Bad Language Again:
The Unexamined
Assumptions of
Formalist Decorum
by
Joseph S. Salemi
Sometimes I teach
Greek and Latin
etymology at Hunter
College in New
York. Part of
the coursework
involves learning
to write the Greek
alphabet in both
the capital and
small forms. One
day I had a particularly
trying time with
a class as I attempted
to initiate them
into the arcana
of the Greek lower-case
letters. There’s
much to remember:
rough breathings,
diphthongs, initial
and terminal sigma,
the crucial difference
between nu
and upsilon,
the swirl of delta
and zeta.
It was all going
rather slowly
and the class,
in my opinion,
was just not concentrating.
By the time we
got to the last
letter, omega,
I was out of patience
with them. No
one seemed able
to draw omega
properly. It should
look like a small
curvaceous w,
but the class
was having as
little luck with
this letter as
it had with the
rest of the alphabet.
I
was frustrated,
tired, and annoyed
at the class’s
lethargy. “Dammit,”
I said, “lower-case
omega
looks just like
a pair of ----.”
And here I used
the standard American
vulgarism for
breasts.
The
class immediately
woke up. There
were gasps of
disbelief from
some older women,
a blush here and
there among the
younger ones,
guffaws from a
few jocks, and
some uncomfortable
squirming by the
male yuppies.
A ripple of laughter
broke out, but
it was nervous
rather than amused.
I wrapped up the
lesson, and dismissed
the class.
Later
I wondered if
I had let my exasperation
get the better
of me. Had some
people been offended?
Should I apologize?
What limits were
there to the use
of humor in the
classroom? These
days, all you
need is one aggrieved
feminist bitch
to go whining
to the dean, and
there would be
trouble.
Finally
I said to myself
“I am a
teacher, not a
feelgood therapist.
It’s not
my job to cater
to my students’
feelings, but
to teach them
a subject. Everyone
in that classroom
of adults has
heard the word
tits
before. If as
a result of my
language they
were offended,
so be it. They
aren’t there
to be flattered
or to have their
sensibilities
soothed, but to
learn the Greek
alphabet. And
if they are so
emotionally infantile
that they can’t
distinguish between
the teacher and
his subject, well…
then they are
going to have
problems far beyond
my classroom.”
The
class went on
uneventfully to
the end of the
term. We got through
all our assigned
chapters, and
made respectable
progress in etymology.
When I sat down
to grade the final
exams, there wasn’t
anything surprising—the
good students
did about as well
as I expected,
and the rest more
or less scored
according to their
past record. When
I came to the
transliteration
section, where
examinees are
asked to write
out certain words
in Greek letters,
I mentally prepared
myself for the
usual distortions.
And there they
were, as they
almost always
are: lambda
and gamma
were confused;
rho was
unrecognizable;
xi resembled
a damaged corkscrew;
mu looked
like an encephalogram.
But
no one—NO
ONE—failed
to write lower-case
omega properly.
Bad language has
its uses.
In
contemporary formalist
poetry, the issue
of so-called “improper
language”
is a vexed one.
An editrix whom
I respect, but
with whom I disagree
on almost every
subject, has a
powerful aversion
to any kind of
naughty words,
and would not
print the excellent
Yiddish term schmuck.
I argued in vain
that this word
was now part of
the common parlance
of all New Yorkers,
both Jewish and
gentile, and had
the same general
force as “jerk”
or “idiot.”
She would not
print it. Another
august editor
of a formalist
journal would
not let me use
the word “God”
as an expletive.
Still another
rejected a satire
because I rhymed
the word doctor
with verkakte
(“shit-covered”),
though I seriously
doubt that many
readers would
have been aware
of that meaning.
This
wasn’t a
problem in ancient
poetry. Horace
uses cunnus
(“cunt”)
to describe a
woman; Catullus
makes free use
of mentula
(“prick”)
and futuere
(“fuck”)
in his lyrics.
As for Martial,
there isn’t
anywhere you can
turn in his Epigrams
without bumping
into some very
salty language.
