Saturday, October 02, 2004, 16:38 GMT
An Economist passage in the Seoul Times -
Sunday, October 3, 2004, 01:36
A World Empire by Other Means
English Becoming The New World Language
The new world language seems to be good for everyone — except the speakers of minority tongues, and native English-speakers too perhaps.
It is everywhere. Some 380 million people speak it as their first language and perhaps two-thirds as many again as their second. A billion are learning it, about a third of the world's population are in some sense exposed to it and by 2050, it is predicted, half the world will be more or less proficient in it. It is the language of globalization — of international business, politics and diplomacy.
It is the language of computers and the Internet. You'll see it on posters in Cote d'Ivoire, you'll hear it in pop songs in Tokyo, you'll read it in official documents in Phnom Penh. Deutsche Welle broadcasts in it. Bjork, an Icelander, sings in it. French business schools teach in it. It is the medium of expression in cabinet meetings in Bolivia. Truly, the tongue spoken back in the 1300s only by the "low people" of England, as Robert of Gloucester put it at the time, has come a long way. It is now the global language.
How come? Not because English is easy. True, genders are simple, since English relies on "it" as the pronoun for all inanimate nouns, reserving masculine for bona fide males and feminine for females (and countries and ships). But the verbs tend to be irregular, the grammar bizarre and the match between spelling and pronunciation a nightmare. English is now so widely spoken in so many places that umpteen versions have evolved, some so peculiar that even "native" speakers may have trouble understanding each other. But if only one version existed, that would present difficulties enough.
William Shakespeare
(1564-1616)
Even everyday English is a language of subtlety, nuance and complexity. John Simmons, a language consultant for Interbrand, likes to cite the word "set," an apparently simple word that takes on different meanings in a sporting, cooking, social or mathematical context — and that is before any little words are combined with it. Then, as a verb, it becomes "set aside," "set up," "set down," "set in," "set on," "set about," "set against" and so on, terms that"leave even native speakers bewildered about [its] core meaning."
As a language with many origins — Romance, Germanic, Norse, Celtic and so on — English was bound to be a mess. But its elasticity makes it messier, as well as stronger. When it comes to new words, English puts up few barriers to entry. Every year publishers bring out new dictionaries listing neologisms galore. The past decade, for instance, has produced not just a host of Internettery, computerese and phonebabble ("browsers," "downloading," "texting," and so on) but quantities of teenspeak ("fave," "fit," "pants," "phat," "sad").
All are readily received by English, however much some fogies may resist them. Those who stand guard over the French language, by contrast, agonize for years over whether to allow CD-Rom (no, it must be cederom), frotte-manche, a Belgian word for a sycophant (sanctioned), or euroland (no, the term is la zone euro). Oddly, shampooing (unknown as a noun in English) seemed to pass the French Academy nem con, perhaps because the British had originally taken "shampoo" from Hindi.
Albion's Tongue Unsullied
Floating Restaurant in Hong Kong's Aberdeen Harbour
English-speakers have not always been so Angst-free about this laisser-faire attitude to their language, so ready to present a facade of insouciance at the de facto acceptance of foreign words among their cliches, bons mots and other dicta. In the 18th century three writers — Joseph Addison (who founded the Spectator), Daniel Defoe (who wrote "Robinson Crusoe") and Jonathan Swift ("Gulliver's Travels") — wanted to see a committee set up to regulate the language. Like a good protectionist, Addison wrote:
I have often wished that ... certain Men might be set apart, as Superintendents of our Language, to hinder any Words of Foreign Coin from passing among us; and in particular to prohibit any French Phrases from becoming current in this Kingdom, when those of our own stamp are altogether as valuable.
Fortunately, the principles of free trade triumphed, as Samuel Johnson, the compiler of the first great English dictionary, rather reluctantly came to admit. "May the lexicographer be derided," he declared, "who shall imagine that his dictionary can embalm his language ... With this hope, however, academies have been instituted to guard the avenues of their languages...but their vigilance and activity have hitherto been vain ... to enchain syllables, and to lash the wind, are equally the undertakings of pride."
