Language Log

My view on the classic prescriptive bugaboo known as dangling modifiers or dangling participles (henceforth, danglers) is, I think, a bit unusual. I don't regard danglers as grammatical mistakes; that is, I think the syntax of English does not block them. Yet I do think they constitute mistakes, in a broader sense, so in a way I am with the prescriptivists on this one. A dangler is an error in a domain that I have compared (for want of a better way to put it) to courtesy or manners. I regard danglers as minor offenses against communicational etiquette, but not against grammar. The argument against danglers being grammar errors is simple: they are too common in even careful published writing, and come too fluently to the keyboards of even excellent writers, and are accepted without remark by too many educated readers. If you ask what evidence there is that, for example, verbs come before objects in English, the answer is that it is overwhelmingly clear from just about all of everybody's usage just about all the time, and from the blank "What's gone wrong with you?" reactions if you try putting the object before the verb. The evidence on danglers goes entirely the other way. Here, for example, is an example in the carefully edited prose of The Economist (October 3rd, 2009, p. 79):

A report to the British House of Commons this year highlighted the case of an elderly British citizen called Derek Bond, who was arrested, at gunpoint, in February 2003 while on holiday in South Africa. After being held for three weeks, it turned out that the American extradition request was based on a fraudster who had stolen Mr Bond's identity.

When phrases are coordinated, readers infer that the the juxtaposed elements are in some way parallel. Careless coordination produces unwanted inferences. Today's Daily Beast serves up an object lesson:

Stunned colleagues Friday described veteran CBS News producer Joe Halderman—who was arrested outside the network’s West 57th Street offices Thursday in the alleged scheme to blackmail David Letterman—as a rogue and a womanizer, a lover of literature, a “smart frat boy,” a swashbuckling journalist, and an occasional barroom brawler who distinguished himself in dangerous war zones and occasionally displayed a certain reckless streak.

Fucking literature lovers.

(Part of) today's Non Sequitur:

"For external use only", it says on many poisonous ointments and other medicinal products that should not be orally consumed. But, the naive patient might ask, external to what? Is it all right to eat the product if I step outside the building? This is another case of nerdview, you know. The person who draws a distinction between internal medicine and external medicine is the doctor, not you or me. If saving the patient from eating menthol crystals or drinking rubbing alcohol is what they have in mind, why on earth don't they simply say "Don't eat this", or "Not for drinking", or "Don't put this in your eyes or your mouth", or whatever they exactly mean? It is because (and I answer my own question here) they have not switched out of the doctor's-eye view and considered what things are like from the patient's perspective. That's nerdview.

A recent "joke of the day" from Comedy Central:

A crowded flight is cancelled, and a frazzled agent must rebook a long line of inconvenienced travelers by herself. Suddenly, an angry passenger pushes to the front and demands to be on the next flight, first class.

The agent replies, "I'm sorry, sir. I'll be happy to try to help you, but I've got to help these folks first."

The passenger screams, "Do you have ANY idea who I am?"

A casual inspection of the 59 (true) Google hits on "Oooo, you look", suggests that Dr. Willis Jensen, a recent presenter in the brownbag lunch series at Language Log Plaza, vastly overestimated the correlation between utterance initial "Oooo" and sarcasm: the true rate is less than 50%. However, he is correct to identify "Oooo" as a common marker of sarcasm, e.g. the comment "oooo. you look lovely:)" in the comments here from the above search.

(A video report on Dr. Jensen's groundbreaking work is below the fold.)

According to the first sentence of an AP story dated 5/28/2009:

Craigslist has withdrawn its request to block South Carolina's attorney general from pursuing prostitution-related charges against the company, following the prosecutor's agreement to do just that.

Do just what?

Here's what I heard today on my local National Public Radio station:  "The first American has died of swine flu." And also, for clarification, "The first American has died of H1N1." But who is or was the first American, I mused, heartlessly, while being an asshole in the defenseless Texan evening traffic. Obama? Benjamin Franklin? Some spear-wielding mastodon hunter? At any rate, not the unfortunate woman who just died.

