YOU'VE BEEN VERBED

Friending, trending, even evidencing and statementing... plenty of nouns are turning into verbs. Anthony Gardner works out what’s going on ...

From INTELLIGENT LIFE Magazine, Winter 2010

Mothers and fathers used to bring up children: now they parent. Critics used to review plays: now they critique them. Athletes podium, executives flipchart, and almost everybody Googles. Watch out—you’ve been verbed.

The English language is in a constant state of flux. New words are formed and old ones fall into disuse. But no trend has been more obtrusive in recent years than the changing of nouns into verbs. “Trend” itself (now used as a verb meaning “change or develop in a general direction”, as in “unemployment has been trending upwards”) is further evidence of—sorry, evidences—this phenomenon.

It is found in all areas of life, though some are more productive than others. Financiers are never lacking in ingenuity: Investec recently forecast that “Better-balanced autumn ranges should allow Marks & Spencer to anniversary tougher comparisons”—whatever that may mean. Politics has come up with “to handbag” (a tribute to Lady Thatcher) and “to doughnut”—that is, to sit in a ring around a colleague making a parliamentary announcement, so that it is not clear to television viewers that the chamber is practically deserted.

New technology is fertile ground, partly because it is constantly seeking names for things which did not previously exist: we “text” from our mobiles, “bookmark” websites, “inbox” our e-mail contacts and “friend” our acquaintances on Facebook —only, in some cases, to “defriend” them later. “Blog” had scarcely arrived as a noun before it was adopted as a verb, first intransitive and then transitive (an American friend boasts that he “blogged hand-wringers” about a subject that upset him). Conversely, verbs such as “twitter” and “tweet” have been transformed into nouns—though this process is far less common.

Sport is another ready source. “Rollerblade”, “skateboard”,  “snowboard” and “zorb” have all graduated from names of equipment to actual activities. Football referees used to book players, or send them off: now they “card” them. Racing drivers “pit”, golfers “par” and coastal divers “tombstone”.

Verbing—or denominalisation, as it is known to grammarians—is not new. Steven Pinker, in his book “The Language Instinct” (1994), points out that “easy conversion of nouns to verbs has been part of English grammar for centuries; it is one of the processes that make English English.” Elizabethan writers revelled in it: Shakespeare’s Duke of York, in “Richard II” (c1595), says “Grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle”, and the 1552 Book of Common Prayer includes a service “commonly called the Churching of Women”.

There is a difference today, says Robert Groves, one of the editors of the new “Collins Dictionary of the English Language”. “Potential changes in our language are picked up and repeated faster than they would have been in the past, when print was the only mass communication medium, and fewer people were literate.” So coinages can be trialled around the world—and greenlighted—as soon as they are visioned.

What makes these leaps so easy is that English, unlike other Indo-European languages, uses few inflections. The infinitive does not take a separate ending, so while in French the noun “action” has to become the verb “actionner”, English can use the same form for both. In German (apart from “essen” meaning “food” or “eat”), such words are virtually unknown; the same is true of Chinese—though the noun meaning “thunder” can be used as the verb “to shock”. In Arabic such formations are not found at all.

What’s the driving force behind it? “Looking for short cuts, especially if you have to say something over and over again, is a common motivator,” says Groves. So fund-raisers say “to gift-aid” rather than repeat “donate using gift aid” all day long, and CIA agents looking for suspects to kidnap find “to rendition” handier than “to subject to extraordinary rendition”.

Sometimes the results are ridiculous—notably when verbs are minted from nouns which were formed from verbs in the first place. To say “Let’s conference” instead of “Let’s confer”, “I’ll signature it” instead of “I’ll sign it”, or “they statemented” instead of “they stated”, makes the speaker seem either ignorant or pretentious. (The late General Alexander Haig, whose military jargon was so singular it became known as “Haigspeak”, even wanted “to caveat” a proposal, and was duly ridiculed.) Using an elaborate verb when there is a far simpler alternative—such as “dialogue” for “talk”—has the same effect.

On the other hand, verbing can be entertaining—especially when applied, with a touch of mischief, to a proper noun. A classic example is “Gerrymander”, dating back to 1812, when—under Governor Gerry of Massachusetts—political boundaries were redrawn so tortuously that one district acquired the shape of a salamander. In 2004 a smear campaign against John Kerry, the Democrats’ nominee for president, gave us the verb “to swiftboat”, derived from the type of naval vessel Kerry had commanded in Vietnam. Nor should we forget “to Bobbitt”, the verb coined when an irate Lorena Bobbitt took a knife to quite a specific part of her husband’s physique.

