On word choice

Gerard asked me how I felt about the difference between French and English. His intuition was simple: English is roughly three quarters less verbose than French. Does compression naturally result in less nuance? On the moment I agreed with the sentiment. Especially when it comes to criticism. English has a satisfying sharpness in both humor and critique. While French tends to stretch, embellish, and occasionally suffocate its own point. Not that one can’t be creative with English, I’ve always heard a lot more creativity in French swearing, which I enjoy.

Later that day I walked past a Chinese massage parlor and realized Chinese probably wins the efficiency contest entirely. If we’re simply counting characters, English sits neatly between ultra-efficient Chinese and comfortably fluffy French. But what is this trying to evaluate? Pure character count? Critical abilities? Cultural value? What about other languages?

The debate can turn sour quickly. There’s a judgmental tone hard to keep out. What’s the best one? None, and all. The rational world of today doesn’t accept this kind of answer. It sounds like rhetoric. Proper, rational thinking squeezes statistics and defines context to compare and contrast. Thus English gets the best of both worlds. Chinese by my estimate is the more semantically efficient. And French the more emotive. These are of course gross oversimplifications, but it’s the stuff fueling academic research.

Early on in my journey in America, I flexed my English by talking about my struggle to reconcile both cultures via quirks of their language. I have so much conversation material. Especially on religion, education and food topics. Stuff like: I believe Americans understand what food means to the French as poorly as the French understand what faith means to Americans. Idioms make the point even better. Take the French equivalent of “God works in mysterious ways”: les voies du seigneur sont impénétrables. Literally: “the Lord’s physical paths are impenetrable.” Less mysticism, more unfortunate anatomical suggestion.

I can now attest to how language shapes thinking patterns. The France I grew up in was firmly glass-half-empty. I now live in glass-half-full California and, despite myself, have become a little more optimistic. My wife grew up somewhere else entirely, where the real question is whether the glass will even still exist in thirty years. My French education instilled a reliable humility. Teachers and parents had the same message: you will probably never be great. Perhaps good, if you’re lucky. Meeting Americans raised in a cocoon of exceptionalism confirmed my inclination to stay precariously humble.

At the end of the day, having perspective is the only stable conclusion, it builds sympathy - anything beyond is a bonus. It was agreed that most disagreements in my household are 90% due to word choice, not proper disagreement. I’m sure we’re not alone. I wish this acknowledgment made a greater difference than it did. Speaking is mostly intuitive. Very few people truly think out loud. I certainly don’t. Writing, however, is thinking. My words sit dangerously close to my thoughts. Which is why almost any questions about language becomes fascinating for a moment—easily nulled by perspective, regardless of interest and optimism.

“On est pas tous logés à la même enseigne, et en même temps tout le monde voit midi à sa porte.” Which loosely translates to: everyone lives under a different sign, and everyone sees noon from their own door. A perfect monument to French nonsense. Also a surprisingly efficient summary of perspectivism. I frequently hit the perspective wall due to verbal incontinence like this. To that extent, kids are a fantastic vehicle for exercising restraint and getting a taste of my own medicine.

Which brings me to this blog. Some readers have sensed a certain dialectical malaise in my essays. Rightfully so. Admittedly, the ceaseless questioning about minutiae paired with self conscious wordiness, is a bit pathetic. It gives words a weight, perhaps therapeutic for me only. Perhaps they carry the 0.1% of hope necessary to remain functional. Believe it or not, this blog is my vain attempt at an aesthetic appreciation of what makes that 0.1%. All that while being tortured a fair bit by the fact that the world doesn’t need my thoughts about it.