I love monologues. All the truly moving scenes I’ve seen in television and film have involved beautiful and powerful monologues; a character has dealt with the problem for so long that the internal containment fails and everything just comes out. In those few moments you feel the pain and the joy of the character more than you thought possible. You can go through a whole movie without sympathizing with a character but at that crucial moment, the truth of the words is too beautiful to ignore.

The only problem with monologues is they need a response. These aren’t soliloquies, said to oneself to illuminate the audience, they are there to let the oblivious subject become aware of what the audience has known all along. Monologues need a result. There needs to be acceptance or rejection, cheers or jeers. There needs to be a musical swell as the maligned lovers jump into each others eyes, or the look of shame on the antagonist’s eyes as the realisation of his wrongdoing comes upon him. An utterly ignored monologue is one of the most awkward events one can experience.

I’ve tried to ignore the silence of your protestations. Every word echoes through my brain and close reading begins to look like a cursory glance as the faults in my phrasing fragment my mind like a supernova of insecurity. What did I say that was so wrong? How could my words leave no mark on you. When was it that you decided that I didn’t matter?

To say the silence hurts is an absurd understatement. My trial of silence is like Kafka’s in its unrelenting unreasonableness. Each non-word cuts into my flesh, and rips the muscles from my bones. My knees weaken out of fear of the ongoing silence, and I know that I can’t let this be. I need you to know this now and every second I wait feels like another second of waiting for your response. I’m not waiting any longer.

I’m not a fan of prescriptive linguistics. English is defined descriptively, not prescriptively. That is, English does not have a formal definition from which the language is constructed; the language is described by its usage. I’m misusing the terms prescriptive and descriptive linguistics a little here, but the essence is the same. Languages like French and Latin are predefined so they can be better studied using prescriptive linguistics. English changes all the time so the arguments for prescriptive linguistics don’t hold water.

Of course, prescriptive linguists don’t want English to change at all. They want it to be a dead language. Case in point: what’s the French word for internet? Internet. It’s not even a French word; it must be awkwardly placed into otherwise francophonic speech. And why? Because there is an organization that dictates what goes into the language. The language’s rules are prescribed like the speakers of the language are obviously too idiotic to speak the language.

This kind of stance will inevitably bite me in the ass because descriptive linguistics, where common usage is described and codified as the proper usage, means languages can change. And there are certain things I like about English. I like not ending sentences with prepositions; I might do it from time to time, but I get a perverse little kick out of reordering the words of a subordinate clause such that the preposition leads rather than lingers. Of course, it’s not like the language will ever outlaw that type of speech – English is described not prescribed, after all – it will merely be deemed archaic. I don’t appreciate being referred to as archaic but it wouldn’t be the end of the world. Similarly, I tend not to brazenly split infinitives but I absolutely disagree that they shouldn’t be allowed. As others have said, the idea that we shouldn’t split infinitives comes from other parent languages which don’t allow it; of course, they don’t allow it because it can’t be done in those languages, but that point is typically ignored. That said, I would never want to live in a country where “irregardless” is seen as a real word; not only is there already a perfectly good word with the same meaning (regardless) but “irregardless” implies negation of regardless by its prefix. On the other hand, while normalcy is a neologism for normality, I accept normalcy because it has a poetic feel to it that normality cannot evoke.

But I don’t care if my stance on English is slightly hypocritical because, quite frankly, so is English itself. And I Love English. There’s no language I’d rather have gown up speaking. It’s weird, it has no strong rules of grammar, and it’s essentially learned through trial and error but it’s ultimately the result of five hundred years of brilliant minds borrowing from other languages to better evoke the feelings and descriptions they had. English is not a romance language. It has borrowed most of its vocabulary from romance languages but it is very different and should not be bogged down in the bureaucratic quagmire that is prescriptive linguistics. Languages are not created by the elite few, they are shaped by society. On occasion, it seems like society shouldn’t really be in charge of those things – especially given the preponderance of internet speak leaking into the vernacular – but most of the time I’m damn proud that our language isn’t locked away. Because if it were, a new Shakespeare could be born and we’d never appreciate the beauty of the words they bring.

You know sometimes I need to be reminded how absolutely, breathtakingingly, heartbreakingly beautiful the world can be. I spend so much time sitting at a desk, both at work and at home, that when I finally get out of my seat I tend to treat the world as a means to an end. I go out into it to get the basics and return to my cave. That’s why every once in a while, when on my journey to the outerworld interstices, I stumble upon… the world. I looked up just a half hour ago and saw a perfectly clear night sky. It made me want to go drive out into the deep woods where no artificial light pollutes the sky and just stare at the stars. Even here, in this oversaturated suburban night I stood there agape for a few moments, unable to look away, my vision transfixed on the unending void. Of course, after a short while reliving my former years as a quixotic romantic I politely shelve it away, remember that I must let that part of me out more often and return to my life as it was. Then I blog about it. Sigh…