Monday, August 30, 2010
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Aslan Shrugged. By Rebecca, 2005.
Aslan Shrugged: Author's Note
When we at the Gibbelins' Tower,
observes Mrs. Schiff
first set forth to create a children's story, we discovered a fundamental flaw in the body of literature available to us for use. Children turn to fantasy in search of truths that adult society denies them---principally and foremost, the recognition that it is acceptable to be a child. This is the meaning of magic, after all: that we do not yet know every truth of ourselves, or every capacity in our hearts to arrange the world in the order of our minds. In every case we studied, however, we found that fantasy leads children astray---that it proposes to them the idea that magic symbolizes the adult moralities of the street-corner preachers and snake oil politicians. It teaches that the mysteries of the world are those that flow from gods and rituals and wands and titles and being the heir to an empire of blood. We believe that a mystery is never more or less than the unknown, and that wands and rituals and gods are very much the known. Magic is simply a question mark, and it is our own spirit and insight that in every case provides the answer.
For this reason, then,
declares Mrs. Schiff,
It has become necessary that we should draw upon an objective philosophy with which to tell our tale. This is a children's story set in the world of John Galt, who taught the world in his succinct radio address that the philosophies of irrationality, self-destruction, and defeat sustain themselves by leeching off the blood and sweat of men of reason. He has called those men away, one by one, so that the Enemy may defeat itself and the engine of the world grind down. Yet the Enemy, like Virtue, is present in more worlds than one.
This is a story of makers and builders, of children who even as children set their mark upon the world. This is a story to show the dear niece of our colleague C.S. Lewis that the only magical cordial she needs is a devotion to modern industrial medical practice. It is a story, first and foremost, of how not even the foulest witchery can stand before the pure exercise of reason; and we dedicate it,
says Mrs. Schiff, regarding the notes for the next three days of performances, and hoping that the readers will understand that this is literal and the author's note is not the entire performance,
to the spirit of our dear departed colleague Erwin Schrodinger, whom we suspect to be dead but whose actual state we have elected not to investigate.
It begins like this:
One by one, the men of mind disappear from the world. The wheels begin to grind down.
There are four children of extraordinary gifts and greater heart in John Galt's world. Their names are Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy Pevensie.
"Children," say Mr. and Mrs. Pevensie, "it's time for you to go."
Aslan Shrugged: The Wardrobe
Peter, Edmund, Lucy, and Susan travel to a hidden valley. They stay at the home of Professor Galt.
"Professor Galt is perfect in every respect," sighs Lucy.
"I guess he'd make a fine engine," says Edmund. "But men like him should stick to their engines and leave the politics to higher minds."
"Edmund!" snaps Peter. "That's a rotter of a thing to say."
"I just don't see why we have to leave the world to fend for itself," says Edmund. "I want to build railroads."
"My cosmetics are too good for them," says Susan. She's only 12, but already her cosmetics empire rivals Avon. "They want me to live as a slave so that they can be beautiful. Edmund, John Galt is right."
"I suppose," sighs Edmund. "It's just so hard---to just leave them to fend for themselves."
"Right," says Peter. "Still, this is a fine house. Plenty of birds to see and strange rooms to explore. And then the rest of the valley!"
Most of the Professor's house is hallways and guest rooms, like you'd expect, but there are a few surprises. In one room they find a radical new kind of plastic. In another, an advanced Foreman grill, sophisticated beyond anything George Foreman ever created for the outside world. In a third, they find a computing device, more capable than Eniac but small enough to fit on a hardwood desk.
One day, when they are playing hide and seek to sharpen their ability to both cooperate and compete in a hostile market, Lucy discovers that the wardrobe has no back. The coats go on forever.
"Curious!" Lucy says. "Another invention?"
She proceeds inwards through the coats. She travels what seems like a hundred yards, passing more wealth in furs than she had imagined was in all of Colorado. Then she feels something cold and wet on her shoulder. "Snow?" she asks. She brushes at her shoulder. Reason quickly informs her that it is snow.
"And, why," she says, "a lamp post!"
The lamp post shines like a monument to industry. Its light does not die even in the coldest winter. All around it is not house, or hidden valley, or even wardrobe, but rather forest---an ancient forest, in the grip of an unnatural cold. Lucy cannot resist. She ventures out a little ways into the forest, always keeping an eye on the lamp post's reassuring light.
"Oh!" she says.
"Oh!" says another voice. For she has encountered a queer creature. This is Mr. Tumnus, the faun, a creature much like a human but with cloven hooves, and horns, and a taste for simpler pleasures.
