Language barriers

In his essay ‘Politics and the English Language’ (1946), George Orwell laments the corruption of the English language in postwar society. Everywhere he finds pompous phrases designed to sound weighty (‘render inoperative’, meaning ‘break’); Latin- or Greek-based words where simpler words will do (‘ameliorate’ for ‘improve’, ‘clandestine’ for ‘secret’); words which have lost their meaning (‘fascism’, meaning ‘something not desirable’); padding to give an impression of depth (‘this is a consideration which we should do well to bear in mind’); clichés (‘ring the changes on’, ‘play into the hands of’, ‘toe the line’, ‘explore every avenue’). Words that give him particular grief include ‘phenomenon’, ‘element’, ‘objective’, ‘categorical’, ‘virtual’, ‘basic’, ‘primary’, ‘promote’, ‘constitute’, ‘exhibit’, ‘exploit’, ‘utilise’.

Orwell continues, ‘A speaker who uses that kind of phraseology has gone some distance to 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.’ It is like ‘having a packet of aspirins always at one’s elbow’.

The result, he thinks, is that slovenly language and slovenly thinking begin to feed off and reinforce each other: ‘[English] becomes ugly and inaccurate because our thoughts are foolish, but the slovenliness of our language makes it easier for us to have foolish thoughts.’ He pleads for a return to linguistic simplicity, letting ‘the meaning choose the words and not the other way round’. Otherwise, he fears that the language of politics in particular will become an instrument not for expressing, but for concealing or preventing thought.

Politicians, of course, still resort to glib catch-phrases. As soon as you hear one saying, ‘Our policy on this is quite clear,’ or, ‘Let me be quite clear on this,’ you know that the fog is about to start rolling in.