Over the weekend, Martin Longman asked a surprisingly deep question, “What’s your favorite word that you would never use in ordinary conversation?” A couple of people answered with expletives. Most answered with extremely obscure or specialized words like “depauperate.” But a few got at what I think is the heart of question with well known but not base vocabulary words like “scurrilous.” The word that immediately came to my mind was “pulchritude.” It’s a doubly hexed word, because the adjective — pulchritudinous — is totally unwieldy. But the point, at least to me, is that the vocabulary I use depends upon who I am talking to. And I’m not very comfortable with that.

It is never my intention to use words that set me apart from other people. What’s more, I hope I never use language to show off my erudition — especially given that I am not all that well read compared to people I admire. Regardless, I’d like to think that I am confident enough about who I am that I don’t have to pretend to be more than I am. At the same time, there is a balancing act here. When communicating with others, you want to relate as equals. But you also want to be authentic, and sometimes I feel like a jerk when I make an awkward substitution.

There is a lot of judgement going on in doing this kind of thing. And that’s something that really bothers me. At the same time, I don’t think I look down on people with more limited vocabularies. For most of my life, I was the guy who was asking, “What does that mean?” And I’ll still ask that. I don’t feel that I have anything to prove; I’m just happy to learn a new word. But am I not depriving people around me of the same joy?

I don’t think that I am. My experience is that most people do not look forward to the opportunity to learn new words or whatever other knowledge clogs my brain. And if they do, they will let me know. You see, I don’t think I change my spoken vocabulary based upon my estimation of the listeners vocabulary. Rather, I change it based upon my assessment of their interest in such matters. I use whatever words come to my mind when I am talking to my close friends. For one thing, they already know that I’m a pretentious git, and they are too in their own ways (although they may not cop to this). And I know they will ask me if I use an odd work.

Any time that I’m interacting with someone I don’t know really well, I’m putting on a show for them. I’m trying to make the whole thing go smoothly. You don’t use nuance after dialing 9-1-1. And most of my personal interactions strike me as akin to a kind of emergency situation. Like a dysfunctional family during Christmas, I am just trying to get through this thing. With my friends, I can more be myself.

But I absolutely cannot imagine a time I would use “pulchritude” anywhere except as a joke. The reason is that the word “beauty” works as a perfect substitute. There are words that say more about the speaker than what is being said. “Pulchritude” is one of my favorites. And since I don’t ever want to use the language for that ignoble purpose, I don’t use the word even with friends.

“The Post Postmodern Comedy Hour” is a television series that I’ve created. I’ve written two episodes for it. The extent of my illusions regarding it is that if I ever finish six episodes, I may take it down to public access and see if some people would like to try to do it. Along with a couple of short stories I’ve written, it is the best work that I’ve ever done. But more important, it is the only work that I’ve ever written that is exactly the kind of art that I want to see.

On its surface, it is a silly work: Captain Kangaroo for adults. It combines puppets, social satire, documentary, and comedy. But the back story is very dark. It is basically the same back story I used in my second novel, although without all the drug addiction. But it is worse, because in “Treading Asphalt,” Brian survives and manages to make his way in the world. Steve, in “The Post Postmodern Comedy Hour” lives in a fantasy land. Without his sister to shape a world around him, he would be lost. He has a childhood friend who has never grown up. And who doesn’t like him. It’s not that Steve is delusional. Reality simply terrifies him, and he wouldn’t go outside if he didn’t have to. If his sister died, he would probably starve himself to death like Kurt Gödel did after his wife died.

I was thinking about this last night while watching, Synecdoche, New York. I can’t conceive of writing anything as large as that. It probably represents the sum total of every fear that Charlie Kaufman has. And I share those fears. But I can’t get past the one fear that most defines my life: anxiety. It’s the fear of fear itself. It is meaningless. It is the fear of Jean-René in Romantics Anonymous, “Let’s hope nothing happens to us.” It is the fear of the threshold — the fear that any change will make us less happy, and we are very clear that we are already unhappy enough.

No one would ever get any of that from “The Post Postmodern Comedy Hour.” And I think the reason is because I am a coward. I obviously don’t mind talking about my many and varied psychological dysfunctions. But this is just talking. How does one create worlds that accurately express our souls? Forget about talent, the more important thing that separates me from Kaufman and David Foster Wallace is bravery. Art can be used to express reality or paper over it. Papering over is what hacks do.

Now if I were a total hack, I might be more successful. But I am always aware of just how terrified everyone is — or at least how terrified I am. And that is what I write. Cocooned in his studio with his imaginary friend, Steve can be a full person. With the help of his sister, he can play roles in the real world. But he’s never right with the terrifying outside. I don’t think anyone is. I think you’re all a bunch of liars — just like me. And if we talk privately, you’ll admit it. Because lying is what we do to make it through the day to buy food to eat and not live on the street. But it isn’t supposed to be what art does.