"My name is Lucy Pevensie," Lucy says, quite flustered. After a moment, she remembers how a doctor is supposed to introduce herself, and adds, "Doctor Pevensie, I suppose, if we should be formal."
She is fascinated by the faun's legs, which defy normal principles of orthopedics. If he were hurt! she thinks. Oh, let him not hurt them! It should take entirely new techniques and tools to fix such legs. But the first inklings of how to approach such a surgery are already forming in her mind.
"Mr. Tumnus," says the faun. "And you would be . . . a daughter of Eve?"
"Yes, I suppose," says Lucy, on reflection. "Were you . . . I mean, is your condition natural?"
"A daughter of Eve!" declares the faun. "How marvelous! I had thought all your kind had abandoned us!"
"Abandoned?"
"Well, yes," says the faun. "One by one . . . the humans . . . no one knows where they went . . . it wasn't our fault, you know," he protests. "It's all the witch's fault. Not ours."
"I'm sorry," says Lucy. There is something in the faun's protests and evasive attitude that makes her subtly uncomfortable---as if some fundamental component of the creature's soul were absent from her view.
"You simply must come for tea," declares the faun. "You will like tea."
"Oh dear," says Lucy, who spilled the tea at last tea-time. She is not good with formal occasions.
"Well, it's good tea," says the faun, "and you no doubt deserve the pleasure, after traveling all the way here."
"I should like to be warm and adequately nourished," Lucy admits.
So they retire to Mr. Tumnus' abode.
"Tell me about this 'witch,'" Lucy says, in businesslike fashion.
"Oh, no," says Mr. Tumnus. He looks away. He pours the tea. "That's far too depressing a subject for now. We should discuss the latest fashions."
"I'm a doctor," says Lucy, embarrassed. "I'm eight years old. I haven't had time for fashion. I've barely had time for my residency."
Mr. Tumnus looks Lucy's outfit up and down. "Well," he says. He looks down. "Well. Well."
Then suddenly the faun is crying. "Of course you're right," he says. "Of course you deserve to know. I'm a bad faun. A terrible person. I shouldn't have tried to divert you from your course. I can't help it. I'm weak, you know. It's not my fault. I just haven't had the opportunities you've had. I've grown up here, in a medieval kingdom of talking animals ruled by a terrible white witch. I haven't had your human opportunities for medical training and such."
Lucy leans forward. "I can tell that you're good at heart," she says. She puts her hand on Mr. Tumnus' hand. He sniffles a bit more, but the tears are drying. "You want to do the right thing. You're just not very good at seeing what that is."
"Yes," exclaims Mr. Tumnus. He brightens. "Yes, that's it. You will fix everything, won't you? I'll work hard! I'll participate! But there's only so much I can do."
"What's wrong?" says Lucy. "Is it a medical problem?"
"No," says Mr. Tumnus. "It's that all the Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve left us."
"Left?"
"To the far mysterious land of War Drobe," says Mr. Tumnus. "For . . ."
The faun gestures.
"It was Digory Ketterley. He said, 'Look, all of you, upon Aslan---'"
And here, a strange thrill passes through Lucy's heart, as if that name contained every beauty and every joy---
"'Aslan, supporting on his shoulders the suffering of the world. It is through his virtue that all of you may sin. It is through his pain and his labor that all of you are sustained. He is the cause for all your iniquity. Well, it's not fair! Why should he take it? What if the lion that bears up this sinful world were to . . . shrug?'"
"Oh," says Lucy.
"And when he heard these words, it was as if a great burden fell away from the king of beasts, and his shoulders, that had slumped, grew high. And he roared, and it was full of joy and sorrow. And then he turned. And he walked away from us, then, away from the talking animals and the fauns and the women of the wood and the wells, and left us alone, and one by one the humans followed, until there were no more Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve in all of Narnia."
"Oh!" says Lucy. "How terrible."
For Lucy may have been persuaded to leave the world by Professor Galt, but that does not mean that her heart was not a child's heart, or that she could hear such a story and be unmoved.
"We had no one to turn to," says Mr. Tumnus. "No one but the witch. But she is not good at maintaining the engine of Narnia. Since she has taken over, it has always been winter and never Christmas. Only Aslan can bring the spring. Only Santa can bring Christmas. And they do not come. But now you are here. You can fix it. You can make it all right again."
Lucy sighs. She looks down at the table. She clenches her teeth. She is determinedly silent.
"You will, won't you? Say you will!---Oh, your face speaks of such pain!"
Then Lucy's expression clears, and it is only a distant sadness.