The
argument that
I got from the
editrix was as
follows: “If
some things aren’t
proscribed, they
become mandatory.”
By this she meant
that once bad
language was permitted
to one poet, all
the others would
feel obliged to
make use of it
as well, in order
to keep their
audiences. This
is what you might
call the “delta
of Venus”
argument. Back
in the late 1960s,
Hustler
magazine began
publishing nude
images of women
showing their
pubic triangles.
Almost immediately,
Playboy
and the other
skin rags followed
suit, so as not
to lose their
clientele. Poetry,
however, isn’t
a pornographic
centerfold. People
don’t go
to it just for
the dirty words.
There is no reason
to assume that
all poets will
start frantically
using four-letter
words just because
they become acceptable.
Another
one of the editors
said this to me:
“All bad
language has is
shock value. It’s
an illicit shortcut
to generating
a response in
readers.”
Here again, notice
the unexamined
premises—namely,
that it is somehow
wrong to shock
people, and that
poets are obliged
to follow certain
approved procedural
steps when writing.
Poetry isn’t
an income-tax
return. You don’t
have to follow
proper procedure
in producing it.
And if by chance
poetry does
shock someone,
so much the better.
Isn’t that
preferable to
what we have now—people
silently dozing
off as Percy Dovetonsils
recites his epiphanic
villanelle at
a podium? Or as
Melinda Mellifluous
regales us with
her heterometric
sonnet on bread-baking?
A
more general objection
that one gets
from editors is
that they have
to be aware of
audience reaction,
and must therefore
be very careful
about obscenity.
Once more, we
have a totally
unwarranted assumption
here. As I have
argued many times,
it is futile to
worry about external
audiences, because
no one has any
way of knowing
who one’s
eventual external
audience will
be. You have absolutely
no control over
who reads your
work. So why worry
about the reactions
of readers who
can’t be
predicted, and
who are in any
case anonymous?
Concern
for a supposed
“audience”
is really a mask
for something
else. When you
fret and fuss
about an external
audience, you
are really betraying
your own fear
of rejection.
You’re afraid
that something
will escape your
pen that causes
a particular group
of people to exclude
you. And since
you are desperate
for the approval
and acceptance
of that particular
group, you will
make sure you
say nothing that
might offend them.
In short, you’re
behaving just
like a social
climber who wants
to get into a
certain country
club.
A
few days ago,
as I sat in a
New York City
subway car, a
black man boarded
the train and
tried to hawk
CDs of his rap
group. He said
something to this
effect: “Our
rap music isn’t
violent! We don’t
disrespect women!
We don’t
glorify gangstas!
We don’t
encourage drug
use or unsafe
sex! We don’t
talk about guns!
We are responsible
and progressive!”
I tried to suppress
my laughter—it’s
not wise to show
emotion in the
New York subways—as
the poor guy went
on with his shpiel.
Not a single person
bought a CD.
Was
this man knowledgeable
at all about rap?
Didn’t he
know that its
entire appeal
is based on the
cachet of the
forbidden, the
illegitimate,
the violent? That
the very raison
d’etre
of rap is to give
voice to the sleazy
ghetto subculture
from which it
first arose? Who
the hell did he
think he was going
to sell rap CDs
to—Louisa
May Alcott?
The
unwillingness
to shock, and
the disinclination
to make an aggressive
statement that
is unconcerned
with “audience
reaction,”
are endemic to
capitalist societies
that are based
primarily on mass
merchandizing
appeal. But poetry
ought to be immune
to that sort of
market-linked
timidity. Absolutely
nothing is riding
on what we write
or publish.
I’ve
done what I can
in my satires
and translations
to puncture the
overinflated balloon
of prissy decorum
that oppresses
formalist poetry
today. I won’t
tell others that
they have to do
the same, since
everyone has the
right to handle
creativity in
his own way. But
I am going to
take this opportunity
to ask editors
to stop being
wimps and social
climbers. Ten
to one your little
poetry mag isn’t
making money.
So you don’t
have a goddamned
thing to lose
by printing bad
language. Rethink
your unexamined
assumptions.
2008
by Joseph S. Salemi
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