Pride, however, is seldom absent when language is under discussion, and no wonder, for the success or failure of a language has little to do with its inherent qualities "and everything to do with the power of the people who speak it." And that, as Prof. Jean Aitchison of Oxford University points out, is particularly true of English.
It was not always so. In the eastern half of the Roman Empire, Greek remained the language of commerce, and of Christians such as St. Paul and the Jews of the diaspora, long after Greek political supremacy had come to an end. Latin continued to be the language of the church, and therefore of any West European of learning, long after Rome had declined and fallen. But Greek and Latin (despite being twisted in the Middle Ages to describe many non-Roman concepts and things) were fixed languages with rigid rules that failed to adapt naturally. As Edmund Waller wrote in the 17th century,
View from Victoria Peak by night on the harbour and Hong Kong Island
Poets that lasting marble seek, Must carve in Latin or in Greek. We write in sand, our language grows, And like the tide, our work o'erflows. English, in other words, moved with the times, and by the 19th century the times were such that it had spread across an empire on which the sun never set (that word again). It thus began its rise as a global language.
That could be seen not just by the use of English in Britain's colonies, but also by its usefulness much farther afield. When, for instance, Germany and Japan were negotiating their alliance against America and Britain in 1940, their two foreign ministers, Joachim von Ribbentrop and Yosuke Matsuoka, held their discussions in English.
But however accommodating English might be, and however much of the map was once painted red, the real reason for the latter day triumph of English is the triumph of the English-speaking United States as a world power. Therein lies a huge source of friction.
Damn Yanks, Defensive Frogs
French people in Paris
The merit of English as a global language is that it enables people of different countries to converse and do business with each other. But languages are not only a medium of communication, which enable nation to speak unto nation. They are also repositories of culture and identity. And in many countries the all-engulfing advance of English threatens to damage or destroy much local culture. This is sometimes lamented even in England itself, for though the language that now sweeps the world is called English, the culture carried with it is American.
On the whole the Brits do not complain. Some may regret the passing of the "bullet-proof waistcoat" (in favor of the "bullet-proof vest"), the arrival of "hopefully" at the start of every sentence, the wholesale disappearance of the perfect tense, and the mutation of the meaning of "presently" from "soon" to "now." But few mind or even notice that their old "railway station" has become a "train station," the "car park" is turning into a "parking lot" and people now live "on," not "in," a street.
Others, however, are not so relaxed. Perhaps it is hardest for the French. Ever since the revolution in 1789, they have aspired to see their language achieve a sort of universal status, and by the end of the 19th century, with France established as a colonial power second only to Britain and its language accepted as the lingua franca of diplomacy, they seemed to be on their way to reaching their goal. As the 20th century drew on, however, and English continued to encroach, French was driven on to the defensive.
One response was to rally French-speakers outside France. Habib Bourguiba, the first president of independent Tunisia, obligingly said in 1966 that "the French-language community" was not "colonialism in a new guise" and that to join its ranks was simply to use the colonial past for the benefit of the new, formerly French states.
His counterpart in Senegal, Leopold Senghor, who wrote elegantly in the language of Moliere, Racine and Baudelaire, was happy to join La Francophonie, an outfit modelled on the (ex-British) Commonwealth and designed to promote French language and culture.
French people in Paris
But though such improbable countries as Bulgaria and Moldova have since been drawn in — France spends about $1 billion a year on various aid and other programmes designed to promote its civilization abroad — French now ranks only ninth among the world's languages.
The decline is everywhere to be seen. Before Britain joined the European common market (now the European Union) in 1973, French was the club's sole official language. Now that its members also include Denmark, Finland and Sweden, whose people often speak better English than the British, English is the EU's dominant tongue. Indeed, over 85 percent of all international organizations use English as one of their official languages.
In France itself, the march of English is remorseless. Alcatel, the formerly state-owned telecoms giant, uses English as its internal language. Scientists know that they must either "publish in English or perish in French." And though one minister of "culture and the French language," Jacques Toubon, did his utmost to banish foreign expressions from French in the mid-1990s, a subsequent minister of education, Claude Allegre, declared in 1998 that "English should no longer be considered a foreign language ... In future it will be as basic [in France] as reading, writing and arithmetic."
