This is a very troubling guest piece sent to me, and I really don’t understand how, from the future. Must history always repeat itself? Won’t humanity ever learn? —JSR
You will have quickly understood, no two ways about it, that something in this work before you is a bit off. What can it be? It is not something having to do with what is said, but with the way it is said, some hole, some unknown blank spreading over my words like fog. If I were Georges Perec**, you might guess that I had taken out a monophthong or two. But I swear there is no playfulness here of the kind we’ve seen in the Workshop of Could-Be Booksmanship, so don’t go looking for any missing runes.
Oh bloody hell then, you are saying by now, whatever could it be?
I am not meant to tell, but I fear if I go on like this it is going to come out anyway. So look, here it is. You will have heard by now that the Board for the Right-Speaking of English has won its fight to forbid, by 2050, all words of our tongue stemming from the great Reign that long ago set out from Rome to take so much of Europe, from the Middle-Earth Sea right up to the land of the Scots. From that year on, no word shall be spoke or writ, the Board now bids us, with goodly might to bear out its threat, whose roots reach back to any of the tongues of the several folks having their oldest wellspring in the shire of Latium***, on the half-sea-mound of what the Magyars call Olaszország***. Only those words are welcome that come from the Angles, the Saxons, or the many Celtic folks who sprang autochthonously —some Hellenic words are welcome too, for now, as well as those of other weird tongues still farther away— upon the Brittonic sea-mounds. And even as of now, any tidings-writer who wishes to hold onto the key to his web-gate, through which alone he may send his work into the world, must come to grips with the likelihood that the Board will send its men to give his work a going-over, and, if fitting, will make him hand over a good lump of gold for his breaches.
Shit, this is hard. Now, up until this day these goings-over by the men of the Board have ended only in smallish mulcts, but for me they had something more in sight. I had been so hooked before on the punch and energy of all those words from Rome, from Franksreign, from the Northmen’s strand on the other side of the English Waterway, that they found it needful to strip me fully of the right to write or to say any word at all that does not come from the Celts or the Teutons, or, now and then if I must, the Hellenes. I’m doing my best, I swear.
It shouldn’t be like this though. English was always a mongrel, and it was always good that way. It swole our speech-might, and did not shrink it, to be free to draw on those other wellsprings, which in truth were never weirder upon the sea-mounds of the English folk than the words of broadly Teutonic wellspring. How, I want to know, is a Saxon’s way of speaking at all earthborn in England, while the words of a Northman from Calais are, even after a full thousandyear, still held weird? William the Smasher’s tongue, as far as I can see, belongs no less than that of some unknown Jute, who came only, what, three or four hundredyears before him? It’s mad.
In the first years after you-know-who began his reign back in ‘28, there was much talk of how to keep English “clean”. Those of us old enough still to harbor thought-echoes from before that year know that folks never even thought about tongue-cleanliness at all in the old days, back when the Bound Lands of America were still a system of true folk-rule. But the truth is in life as in burghcraft you never know what’s coming up around the bend. Who can say what inborn and guilt-free folk-ways the burghcraftsmen hogging all the might will deem worthy of quashing next?
Anyhow, you-know-who began his reign, and soon enough set up the Board, whose men did not wait so much as a jiff before getting to work.
I can’t say I’m unhappy about everything they’ve done. They did after all think up some rather clever new words for things of which we had forgotten how to speak in our own way. Oh look, now I’m talking like them. I mean, truthfully, I kind of like “sea-mound” for the type of land Britain is, or Hawai’i, or many other places besides; or “folk-rule” for “democracy” (there’s no ban on my writing that, since it comes from the Hellenes, though I’m probably pushing my luck anyhow); or “yearmarket” for the place you go at the end of summer to ride the rides, see the cows, gawk at the hairy woman with fur on her chin like a mandrill, eat some popcorn. Any new endeavor will bring out the gift of cleverness in folks. It’s heartening. And yet, it were much better, had the Board let these new words live alongside the ones old folk-ways had set down for us and had long made to seem right. It’s one thing if I can say something one way, quite another if I am forbidden from saying it otherwise.
Why did they pick me out, of all folks? Why did they mark my work for a going-over? The thrust seems to have come after a work of mine was spurned at The New Yorker (Series B), which, as everyone knows, still has that old weighty standing among tidings-writings which keeps the Board from looking all too near into its doings.