Some lovers of the language deplore the whole business of verbing (Benjamin Franklin called it “awkward and abominable” in a letter to Noah Webster, the lexicographer, in 1789); others see it as proof of a vibrant linguistic culture. Certain words seem to bring people out in a rash—among them “actioning”, “tasking”, “impacting”, “efforting”, “accessing”, “progressing” and “transitioning”. Often, though, the dictionary yields surprising precedents: “impact” was used as a verb in the 17th century, and “task” in the 16th. Other verbs have managed to escape linguistic ghettoes (“to access” was recognised by the “Oxford English Dictionary” over 20 years ago, but only as a computing term), or acquire new meanings: “to reference”, originally meaning “to supply with references”, has now become a near-twin of “to refer to”.

Coinages that seem to bend over backwards invite derision. You may not be rushing “to boilerplate” (automatically include) material in a document, or “to demagogue” a political subject (discuss it in a rabble-rousing manner). Locative verbs are particularly clumsy: “I’d like to showcase/front-stage/hothouse/workshop this.” A few simply appear crass—none more so than “to incest”, meaning “to force into an incestuous relationship”.

Not every coinage passes into general use, and with luck “to incest” will quietly fade away. But as for trying to end verbing altogether, forget it. You’d simply be Canuting. 

 Anthony Gardner is a writer based in London. He reviews books for Intelligent Lifemagazine and edits the Royal Society of Literature’s magazine RSL. His first novel "The Rivers of Heaven" is being published by Starhaven in September.Additional research by Joe Parham. Illustration: Bold & Noble.

IDEAS  INTELLIGENCE  THINKING  WINTER 2010  http://moreintelligentlife.com/content/ideas/anthony-gardner/youve-been-verbed 

Maurice Sendak on Children’s Books

From TIME’S Archive: Maurice Sendak on Children’s Books

The curmudgeonly author and illustrator of Where the Wild Things Are sat down to talk about the kinds of stories children like to read and what makes such stories good (and bad)

By Peter Stoler | May 9, 2012

Read more: http://entertainment.time.com/2012/05/09/from-times-archive-maurice-sendak-on-childrens-books/?iid=ent-article-latest#ixzz1uRPbm3Dj

 