Sunday, October 3, 2004, 01:36
A World Empire by Other Means
English Becoming The New World Language
The new world language seems to be good for everyone — except the speakers of minority tongues, and native English-speakers too perhaps.
It is everywhere. Some 380 million people speak it as their first language and perhaps two-thirds as many again as their second. A billion are learning it, about a third of the world's population are in some sense exposed to it and by 2050, it is predicted, half the world will be more or less proficient in it. It is the language of globalization — of international business, politics and diplomacy.
It is the language of computers and the Internet. You'll see it on posters in Cote d'Ivoire, you'll hear it in pop songs in Tokyo, you'll read it in official documents in Phnom Penh. Deutsche Welle broadcasts in it. Bjork, an Icelander, sings in it. French business schools teach in it. It is the medium of expression in cabinet meetings in Bolivia. Truly, the tongue spoken back in the 1300s only by the "low people" of England, as Robert of Gloucester put it at the time, has come a long way. It is now the global language.
How come? Not because English is easy. True, genders are simple, since English relies on "it" as the pronoun for all inanimate nouns, reserving masculine for bona fide males and feminine for females (and countries and ships). But the verbs tend to be irregular, the grammar bizarre and the match between spelling and pronunciation a nightmare. English is now so widely spoken in so many places that umpteen versions have evolved, some so peculiar that even "native" speakers may have trouble understanding each other. But if only one version existed, that would present difficulties enough.
William Shakespeare
(1564-1616)
Even everyday English is a language of subtlety, nuance and complexity. John Simmons, a language consultant for Interbrand, likes to cite the word "set," an apparently simple word that takes on different meanings in a sporting, cooking, social or mathematical context — and that is before any little words are combined with it. Then, as a verb, it becomes "set aside," "set up," "set down," "set in," "set on," "set about," "set against" and so on, terms that"leave even native speakers bewildered about [its] core meaning."
As a language with many origins — Romance, Germanic, Norse, Celtic and so on — English was bound to be a mess. But its elasticity makes it messier, as well as stronger. When it comes to new words, English puts up few barriers to entry. Every year publishers bring out new dictionaries listing neologisms galore. The past decade, for instance, has produced not just a host of Internettery, computerese and phonebabble ("browsers," "downloading," "texting," and so on) but quantities of teenspeak ("fave," "fit," "pants," "phat," "sad").
All are readily received by English, however much some fogies may resist them. Those who stand guard over the French language, by contrast, agonize for years over whether to allow CD-Rom (no, it must be cederom), frotte-manche, a Belgian word for a sycophant (sanctioned), or euroland (no, the term is la zone euro). Oddly, shampooing (unknown as a noun in English) seemed to pass the French Academy nem con, perhaps because the British had originally taken "shampoo" from Hindi.
Albion's Tongue Unsullied
Floating Restaurant in Hong Kong's Aberdeen Harbour
English-speakers have not always been so Angst-free about this laisser-faire attitude to their language, so ready to present a facade of insouciance at the de facto acceptance of foreign words among their cliches, bons mots and other dicta. In the 18th century three writers — Joseph Addison (who founded the Spectator), Daniel Defoe (who wrote "Robinson Crusoe") and Jonathan Swift ("Gulliver's Travels") — wanted to see a committee set up to regulate the language. Like a good protectionist, Addison wrote:
I have often wished that ... certain Men might be set apart, as Superintendents of our Language, to hinder any Words of Foreign Coin from passing among us; and in particular to prohibit any French Phrases from becoming current in this Kingdom, when those of our own stamp are altogether as valuable.
Fortunately, the principles of free trade triumphed, as Samuel Johnson, the compiler of the first great English dictionary, rather reluctantly came to admit. "May the lexicographer be derided," he declared, "who shall imagine that his dictionary can embalm his language ... With this hope, however, academies have been instituted to guard the avenues of their languages...but their vigilance and activity have hitherto been vain ... to enchain syllables, and to lash the wind, are equally the undertakings of pride."