"I can't," she says. "If I set up hospitals, if I teach you medicine, if I try to organize spring or Christmas, it'll only reinforce the witch's rule."
"I see," says Mr. Tumnus.
So he takes her back to the wardrobe and she is gone.
Aslan Shrugged: The Witch
All four of the Pevensie children naturally interrogated John Galt about these events. "Do you have a gateway to another world in your wardrobe?" they ask.
"I couldn't make my engine work with normal thermodynamic principles," admits Professor Galt. "So I kitbashed together some dimensional theory. The details, however, are a trade secret."
He grins at them. "Figure them out if you can."
"Rotter," says Edmund.
But he can't resist the challenge in Professor Galt's eyes. So Edmund is the next of them to travel to the wardrobe and investigate the land of Narnia.
In the woods, he hears a distant jingling. Soon, a strange sleigh pulls up, drawn by white reindeer and driven by a dwarf. A white witch sits beside the dwarf as a passenger.
"Hello," Edmund says. He is very cold, and has a bit of a sniffle.
"Identify yourself!" snaps the witch. "You are a very large dwarf---or, perhaps, a snake that has assumed human form?"
"If it please you," says Edmund, "I'm a railroad tycoon."
Edmund looks down.
Honesty impels him to add, "A boy genius tycoon. I haven't been able to actually lay much track yet."
The witch narrows her eyes. "Impossible," she says. "All the boys are gone. Are you speaking the truth? Are you really a Son of Adam?"
"I'm the son of Mr. Pevensie," says Edmund. "But I guess his first name might be Adam. I've never really asked."
The witch looks at the dwarf. There is suppressed excitement in her voice. "We might not have to use reindeer any more. If he could rebuild the Caer Paravel line . . . boy!" she snaps, turning back to Edmund. "I can provide addictive substances and hollow assurances to compensate you for your time. But you'd have to be willing to abide by my regulations."
"I . . ."
"Have you seen the line?" she asks. She hops down from the sleigh. She brushes the snow away from the ground. She shows him the remnant of track.
Edmund's voice catches in his throat. "What metal is that?" he asks.
"It's Plummer Metal," says the witch. "Also called 'Turkish Delight.'"
"You can ensure me a supply of this? For my railroad?"
"Of course," says the witch, airily. She waves her hand. "I'll make sure those lazy dwarf miners fall into line."
"Turkish Delight," whispers Edmund, and runs his hand over the metal. And in that moment, he is lost. He looks up. "I'll do it. And I can get you my siblings, too."
"Siblings?" asks the witch.
"Peter's a military genius," says Edmund. "And Lucy's a whizbang doctor. And Susan . . ."
He hesitates. He's never seen that much value in what Susan does. So he puts it diplomatically. "She could probably do something about that complexion of yours."
"Ah," says the witch. She looks at the dwarf. The dwarf looks at the witch. They are both remembering a prophecy: when two human kings and two human queens sit again at Caer Paravel, it will mean the end not just of the winter but of the witch.
"Are you any good at . . . demolitions?" the witch asks. "For there is a castle in the way of the railroad line, and four thrones that simply must go."
Edmund straightens. "Whatever it takes, ma'am. Whatever it takes."
Aslan Shrugged: The Lion
After their evening tea, Lucy, Susan, and Peter also travel to Narnia. The first step of their investigation is to seek out Mr. Tumnus' home. There they find only a note ominous upon the door:
Closed - by order of the White Witch, under Ordinance 1219.
"Well, that's a thing," says Peter.
"We are too late," says Susan.
"Let's ask those beavers what happened," Lucy says. She points at Mr. and Mrs. Beaver, who are skulking in the shadows nearby.
"I say," calls Peter. "Can you talk?"
"Not that there's been much point in talking," frets Mr. Beaver.
"Animals," clucks Mrs. Beaver. "Everyone's animals these days. But maybe Aslan will fix things."
"I remember the days of Aslan," says Mr. Beaver. "Why, people had moral authority then."
"And trains!"
"But he's not a tame lion," says Mr. Beaver.
"Yes. He showed those witches in Washington what for!"
"But he left us."
"He left us."
"Oh!" cries Mr. Beaver. "What's the use? Who is Digory Ketterley?"
For all that the beavers' words were cold and despairing, still there was a fire lit in each of the children's hearts; for the beavers had spoken the name Aslan, and that name warmed the children from within.
"Please," says Peter. "Tell me of Aslan."