In December 1980, TIME Correspondent Peter Stoler spoke to Maurice Sendak about children’s literature. Parts of the Stoler’s reporting were used for a story that ran in the magazine but the full file has been preserved in TIME’s archives. We have adapted it to help commemorate Sendak, who died this week at the age of 83.
According to Maurice Sendak, your basic children’s story has several ingredients. Among them are warnings to behave, punishment for failure to do so, and a resolution that shows that everything comes out all right in the end. And Sendak says that his early work — until 1963 when Where the Wild Things Are was published — fit the traditional category. “There was a certain niceness about them,” he says.
But traditional doesn’t mean good. Good children’s literature, Sendak says, should recognize kids’ feelings rather than the feelings that adults attempt to impose upon them. “People are always shocked to see kids doing and saying what they want, rather than what adults want them to do,” says Sendak. “Children unnerve adults. I don’t think most adults really like children or feel comfortable with them. I know that a lot of parents don’t observe their own children; a lot of parents don’t watch kids. So they don’t know what kids are really like.” He adds, “Kids always know exactly how they feel, even if they can’t articulate it.”
(READ: Why Maurice Sendak Insisted He Didn’t Write for Children)
Most children’s literature, Sendak says, consists of cautionary tales like “Struwwelpeter” (Slovenly Peter), the main character of a popular book by a 19th century German psychologist, all about a disobedient child who refuses to have his hair cut or nails clipped. Sendak considers it “a careless book. It’s about castration in an arbitrary way. If you don’t obey your parents, it’s going to get lopped off.”
Sendak’s celebrated book Where the Wild Things Are takes its inspiration from childish disobedience and the imprecation that Yiddish-speaking parents hurled at obstreperous kids: wilde chaia or “wild pig.” The unprocessed nature of childhood feelings fascinates him. And he sees its allure in one set of stories that have been read to children for generations. Says he: “The violence and destruction in the Grimm Brothers’ stories is logical [unlike Struwwelpeter]. Children are consumed with conflicting feelings: some are civilized, some are barbaric. The Grimm Tales serve as a release for the more violent feelings, feelings that kids don’t get a chance to release in real life. How many kids get the chance to kill their stepmothers? Or drown their little brothers? In real life, you have to suppress these feelings. The Grimm stories provide us with a logical outlet for them. We can enjoy them.”
Which does not mean, says Sendak, that the Grimms were good authors of children’s tales. The Grimm Brothers, he explains, were oral historians, collecting folk tales and getting them down on paper before the coming industrial revolution destoryed the folk culture that produced them. “The Grimms weren’t really writing for children,” Sendak says. “They were collecting stories. They were appalled at the success these stories had with children, surprised that children liked all that sex, murder and rape.” He jokes, “All the good things in life!”
In his earlier books, Sendak says, he was consciously writing for children. “Up to Wild Things, there was a consciousness of doing things for children,” Sendak says. “My first books were as personal as Wild Things but I was calling them children’s books. Once I began Wild Things, though, I began to feel free of the label of ‘children’s book writer.’”
The label shouldn’t be pejorative, Sendak says, but to most people it is. When he won a Caldecott Prize for Wild Things, one of the first things his father asked him was whether he would not be allowed to work on “real books,” says Sendak. “People tend to take children’s books less seriously as a literary form. Those of us who work on children’s books inhabit a kind of literary shtetl. You always have the sense that whatever you’re saying is considered less because of its form. It’s funny: you never hear William Faiulkner described as a writer of adult books. But people like me are described as writers of children’s books. Children’s books are serious. In the Night Kitchen and Wild Things are as serious as I can get. I wonder if people know how serious I am.”
“The books for which I am best known are atypical of children’s books,” he says. For example, Pierre the boy who always says, “I don’t care” is a juvenile anarchist. “He’s a real favorite with children,” says Sendak. “He’s saying ‘F— you’ in his own way.” Max, the boy in Wild Things is the kid who explodes rather than swallow his anger and behave himself. He’s the kid who makes a mess. “Kids love making messes,” Sendak says. “That’s why I love Dr. Seuss; he shows kids making messes, rebelling against toilet training.”
Dr. Seuss is virtually the only contemporary Sendak does like. Among the American canon, he loves Herman Melville and Henry Thoreau, has trouble with Nathaniel Hawthorne and struggles to understand Walt Whitman. He does not particularly care for Isaac Bashevis Singer, even though the illustrations for Singer’s book Zlateh the Goat won Sendak his first major prize. As for authors of classic children’s books, he loathes James M. Barrie — or at least the book for which Barrie is best known for. “It’s a terrible book,” Sendak says of Peter Pan. “I can’t understand the appeal of a book based on arrested growth, permanent infantilism; most kids want to grow up, not to be mothered for the rest of their lives. It’s sentimental and carries some psychological freight of its own. There’s Captain Hook with his arm — and who knows what else — cut off. There’s Wendy, mothering everybody. There’s Peter, whose part is always played by a girl. Talk about confused sexual identities.”
Like Barrie, Sendak has no children. Which brought up the question: how or why a man without children of his own can write books for children. He notes that there have been a lot of children’s writers who have not had children, not excluding Beatrix Potter of Peter Rabbit fame. Still, Sendak admits that writing children’s books is “a strange business for a grownup. Everyone is not as open as [William] Blake in discussing his child-self.” He adds: “I don’t write books for children. I write them for myself. Children happen to like them.” The subjects and images of his books suggest themselves from memories of his childhood, growing up in Brooklyn, the son of Jewish immigrants from Poland. “Some of these are things, ideas, that just come to me,” he says. “Certain ideas and experiences trigger memories. There’s a certain perfume that acts just like Proust’s madeleine on me. It’s so evocative that it triggers memories. So do the smells of plaster or earth.” [Editor's note: Toward the end of his life, Sendak would reveal that he was gay, a fact that he kept from his parents all their lives, to his regret.]
(MORE: Where the Wild Things Are Movie Review)
He has taken to designing opera sets. “But there’s a problem,” Sendak says. “I work so damned slowly. In my line of work, slowness has developed into a virtue. Who cares when a book comes out? I have a distaste for deadlines, and when I have freedom from pressure, it’s a real pleasure.” His work is painstaking. After drawing pencil sketches and figuring out the layout and story line of a book, he brings off the finished rawings. Then, working in temera, he executes the finished color picture, taking about three weeks to finish each. Small wonder that a book by Sendak can take seven years to complete. That kind of virtue, however, doesn’t work in the world of opera. There, Sendak laughs, “I find that I’m the slow-ass end of things.” And that does not give him pleasure. “What I suffer most from is disappointing people. I want to do good work.”
In the end, Sendak remains concerned about how to describe himself. He is an author but also an illustrator. “Illustrators are funny people,” he says. “When you’re an illustrator, you’re attached to words. The hardest thing about being an illustrator is to know when not to illustrate something. I think I’m learning.” He concludes: “I’m an artist, of course. But I’m also interested in words. I guess that what I’d really like to be is a writer.”


