need
not
swallow
such
absurdities
as
this,
but
one
ought
to
recognize
that
the
present
political
chaos
is
connected
with
the
decay of language,
and that one can probably bring about some improvement
by starting at the verbal end.
If you simplify your English, you are freed from
the worst follies of orthodoxy.
You cannot speak any of the necessary dialects,
and
when
you
make
a
stupid
remark
its
stupidity
will
be
obvious,
even
to
yourself.
Political
language
—and
with
variations
this
is
true
of
all
political
parties,
from
Conservatives
to
Anarchists—
is
designed
to
make
lies
sound
truthful and murder respectable, and to give an appearance of solidity to pure
13
wind.
One
cannot
change
this
all
in
a
moment,
but
one
can
at
least
change
one’s
own
habits,
and
from
time
to
time
one
can
even,
if
one
jeers
loudly
enough,
send
some
worn-out
and
useless
phrase
—some
jackboot,
Achilles’
heel,
hotbed,
melting
pot,
acid
test,
veritable
inferno,
or
other
lump
of
verbal
refuse—
into
the
dustbin,
where
it
belongs.
14