A SPECTATOR'S NOTEBOOK
JOHN HOLLOWAY
Photographs from Apollo 11 and Mariner 6 and 7 continue to come in (or perhaps I mean out), and confirm one's impression of the ferocious inhospitality of the rest of the universe. Venus is like the traditional concept of hell, but disguised as a quasi- greenhouse; Mars a larger, colder, nastier Moon; the Moon a big beach, windless but chilly all the same, scattered with vast quantities of boring jetsam and litter. The litter is now supplemented by a few items of our own: boots, a tripod, and a specially stiffened Old Glory. Not that I'm against space exploration. I support everything which encourages that old-fashioned, out- moded pastime, pure science. Also, space exploration as at present conducted—on a basis of great-power rivalry—is almost as expensive and juvenile as war: so for a while may just possibly take the place of that.
In my more self-indulgent moments, I revel in the idea that as the lonely fertility and beauty of Earth are forced more and more upon us, we shall come to care pro- perly for this one worth-while scrap in the whole solar system. Only to think . . . no more treeless housing estates, no more Aberfans, no more Barbicans or Bidon- villes. An engaging fantasy. Somewhere on 'the Al'. recently I saw a notice that read 'Please avoid seeded verges'. Behind it, another lunar landscape of sandy soil rubbed bald with wheels.
Meaningful blunders
Why do we all say 'the Al', 'the M6' these days? No one would say that I drive home to my house in Suffolk on the BI063. It reminds me of the students I used to have in Greece. In their native language, proper names must be preceded by the definite article: so they used to say 'my sister has fallen in love with the John' and the like. I see they have had the first case of rape on the island of Sark: against the English language the attempt is made daily and resistance has almost ceased. Compare the vogue for 'feel', 'accept that' and 'protest', instead of 'think', 'admit' and 'condemn'. Meaningful blunders, though: what they do is reject rational mental operations for little squirts of emotion. 'Protest' is not only an emotion-word, but one for an emotion which you can't feel except upwards. Towards someone, I mean, whose superiority in some sense you con- cede by your very choice of words. Has this been noted? I predict that once it is, the word will instantly drop out of fashion.
The rules of chaos
My trip on 'the' Al wasn't pleasant. Roads are chaos. Behind this basic fact of modern life lies a basic fact about homo sapiens, which is that our clever people continually invent procedures which our less clever ones can't sustain over time. Hence, on all our roads, the rash of 'Men at work' signs and oversize exclamation-marks, followed by miles of flawless highway in brand-new repair. Hence also the cars that buzz along mile after mile, gaily flashing that they're turning left or right. And hence the sweet- looking old lady who nipped past me and three other drivers, nudging all the time up against a row of signs with little black cars and little red ones side by side. She simply hadn't studied the Highway Code Encyclopaedia, page 37, item 14. Who shall blame her? I keep my copy of that nwitant opus in the dashboard pocket, and if I get a loquacious passenger I ask her to look something up in it for me.
Bottoms up
In reading newspapers, I aim at brutal selectivity, on the principle that Monday's 'sensation' (more emotion for reason) k inert by Tuesday. But if newspapers are to be read, do so from the bottom upwards. It was this way I recently noted two items far too significant and important to make the headlines: viz., a cure for bilharzia. and a cure for oil slicks. I also learnt (if that is the word) that a student at AM has bought, on the open market, more or less everything needed to build an IClitkl; that a crocodile has escaped from a garden in Blackpool; and that girls are going to wear inflatable girdles so as to have round bottoms. Plus ca change . . . there was once a time when they didn't wear girdles at all, and the effect was the same.
Nowadays I am becoming an assiduous reader of fashion columns, as one of the few places where the language still shots, some inventiveness and vitality, even if of a nasty galvanic kind where sophistici. means middle-aged, classic means cosi and trend-setting means grotesque. Lingo ically interesting, in social terms it's e less so than our ponderous argumentat about freedom and obscenity on the st,i, If the light entertainment industry quick returns through horning in on ; kink whoring trade, one is not called on to distinguish between a flea and a louse. and needn't give a damn. Which doesn't. of course, affect the unhappy position of deeply moral books like Fanny Hill.
English made difficult
I'm glad that HRH addressed the Eisteddfod in Welsh; though sorry he is the first member of the royal family ever to have done so. If we English weren't such wretched monoglots, the four coun- tries in these islands would by now perhaps stand as equal partners in a federation with its capital in the Isle of Man. which could then be third London airport.
My own long-buried acquaintance with Welsh was picked up in lunch-hours as a schoolboy, with the help of some little books ironically called Welsh Made Easy. and a Welsh schoolmaster who officially taught me English. One difficulty, as I re- member, was the marked distinction be- tween the written and the spoken language. English has almost no vernacular left. Not long ago an acquaintance told me that something we both felt inclined to see done would 'create a problem of communi- cation'. He meant, 'they won't see what we're up to', but didn't know the words. they were too short. What a disaster it is. that our language has turned into the con- ference, handbook and memorandum- language of two-thirds of the planet. Soon only our four-letter words will retain any spunk. Odd, by the way, that no one cares whether that word is either in free use or 'taboo. It can't be the extra letter.
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