Afterword

On the other hand, I’d be lost if it weren’t for things like this:

Since I’m out of the office today (And I hate being out of the office), I am cramming to put out articles. And Will offered me a good idea for one. He wanted to know the difference between the words “diploma” and “degree.” I thought it was pretty obvious. A diploma is a physical document. A degree is the level of mastery that one has attained in a given field of study. One is given a diploma to recognize a PhD, but the PhD is a degree. I related this to Will, but by that time, he had made his way over to Difference Between and determined that I was wrong.

I disagree. Difference Between makes bizarre distinctions that are not at all common. It says, for example, “The tenure of a degree course can be around 3-4 years based on the geographical location while one can complete a diploma within 1-2 years.” All I could think is, “You have got to be kidding!” Merriam-Webster doesn’t agree; it defines diploma as “a document which shows that a person has finished a course of study or has graduated from a school.” Not good enough? How about Oxford, “A certificate awarded by an educational establishment to show that someone has successfully completed a course of study.” Oxford is good enough to inform us that “diploma” comes to us through Latin from the Greek word “diplōma,” which means “folded paper.” Fowler doesn’t even mention the word except to indicate what the plural is, “The plural is always –mas in the ordinary senses (certificate of degree etc), though –mata lingers in unusual senses (State paper etc) as an alternative.”

“Degree” is rather easier. I mean, the word describes measurement. You fall in love suddenly and out of love by degrees. (Did I mention that I’ve been depressed recently?) So logically, an academic degree should be a measure of attainment. And indeed, Merriam-Webster defines the word “a title conferred on students by a college, university, or professional school on completion of a program of study.” It provides three other minor variations that make my argument look even better. Oxford is similar, “An academic rank conferred by a college or university after examination or after completion of a course of study, or conferred as an honor on a distinguished person.”

So if you want a degree in pedantry, go over to spend a few months at Difference Between. Then, at a cocktail party, you can impress everyone by saying things like, “You don’t have an Associates degree you have an Associates diploma or if more than one, diplomata. Don’t be embarrassed; it’s a common mistake.” It is best that you be wearing an ascot when you say it. That really sells the deal. But if you want a diploma in pedantry, I’m not sure where you go to get one. Although, I think my PhD diploma is a good facsimile.

Afterword

As a matter of fact, I have lost my PhD diploma. If I want to, I can contact my school and get the diploma replaced. This is because I earned the degree of PhD. It is not something they can take away from me, much as they may want to.

My last quotation post got me interested, Why Can’t Dems Take Advantage of Rep Insanity? Unfortunately, it is behind a pay wall. So I did a Google search on the starting sentence, to see if anyone had quoted more of the article. The sentence is, “That the Republican Party has worked its way to a lonely and unpopular place is not news.” There wasn’t much. But it did take me to a Linked In page by one Dennis B, How Not to Begin a Story. As usual with Linked In, information about the writer is sketchy. I was only told that Dennis B was, “Author of historical novel about the War of 1812; Chicago Tribune contributing columnist; freelance/content writer.”

His article starts with a reference to Frank’s article with the opening sentence. And then comes Dennis B’s point:

This comment screams, “I’m an old fuddy-duddy!” But if that’s the case, why use “lead” instead of “lede”? But okay; either spelling is fine, although I prefer “lede.” But his claim that this is how not to begin a story is preposterous. He is applying standard practice in a news article to an essay. If he had read past the first sentence, he would have known that Frank was saying that everyone knows how screwed up the Republican Party is, so it is surprising that the Democrats have not managed to take advantage of it. Thus, his essay is an attempt to explain that.

What Dennis B is doing is what I’ve come to calling “what I learned in grammar school” thinking. I see this all the time with people who have some pet grammar rule that they learned when they were young. And now they are certain that it is The Truth™ because some teacher told them it was so. My favorite example of this is that one must never start a sentence with a conjunction. But it is hard to find a great writer who doesn’t break this “rule” all the time. Opening Moby-Dick at random:

And Shakespeare starts more sentences with “and” than a five year old does summarizing the plot of a new Harry Potter movie:

So I assume that Dennis B learned in journalism school that all stories should start like this, “A manhunt was underway after a gunman opened fire at an event featuring a cartoonist who had caricatured the Prophet Muhammad, and another person was shot dead near a synagogue.” That would make the literary world very boring indeed. But there is something to be said for that style of writing. Perhaps I should have started this article with a proper lede:

Dennis B might be right. It might have been better to go in that direction.