I thought there was nothing to fear with them, when I sent in a work speaking of the many risks standing before us in the near to-come with the upswing of Synthetic Thinking. You can understand my thunderbolt awakening, then, when I got back an e-sheath from their booksmanship deskman with but a lone paragraph from my work, and with all the weird words wholly blackened out:
In the doldrums of last summer, I found myself swept up in a fleeting ▇▇▇▇▇ ▇▇▇▇▇ ▇▇▇▇▇. I had thought this could not happen to me again. I had myself written an ▇▇▇▇▇▇ book ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ the mechanisms that ▇▇▇▇▇ such ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ of ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇, and ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ readers on how to claw their way out of the ▇▇▇▇▇ and ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ frame of ▇▇▇▇ that takes ▇▇▇▇▇▇ found on X-2 at ▇▇▇▇ ▇▇▇▇▇. I had also ▇▇▇▇▇▇ my X-2 ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ upon ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ “▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇” for the book. But ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ I found myself back there, almost ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇, ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ behind a new pseudonym ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇. The ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ ▇▇▇▇▇▇ that sucked me in had to do not with ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇, though there was plenty of that swirling around too, but with the ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ of a new ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ by Singaporean ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇, dubbed LK-99-8. This ▇▇▇-▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ polycrystalline ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ was ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ to ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ at least some of the ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ of a room-▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇, ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇-▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇, and it seemed to work far better than the ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ LK-99 that was ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇, also to much fanfare on ▇▇▇▇▇▇ ▇▇▇▇▇, twelve years before. At ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇, our ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ have to be ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ at ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ and ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ so ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ as to ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ ▇▇▇▇ ▇▇▇▇▇▇, energy, and thus ▇▇▇▇▇, to ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ them. But if LK-99-8 was what some had begun to believe it was, well, this would have been the beginning of a truly ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ technological ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇, with ▇▇▇▇, almost ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ for the ▇▇▇▇▇▇ economy and the ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ of ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇.
There was no further reckoning as to why they had blacked-out all these words, and neither did I know whether it was indeed the booksmanship deskman —the dreaded Calvin Coomey— at The New Yorker (Series B) who sent it. But one thing was as diaphanous as glass: I was now being watched.
I quickly reworked the paragraph in the hope of putting right my misdeed and sending it back in again:
In the doldrums of last summer, I found myself swept up in a fleeting madness on the folksmiddles****. I had thought this could not happen to me again. I had myself written a whole book laying out the things that bring about such swells of madness, and sought to give wise kenning to readers on how to claw their way out of the heedless and over-trustful bearing that takes speakings found on X-2 as true. I had also shut my X-2 gate upon ending my “sift-reading”***** for the book. But all at once I found myself back there, almost unknowingly, hidden behind a new pseudonym gate. The triggering madness that so sucked me in had to do not with Synthetic Thinking, though there was a load of that swirling around too, but with the squabble-stirring news of an unheard-of new stuff brewed up by Singaporean stuff-knowers†, dubbed LK-99-8. This workshop-born polycrystalline with-melding†† was said to show at least some of the marks of a room-heat, around-squeezing††† great-driver††††, and it seemed to work much better than the first LK-99 brewed up in South Korea twelve years before. As of now, our great-drivers have to be kept at heats and squeezings so great as to need whopping work, energy, and thus gold, to keep them going. But if LK-99-8 was what some had begun to believe it was, well, this would have been the beginning of a truly great technological twirl-about†††††, with weighty, almost unthinkable upshots for the world economy and the patterning of the with-dwelling of folks.
Man, that was right hard. Hard to draft, and hard indeed to read. That’s the rub. They pushed this right-writing on us on the lying grounds that, with the weird words gone, English would now be nearer to the hearts of, and more quickly understood by, the great bulk of our tongue’s speakers. And now no one knows what the hell anyone is saying anymore, since no one can, without great bother, find in themselves the thought-echoes telling them what these new words mean, while the old words are there and ready to go, yet forbidden. It is against all good wit.
Shortly after I got the thumbsdown from The New Yorker (Series B) I was asked by the New York Tidings to write for them something about my childhood, when my mother took me and my sister to the Olympic Games in The Tidingsbringers‡ in 1984. Now the Tidings too is often deemed an old enough broadsheet, with a weighty enough standing among statecraftsmen and business leaders, to stay free, for the jiff, from heightened overwatching from the Board. But I wasn’t going to risk anything. And so I began the first word-puttings:
It was 1984, and my mom had made good on her wish to get us place-chits for at least one Olympic match, which, as few matches still had places open, ended up being the fifty-kilometer walk, held in the Tidingsbringers Thought-Echo Watch-Bowl. I do not keep many echoes from that day, but I can at least tell you that fifty kilometers is a right far way for a two-foot to go without ever letting both of them leave the ground at once.