Read more: http://entertainment.time.com/2012/05/09/from-times-archive-maurice-sendak-on-childrens-books/?iid=ent-article-latest#ixzz1uRPVaMng

Confessions of (Another) Book Reviewer

For Orwell, being a book critic was hell. But I'm a lot luckier than he was—the job is so different now.

By Lev Grossman |

Read more: http://entertainment.time.com/2012/05/09/confessions-of-another-book-reviewer/#ixzz1uROgbiZP

My career as a book reviewer started with a cold call.
The year before, I had dropped out of graduate school rather than inflict another dissertation about Joyce and Woolf on the world. And I didn’t regret that – I don’ t think anybody will ever, ever regret that – but I did miss writing about books. Maybe, it occurred to me, if I wasn’t writing a dissertation, I could just inflict a few book reviews on the world instead. What’s the worst that could happen.
So I bought a copy of Publishers Weekly, a trade magazine that publishes a very large number of very short reviews, and called their offices, and asked for the reviews editor. This was 1997, which was probably the last moment in history when you could do something like that and not come off as completely obnoxious or insane. I had a wildly awkward conversation with the reviews editor, who was a very, very patient person, and by the end of it she’d agreed to give me a try-out.
I felt like I’d won the lottery. I hadn’t. Not yet anyway.
(READ: Beyond Good and Awful: Literary Value in the Age of the Amazon Review)
I didn’t quit my day job. But I did spend two years reviewing for Publishers Weekly, then three more years freelancing for other magazines before I started reviewing for TIME. I may be the only person besides Steve Case who benefited from the disastrous AOL-Time Warner merger, in the aftermath of which TIME offered retirement packages to some of its senior staff, including the late, great Paul Gray, who had been the book critic here for decades. They hired me to do his job, and a few other people’s jobs too, for less than any of those people were making.
That was when I won the lottery.
At any rate I was a hell of a lot luckier than George Orwell, who had this to say about book reviewing in “Confessions of a Book Reviewer”:

The prolonged, indiscriminate reviewing of books is a quite exceptionally thankless, irritating and exhausting job. It not only involves praising trash…but constantly INVENTING  reactions towards books about which one has no spontaneous feelings whatever. The reviewer, jaded though he may be, is professionally interested in books, and out of the thousands that appear annually, there are probably fifty or a hundred that he would enjoy writing about. If he is a top-notcher in his profession he may get hold of ten or twenty of them: more probably he gets hold of two or three. The rest of his work, however conscientious he may be in praising or damning, is in essence humbug. He is pouring his immortal spirit down the drain, half a pint at a time.