"There's rumors he's back, though," says Mr. Beaver. He looks suddenly sharp and cunning. "If he's back, you'd tell him to stay, wouldn't you? He can't just abandon us forever! Not him, not the humans, you can't just leave, we need you! We're just talking animals! We don't even have opposable thumbs!"
"That's true," Lucy says. "Their hands are quite clever but not really up to maintaining a modern industrial society." She thinks about this. "Still, some kind of prosthetic might be possible."
"If he's back," says Mrs. Beaver, "then it's at the Stone Table you'll be meeting him. That's where that kind of pow-wow always happens. Frightful place. Exploiting the workers, that's what it is. Still, I suppose you have to have people like you. Heads for industry and all that."
"He's a lion," says Mr. Beaver. "The lion, if you know what I mean."
"We're not that bad," says Mrs. Beaver. Her voice is suddenly pleading. "It's just that we don't have any thumbs, you see."
"I do," says Peter. "Strangely enough, I do."
So they travel to the Stone Table, with the beavers nervously trailing behind.
Aslan is there.
It is hard to look upon Aslan. He is clean and tall and great and beautiful. His eyes shine with intelligence. Yet there is something in him that makes all of them suddenly humble, and to uncomfortably look down.
"You talk to him," Lucy says, to Peter. "You're the oldest."
So Peter does.
"Sir," he says, "I love you."
"Yes," agree Lucy and Susan, nodding their heads.
"That is flattering," rumbles the great lion.
"No," says Peter. "It is earned. It is the coin I trade you for your virtue."
"Perhaps," says Aslan. He laughs, rich and deep. "Yet . . . you have mislaid one of your number, Peter Pevensie."
"Edmund?" says Peter. "I'm sure he's around here somewhere. Probably planning a railroad."
"Ah," says Aslan.
"Oh," cries Lucy, for she sees what the others do not---the sadness hidden in the lion's face. "What is it?" she asks.
"Listen," says Aslan.
They listen. They hear the jingle of a distant bell, and the sound of a sleigh.
"It is the white witch," says Aslan.
The witch's sleigh emerges from the trees and stops. The witch stares at Aslan for a good long time. Then, one by one, the witch, the dwarf, and Edmund get down from the sleigh. The dwarf inclines his head, just slightly, to the lion. Edmund bows low. But the witch just stares, and her eyes are strangely dead.
"You came back," says the witch. The words sound hollow and empty in the air.
"I did."
The witch raises her chin, bluffly. "I have a tycoon," she says. "He's a boy genius. He belongs to me."
"I will take him from you," says Aslan.
"You can't," cries the witch. "I need him. Narnia needs him."
"I will take Narnia from you," says Aslan.
"How?"
"Ah," sighs the lion. Then he turns, and his shoulders sink, and he begins to walk to the Stone Table. "I will show him what you are."
The witch's eyes come to life and grow very keen indeed.
"You'll do it, then? The sacrifice?" she asks.
Aslan casts a look back over his shoulder, and the witch goes still.
"I do not make sacrifices," rumbles the lion.
"You could almost see her blood growing cold," Edmund will say later. "Blue beneath the white. She was terrified of him."
The lion lays himself down on the table. "Peter," he says. "Have you a sword?"
Though only 13, Peter is a general in the military of three separate countries, and so he answers, "A dress sword."
"Then draw it," says Aslan, "and cut open my heart."
"I can't," says Peter.
The lion is silent.
Peter's face contorts with a terrible grief and shame. "You cannot ask this. It is too much."
"Do you know," asks the lion, "how spring comes to Narnia?"
Peter looks at Susan, who is the closest to a natural scientist amongst the Pevensie children.
"It's usually fairly standardized," Susan says.
"When it is a winter such as this," says Aslan, "brought by sin compounded upon sin, incompetence compounding inefficiency, the king must give his life to break the winter cold. This is the thing that the witch could never do."
"But how can you sacrifice your life?" weeps Peter.
The lion's words are terrible, and they lash at Peter like the winter cold. "Have I not told you, Son of Adam? Have you no ears? I do not make sacrifices."
"I'm sorry," whispers Peter.
"I am not sacrificing my life," says Aslan. "I am exchanging it for a thing of greater value. I do this for the animals, that they may know another spring; for the centaurs, and the women of the wood and well, and the fauns, and the unicorns; and for Edmund, who was tasted the Turkish Delight and cannot otherwise be redeemed."
"Din't taste it," says Edmund. "Just touched it. Maybe with my tongue. Just a little. But not really tasting."
Peter looks at Edmund.