It was hopeless. I got no answer at all. They asked me to write this bloody thing, and then they ghosted me. Had they scoffed at my all-too-keen giving-in to the Board’s ukase? No. It’s not that. By now I can’t win if I flout the ukase, and I can’t win if I undertake to live by it. What has happened cannot be mistaken for anything other than what it is: the Tidings has been bidden by the Board not to have any more dealings with me.
This is so, so hard. I mean, I love the Teutonic tongues as much as anyone. I loved them long before the ban. Even now, when I’m daydreaming, I find myself rambling far and wide, out upon the stalks of our whole great Teutonic tongue-tree, und manchmal denke ich sogar auf Deutsch, wenn es spät ist, und ich allein in der Dunkelheit in meinem Bett liege. And that is where I find the thought-triggers for finding again the thought-echoes within me of our newfangled English words: thus, calf-flesh for the meat of the young cow, and tooth-flesh for the skin around the teeth that often grows swole or bleeds. And at other times I go down the trunk of the tree, to find again the elders there, and I sing the old song:
Hebban olla vogala nestas hagunnan,
Hinase hic enda thu.
VVat unbidan vve nu?‡‡
Earnestly, I do not say otherwise than that I once worked as a sift-reader with great knowledge of the tongues that came from Olaszország. Perhaps that is why they are hounding me so barmlessly. But that in no way means I do not love the Teutonic tongues too. What I do not love is the yearning for a tongue, any tongue, to be cleansed of its weird words. And when it comes to English, such cleansing is but a dream. It can never truly happen. We can only be made to write in such a cramped pseudo-tongue as the one I am writing now. What a shame.
I don’t know what I’m going to do. My web-gate key, for what it’s worth, is not working for now. I fear I’ve been locked out. I fear I will not be able to work as a tidings-writer anymore. Betimes it makes me want to cry out: Fuck!
I shouldn’t have said that. I mean, not “fuck”. “Fuck” is welcome. I can also say “cunt” if I wish to do so. I do not wish to do so, but what I mean is that that is not at all where the Board is sniffing around these days. No, I shouldn’t have said “betimes”, which I thought for a jiff was the right word in the right place, for it rings old, but as the New York Tidings gives us always to know, the only good spelling of that word, alone or in with-meldings, is the one with a d and not an m. And that other word, which begins with a c and is like-meaninged to “shout”, will, no two ways about it, be deemed unforgivable. I’ve likely made other mistakes too. We all do, even if only some of us ever get hounded and brought low for it.
I’ve heard they are working the Spanglish speakers and other “hardened shifters” to death in those laagers out in Oklahoma where they used to run the derricks that look like great steel hobby-horses. They aren’t “new-teaching” them out there. That’s a lie. Those are work-laagers, you better believe it. They only new-teach folks like me, who speak English from the cradle, yet on some grounds or other can’t free ourselves altogether from its “down-low weddedness to the whore-daughters of Rom”, to speak with you-know-who. I can’t help it. I love my tongue — my one true mongrel tongue.
Let the men from the Board come and get me. I’m sure they’ll be on their way soon enough. Let them try to new-teach me their dumb-ass broken half-tongue. Things will snap back, sooner or later. A tenyear from now they will have moved on to quashing some other thing we don’t even think about today. It’s always been this way. You cannot ever fully shield yourself from the dumb strength of the ones who anyway believe a tongue is only for mumbling, while it is with far blunter weapons that they make known to us what dim shadows of thoughts might yet jangle and clunk around within the skulls of these wicked and frightened ghosts‡‡‡.
—Paul Edgar Toomgis
Of the Monks, Iowa
Eight-Month, 2036
—
*“A Parable”. —JSR
**The surname is pronounced perets, as in перец, the Russian word for a hot or sweet pepper. The given name, obviously, stems from Greek. —JSR
*** The implication of these usages is that proper names of Latinate origin are acceptable, but that it can’t hurt to find creative ways to avoid them, including by recourse to other more distant languages. —JSR
****“social-media” (?)—JSR
*****“research” (?) —JSR
†“materials scientists” (?) —JSR
††“compound” (?) —JSR
†††“ambient-pressure” (?) —JSR
††††“superconductor” (?) —JSR
†††††“revolution” (?) —JSR
‡I.e., “Los Angeles”. This is plainly an overzealous application of the guidelines, as in principle a Spanish proper name should not be subject to prohibition. —JSR
‡‡ Our rough translation (—JSR):
All the birds have begun building their nests,
Except me and you.
What are we waiting for?
‡‡‡That is, presumably, “spirits”. —JSR
Guest Work from the To-Come