Google reports about 37,000 hits for "shameless plug of/for my" or "shamelessly plugging my," and the total would be a lot bigger if you allowed for variants like "my shameless self-promotion" and so forth. The phrases are much more common now than they were in the old media, mostly because the new media have dramatically increased the opportunities for self-exposure — Google Blogsearch alone turns up more than 4000 hits for the phrases. The vast majority of these are associated with creative works and activities, in a broad sense of the term: people apologize for shamelessly touting their books, TV appearances, t-shirt designs, videos, high-school band performances, blogs, and new CD's. (Others apologize for shamelessly plugging their hairdresser or a PC they have for sale on Ebay, which seems to me a little unclear on the concept — what's to be ashamed of?)

The modifier accomplishes several things at once: it concedes that the self-promotion is an impropriety, but one venial enough to be joked about; and it averts the reader's censure with preemptive self-reproach. It reminds me of the way H. W. Fowler described the use of apologies like "saving the reader's reverence" and "if we may adopt the current slang":  "A refinement on the institution of the whipping boy, by which [writers] not only have the boy, but do the whipping."

My new collection The Years of Talking Dangerously was published today by PublicAffairs.

A few weeks ago, I posted on some work-in-progress on speaking rate ("How fast do people talk in court?", 3/21/2009).  Since then, I've added coverage in the same style of a few thousand telephone conversations from the Switchboard Corpus.

The main motivation of this work (done jointly with Jiahong Yuan and Linda Drake) is a simple and practical one: to establish a better-grounded set of expectations about the distribution of speaking rates in various sorts of material. Beyond that, it's obvious that the the ebb and flow of conversational interaction is visible to some extent in a graphical presentation of who said how much when, entirely independent of the content.  Here's a graph of the  local speaking rate on the A and B sides of a two-person conversation, calculated in a moving 30-second window that's stepped along five seconds at a time:

(Click on the image for a larger version.)

Billy Bob Thornton gave a bizarre interview today on CBC Radio that could serve as a case study for Paul Grice's conversational maxims and how to violate them. Billy Bob was there with his band the Boxmasters, but he was upset that the host Jian Ghomeshi mentioned his acting career in the introduction to the segment. He proceeded to take a passive-aggressive approach to answering Ghomeshi's questions, finding the most uncooperative possible responses.

Right off the bat, when asked by Ghomeshi about the formation of the band, Billy Bob flouts the Maxim of Quality ("be truthful") and the Maxim of Quantity ("be informative") by claiming that he doesn't know what Ghomeshi is talking about. Later Ghomeshi asks him about musical influences, and he gives a long, rambling recollection of the magazine Famous Monsters of Filmland, thus flouting the Maxim of Relevance ("be relevant") and the Maxim of Manner ("be clear"). It's truly a tour-de-force performance, sure to be appreciated by students of pragmatics everywhere.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IJWS6qyy7bw

As promised in part 1, I'm going to survey CGEL's taxonomy of uses of would, and do a tiny corpus study to get an idea of their relative frequency.  In a later post, I'll take up the implications for the recently-fashionable "that would be me" construction. (For background, see "We've met the enemy, and that would be in the modal auxiliary, Bob" 3/18/2009, and "Why 'that would be me'? (part 1)" 4/2/2009.)

The Cambridge Grammar of the English Language, Chapter 3, The Verb, by Rodney Huddleston, covers "The preterite forms could, might, would, should" in section 9.8, pp. 198-302. The section starts this way:

We have distinguished three uses of the preterite: past time, backshift, and modal remoteness. It is a distinctive property of the modal auxiliaries that the modal remoteness use is much more frequent and less restricted than the past time use — the complete reverse of what holds for other verbs.

There's a recently-fashionable construction, in which "would be" is used where plain "is" might have been expected. For example, in the imaginary Q&A below, I might respond with B₂ rather than B₁

A: I'm looking for Mark Liberman.
B₁: That's me.
B₂: That would be me.

A couple of weeks ago, our comments section featured a lively discussion of this phenomenon. (As far as I know, there isn't any common-used term for it, so pending a better idea, I'll call it the TWBM construction, for "That Would Be Me"). Opinions differed, as they often do in discussions of matters linguistic, about where to draw the boundaries of the phenomenon, as well as about its meaning, origins, circumstances of use, and so on. In particular, Bloix suggested that "The point of the 'would be' construction is that it implies doubt on the part of the speaker", while I expressed skepticism about the relevance of doubt to the meaning of this construction.