Orwell was a hell of a lot better book reviewer than I am. But he was also a freelancer. He had to take what assignments came his way. Because I’m a staff writer at a magazine, I have a lot more freedom to pick and choose what I review than he did. I don’t have to force it. Or not often anyway.
(Ask me again when I’m compiling my year-end top-10 list. There are not 10 great novels published every year. But every year there must be a top 10 list.)
Probably 30 or 40 books arrive at TIME every day, sent by publishers, but just as it was in Orwell’s day, the signal-to-noise ratio is still extremely low. A large percentage of these books are cookbooks, political tracts, self-help books, celebrity memoirs and other genres we don’t even cover. What remains is too much for one person to read, and a large percentage of that just isn’t that extraordinary anyway, unfortunately — it’s just the nature of the literary beast. Unless you were some kind of monstrous literary omnivore, there’s no way you could possibly find something interesting in every single crate.
(LIST: All-TIME 100 Novels)
But then there’s the signal – that delicious, delicious signal. People often ask me how I choose books to review. There’s no simple answer; also no especially interesting answer. I review books if they do something I’ve never seen done before; or if I fall in love with them; or if they shock me or piss me off or otherwise won’t leave me alone; if they alter the way my brain works; if I can’t stop thinking about them; if for whatever reason I absolutely have to tell people about them.
I haven’t always done it that way. Early on in my career I spent a lot of time trying to figure out what I thought other people would want me to review, and what I thought other people would fall in love with, and then reviewing those books. But the truth is I was just guessing, and when I did I generally guessed wrong. Over time I retreated to the following position: I am a book-loving human being, and if I love something, then some other book-loving human elsewhere will probably love it too. I have limitations as a reader, and I constantly second-guess myself in an attempt to overcome them, and nobody ever gets them all, and nobody should ever stop trying. One of the very first books I reviewed for TIME was a book I heard about because the author was a former student of my mom’s. It was her first novel. It had been bought for a modest advance, with modest expectations, but the first chapter knocked me on my ass, and I stayed knocked, so I reviewed it anyway. The author was Alice Sebold, and the book was The Lovely Bones. Sometimes — in fact, always — trusting your gut is the only thing you can do.
Not that I only review things that I love, but everything I review, I at least try to love. John Updike advised reviewers: “Submit to whatever spell, weak or strong, is being cast.” And I do insofar as I can. But the book critic is in the weird position of being there on behalf of both the writer and the reader. You submit to the spell, but if the anesthetic wears off during the operation, you reserve the right to wake up and scream bloody murder.
I don’t write hatchet jobs, though. (A hatchet job is critic’s slang – maybe everybody’s? — for an exceptionally nasty review). I used to. There was a time when I actually believed, because I was an ass, that as a critic I was an avenging angel with a flaming sword, and that part of my job was to help rid the culture of books that were sucking up more of the literary oxygen than they deserved. So if I read a book and hated it, I said so.
Then I grew up. Don’t get me wrong: I am as bad-tempered a reader as you’ll ever see, and I’m a great hater of bad books, and possibly even of good ones. I enjoy a well-reasoned rubbishing as much as the next reader. James Wood on Paul Auster in the New Yorker, for example:

The pleasing, slightly facile books come out almost every year, as tidy and punctual as postage stamps, and the applauding reviewers line up like eager stamp collectors to get the latest issue.

And so on. I think pieces like that do something important. They open up space in the culture where we can actually talk honestly about writers whose work is in danger of becoming sacred and critically unassailable. Books that aren’t actually scripture shouldn’t be treated like they’re sacred. If anything, doing away with that kind of blind worship is one of those things novels are so useful for. To turn around and worship novels, or novelists (or critics), that’s just ironic.
But I don’t write hatchet jobs. A thoroughly negative review needs to justify its existence thoroughly, and for that you need a lot of words, and TIME’s book reviews don’t run long enough. So if I don’t like a book, I leave it alone. Books come into this world mortally wounded as it is. It’s pretty rare that a book is so malignant and so tough that it needs someone like me to come along and finish it off. It’s enough to deny them care.
I’m not even convinced anymore that passing judgment on books is the most important part of a book critic’s job. In Orwell’s day, opinions about books weren’t that easy to find. Now they’re thick on the ground, they’re everywhere, you can roll around in them to your heart’s content. Why would anybody need my opinion on top of all that? If anything I feel like I’m suffering from a surplus of opinions. I’m constantly getting Facebook and Twitter updates telling me that I absolutely have to read this, and my life will be ruined if I don’t read that, and my existence has no purpose if I don’t absolutely love this other thing. It’s nice and all – because hurray for books, and for everybody having a say – but it’s a little exhausting, too.
(MORE: Top Novels of the 2000s)
I think of the reviewer’s role now as being more about providing context for a book, tracing its lineage in the tradition and locating it in the literary topography of the present, and all that touchy-feely sort of thing. The critics I love these days do something slightly different from what they used to: they don’t just judge, they open up that weird, intense, private dyad that forms between book and reader and let other people inside. They tell the story, the meta-story, of what happened when they opened the book and began to read the story.
It’s not as sexy as a thumb up or a thumb down, but then again we’re suffering from a surfeit of thumbs. We’re in the age of the thumb — what we need is more fingers. When I read a review by a good critic, I don’t much care whether he or she likes the book or doesn’t like it. The critic’s job isn’t to change my mind about whether or not I like a book. Not anymore. The critic’s job is to make me a better reader.