Pride, however, is seldom absent when language is under discussion, and no wonder, for the success or failure of a language has little to do with its inherent qualities "and everything to do with the power of the people who speak it." And that, as Prof. Jean Aitchison of Oxford University points out, is particularly true of English.
It was not always so. In the eastern half of the Roman Empire, Greek remained the language of commerce, and of Christians such as St. Paul and the Jews of the diaspora, long after Greek political supremacy had come to an end. Latin continued to be the language of the church, and therefore of any West European of learning, long after Rome had declined and fallen. But Greek and Latin (despite being twisted in the Middle Ages to describe many non-Roman concepts and things) were fixed languages with rigid rules that failed to adapt naturally. As Edmund Waller wrote in the 17th century,
View from Victoria Peak by night on the harbour and Hong Kong Island
Poets that lasting marble seek, Must carve in Latin or in Greek. We write in sand, our language grows, And like the tide, our work o'erflows. English, in other words, moved with the times, and by the 19th century the times were such that it had spread across an empire on which the sun never set (that word again). It thus began its rise as a global language.
That could be seen not just by the use of English in Britain's colonies, but also by its usefulness much farther afield. When, for instance, Germany and Japan were negotiating their alliance against America and Britain in 1940, their two foreign ministers, Joachim von Ribbentrop and Yosuke Matsuoka, held their discussions in English.
But however accommodating English might be, and however much of the map was once painted red, the real reason for the latter day triumph of English is the triumph of the English-speaking United States as a world power. Therein lies a huge source of friction.
Damn Yanks, Defensive Frogs
French people in Paris
The merit of English as a global language is that it enables people of different countries to converse and do business with each other. But languages are not only a medium of communication, which enable nation to speak unto nation. They are also repositories of culture and identity. And in many countries the all-engulfing advance of English threatens to damage or destroy much local culture. This is sometimes lamented even in England itself, for though the language that now sweeps the world is called English, the culture carried with it is American.
On the whole the Brits do not complain. Some may regret the passing of the "bullet-proof waistcoat" (in favor of the "bullet-proof vest"), the arrival of "hopefully" at the start of every sentence, the wholesale disappearance of the perfect tense, and the mutation of the meaning of "presently" from "soon" to "now." But few mind or even notice that their old "railway station" has become a "train station," the "car park" is turning into a "parking lot" and people now live "on," not "in," a street.
Others, however, are not so relaxed. Perhaps it is hardest for the French. Ever since the revolution in 1789, they have aspired to see their language achieve a sort of universal status, and by the end of the 19th century, with France established as a colonial power second only to Britain and its language accepted as the lingua franca of diplomacy, they seemed to be on their way to reaching their goal. As the 20th century drew on, however, and English continued to encroach, French was driven on to the defensive.
One response was to rally French-speakers outside France. Habib Bourguiba, the first president of independent Tunisia, obligingly said in 1966 that "the French-language community" was not "colonialism in a new guise" and that to join its ranks was simply to use the colonial past for the benefit of the new, formerly French states.
His counterpart in Senegal, Leopold Senghor, who wrote elegantly in the language of Moliere, Racine and Baudelaire, was happy to join La Francophonie, an outfit modelled on the (ex-British) Commonwealth and designed to promote French language and culture.
French people in Paris
But though such improbable countries as Bulgaria and Moldova have since been drawn in — France spends about $1 billion a year on various aid and other programmes designed to promote its civilization abroad — French now ranks only ninth among the world's languages.
The decline is everywhere to be seen. Before Britain joined the European common market (now the European Union) in 1973, French was the club's sole official language. Now that its members also include Denmark, Finland and Sweden, whose people often speak better English than the British, English is the EU's dominant tongue. Indeed, over 85 percent of all international organizations use English as one of their official languages.
In France itself, the march of English is remorseless. Alcatel, the formerly state-owned telecoms giant, uses English as its internal language. Scientists know that they must either "publish in English or perish in French." And though one minister of "culture and the French language," Jacques Toubon, did his utmost to banish foreign expressions from French in the mid-1990s, a subsequent minister of education, Claude Allegre, declared in 1998 that "English should no longer be considered a foreign language ... In future it will be as basic [in France] as reading, writing and arithmetic."