Read more: http://entertainment.time.com/2012/05/09/confessions-of-another-book-reviewer/#ixzz1uROVrM2y

Short Stories in Singapore getting a boost

No cheap shorts

Local writers are publishing shorter works instead of full-length books, some of them homemade



By Akshita Nanda

The future of Singapore literature may well be short and sweet.

Rather than bring out full-length books of poetry and prose, writers and local publishers are now publishing more new work in chapbooks of 40 to 60 pages.

The length of a typical chapter - hence the name - chapbooks have traditionally been the 'singles' of the literary world, a quick and cheap way for poets and writers to bring out short new works or give teasers of longer books. Many are clearly homemade, hand-bound and stapled, such as comics artist Troy Chin's prose collection Trinkets From Another Life, which he self-published in October last year and sells for $4 each at local bookstores.

Local publishers, however, are now printing chapbooks as professionally designed and printed volumes that are complete in themselves and do not herald longer works. These chapbooks cost between $1.50 and $6 to print and distribute and are sold at between $10 and $18 each, compared with $20 to $30 for a full-length book.

At least 15 chapbooks of prose and poetry, designed and printed professionally, have been brought out over the past year by publishers Math Paper Press, Landmark Books and Ethos Books.

Math Paper Press, run by indie bookstore Books Actually co-founder Kenny Leck, leads the way with 10 volumes from established and new Singapore writers under the Babette's Feast series. The volumes cost $10 each, range from 48 to 100 pages and are usually sourced from writers who attend regular literary sessions at the bookshop in Tiong Bahru. About 1,000 copies were printed of each chapbook.

The idea is to raise awareness of Singapore literature by releasing new titles regularly, says Mr Leck, 33, who is launching another eight chapbooks this year.

'People think that there is no demand for local fiction. But there has to be impact. There has to be a certain amount of titles coming out for people to take notice,' he says.

Publishers Fong Hoe Fang of Ethos Books and Goh Eck Kheng of Landmark Books are also bringing chapbooks out for this same reason: if their writers do not yet have a book in them, they certainly have enough for a chapbook.

Ethos Books published a chapbook of poetry by Kirpal Singh last March, titled Shar(e)d Humanity, and another, Ajar, by writer Grace Chia in October.

Mr Fong, 58, says: 'Dr Singh, who is one of the earlier writers in Singapore, has been writing off and on, but his schedule has been very busy and a full collection of his poetry would take some time. So we thought that a chapbook for him would be useful.' He printed about 100 copies that were given to the writer to distribute and sell at literary events.

Ajar, however, was a free teaser for Chia's new collection, which will be published in June this year. Her last collection Womango was published in 1998, so Mr Fong thought a chapbook was necessary to 'reintroduce her' to readers. He printed 50 copies, all of which have been given away.

Mr Goh of Landmark Books published three chapbooks of poetry in October last year, two from established poet Heng Siok Tian and one fromwriter Angeline Yap. Each is fewer than 50 pages long.

'The important thing is to focus on quality instead of quantity. I would rather have them publish fewer poems of a higher quality than the other way around,' says Mr Goh, 57.

Heng's 28-page Is My Body A Myth retails at $14.98 and the 48-page Mixing Tongues at $17.12. Yap's 48-page Closing My Eyes To Listen costs $17.12.

Mr Goh says the prices are justified, as the books are about the same length as other volumes of poetry he has published. He does not think lowering prices will win new customers.

'You either want these volumes or you don't. We are addressing a market that wants Singapore poetry,' he says.

He is confident that there will be demand and has printed about 800 copies of each title.

While he could not supply sales figures yet, readers seem to be willing to buy the $10 volumes from Math Paper Press: Christine Chia's family psychodrama, The Law Of Second Marriages, has sold over 500 copies since it was printed last year, while writer Alvin Pang's $10 compilation of fiction What Gives Us Our Names has sold 300 copies in the same time.

Pang, 40, was a firm believer in chapbooks long before Math Paper Press published his work. In 2002, he paid a local publisher to print a short collection of his poems, Other Things. Over the last decade, he gave away or sold those 1,000 copies at literary gatherings here and overseas, and for up to $10 each. 'People are more willing to pay $10 for a chapbook than $20 for a collection,' he says.

He will publish at least three more chapbooks before considering anything longer. 'It may take five years to do a book but in between, you have enough material that your audience is willing to pay for,' he says.

'I have at least three chapbooks worth of work done. They don't belong together in the same book but as three chapbooks, they would be pretty coherent.'

akshitan@sph.com.sg

All titles mentioned in this article are available at Books Kinokuniya and Books Actually.

Grammar with Lubna: The trace of trays ... and other such oddities of English

I visited Ikea a little while ago, and saw a lovely sign, “Put away your trays and leave no trace’. Why did I think this sign lovely?

Well, it started when a friend of mine told me a funny story about what happened to him. B is an engineer, always conscious, and telling me that his English is not great, but he’s actually a wonderful communicator in so many other ways. He was in the US, as he always is, and was with his American colleague when he decided to boast that even though his English wasn’t great, at least he was bilingual and could speak Mandarin. So his American friend asked him, “How do you say ‘rice’ in Chinese”? B then replied, “Which ‘rice’?” At this point, I expected B to then talk about the difference between cooked and uncooked rice, or something to that effect ..., but instead, he went on to add, “Do you mean (and he spelt out the following two words) R-I-C-E or R-I-S-E?”

At this point, some of you are laughing because it’s funny, and some of you are going ‘huh?’ because you would have asked the same thing. Your reaction depends on whether or not you say ‘rice’ in the same way you say ‘rise’. B’s American friend says them differently, as would most American and British English speakers. ‘Rice’ has an ‘s’ sound at the end, while ‘rise’ has a ‘z’ sound at the end. Many Singaporeans say these two words in the same way, with an ‘s’ sound at the end. The same goes with ‘trace’ and ‘trays’: ‘trace’ has an ‘s’ sound at the end, while ‘trays’ has a z sound at the end in American English as well as British English.

So, I began with some phonetics, and you’re now wondering what this has to do with grammar? Well, actually it’s got a lot to do with grammar – specifically, about the pronunciation of suffixes on plural noun forms (e.g. ‘pens’, ‘books’, ‘shoes’), third person singular verb forms (e.g. ‘sits’, ‘sings’, ‘jumps’). Not many people realise that the same suffix can and should be pronounced in different ways, and that they are not always said the way they are spelt. So, ‘trays’, for example, although spelt with the plural ‘s’ suffix, is pronounced with a final z sound. (Just a note to say that I’m not going to use phonetic symbols such as those in the IPA as everyone may not be able to read such phonetic symbols.]

The difference in how these different suffixes are pronounced depends on what kind of sounds these words end in. When the word ends in voiceless sounds, i.e. sounds where your vocal cords don’t vibrate, such as the p, t, f, and k sounds, we say an s sound for the plural or singular third person suffix. In contrast, when the word ends in voiced sounds, i.e. sounds where your vocal cords vibrate, such as the vowel and b, d, v, g, m, n, ng sounds and, we say a z sound for the plural or singular third person suffix.

So we say ‘beats’ as it is spelt, i.e. beats; just as we do for ‘picks’, ‘puffs’, ‘hops’ where the suffix is pronounced as s. However, say. Similarly for all words ending with voiced sounds, we say z for the suffix, we say beadz for ‘beads’, harmz for ‘harms’, singz for ‘sings’, trayz for ‘trays’, blurbz for ‘blurbs’, and leavez for ‘leaves’ but we say leafs for ‘leafs’, soaks for ‘soaks’ and shops for ‘shops’. And of course, when the word ends in a s, z or similar sounds like sh, ch or dge (as in ‘judge’), we can’t just put a s or z sound for the plural or third person singular. Instead, we put an ‘es’, which, if you haven’t already guessed, is pronounced as iz. So we say horsiz for ‘horses’, hatchiz for hatches, and judgiz for ‘judges’

This same voicing rule – where suffixes must match the voicing feature of the sound that it follows – also applies to the past tense morpheme. So even though we spell the regular past tense with ‘ed’, we don’t say it the same way. So, it’s ropt for ‘roped, but we say robd for ‘robed’. Here the difference is between the final voiceless p sound at the end of the word ‘rope’ and the final voiced b sound at the end of ‘robe’. Similarly it’s sackt for ‘sacked’ and saggt for ‘sagged’; and platid for ‘plated’.

Posted by Lubna Alsagoff on December 16, 2011 at 2:41am