"I do not do this thing," rumbles Aslan, "because you are unworthy and small. You are not. I do not do this thing to save an evil land. It is not. I do this because Narnia is good. I do this because you are good. I do this because you are worth this to me. Because in a world that seems very dark I will prove to you that you are worthy of my life."
Peter is still looking at Edmund.
"It's good metal!" protests Edmund quietly. "Lighter and stronger than steel, and I bet it's faster-pouring too. You'd've tasted it too."
"I see," says Peter. For he does.
"And now you understand," says Aslan. And he rests his head upon the table and closes his eyes to wait.
Peter hesitates a long moment. Then in one motion he draws his sword and strikes the lion's heart, and the blood of the king pours down onto the ice to bring the thaw. Lucy, playing seppuku second as she has always done---for Susan is too delicate for blood---strikes off the lion's head to end his pain.
"At last," says the witch. "It shall be spring."
Peter looks up at her. His eyes are clouded with tears and lion's blood.
"All shall know it," the witch exults. "It shall be my greatest triumph!"
Peter twitches. He starts to move. But it is Edmund who is standing next to the witch that moment, Edmund whose breath is as hot as a lion's breath upon the witch's face, Edmund whose child's features have gone as cold and hard as Plummer Metal Rails.
"You?" he says. "You would take credit for this?"
Lucy is aware, as she has never been aware, of how terrible Edmund's anger is, and how frail is the power of the witch.
"You would sully this?"
And Edmund has taken the witch by the arm and pulled her around until she is face to face with the lion and the blood.
"This is what you wanted? This is your work?"
"I only wanted to bring the spring," says the witch. "I only wanted fairness. I only wanted Narnia to live. I did what was best for everyone---"
The lion's last breath rattles out, and in the face of that strepitus something breaks within the witch's mind. She confronts at last what she has always known and never spoken in the silence of her soul---that her rule is not one of governance but of destruction, that she has longed not so much to bring the spring but to bring down Aslan and revel in his death, that it is true what has been said, that such creatures as herself are not the oil but the grit in the engine of the world.
She tears her arm free from Edmund's grasp and runs.
There is a silence.
"I don't suppose you've got a job for a dwarf?" asks the dwarf. "I'm a bit of a bastard, and I'll charge you through the nose, but I drive a meaner sleigh than anyone else in the business."
It is a moment of brightness through the clouds of sorrow, and Peter laughs. "I suppose I'll be needing---"
Then the reality hits, again, that Aslan is dead, and his words run out.
"I---"
The four Pevensie children sink down onto the ground, and numbly, in the snow, as the distant rivers crack and rumble with the thaw, they wait for dawn.
"Is there any chance he might come back?" Susan asks, in the last hours of the night.
"It was a fatal blow," whispers Lucy, unhappy with her own medical judgment yet unwilling to abandon it. "We could clone him, perhaps, but I'd say brain death set in within minutes."
"Then why do we wait?" asks Susan.
"Because Aslan is Aslan," says Peter. "A is A. The world cannot survive without him. We are dependent upon the world. Therefore, we must assume that he will return, not because it is reasonable, but because it is the only viable alternative for us."
"We do not need Narnia," says Edmund. "We can go home. Surely, for there is love, there is an Aslan there."
Peter blushes a little.
"What?"
"I closed the door to the wardrobe," says Peter, "while we were inside."
Edmund lets out a long, pained breath. "I see."
"Then we must hope," says Lucy, "for without him, there is nothing left to hope for."
And then it is the dawn.
When we at the Gibbelins' Tower,
observes Mrs. Schiff
first set forth to create a children's story, we discovered a fundamental flaw in the body of literature available to us for use. Children turn to fantasy in search of truths that adult society denies them---principally and foremost, the recognition that it is acceptable to be a child. This is the meaning of magic, after all: that we do not yet know every truth of ourselves, or every capacity in our hearts to arrange the world in the order of our minds. In every case we studied, however, we found that fantasy leads children astray---that it proposes to them the idea that magic symbolizes the adult moralities of the street-corner preachers and snake oil politicians. It teaches that the mysteries of the world are those that flow from gods and rituals and wands and titles and being the heir to an empire of blood. We believe that a mystery is never more or less than the unknown, and that wands and rituals and gods are very much the known. Magic is simply a question mark, and it is our own spirit and insight that in every case provides the answer.
For this reason, then,
declares Mrs. Schiff,
It has become necessary that we should draw upon an objective philosophy with which to tell our tale. This is a children's story set in the world of John Galt, who taught the world in his succinct radio address that the philosophies of irrationality, self-destruction, and defeat sustain themselves by leeching off the blood and sweat of men of reason. He has called those men away, one by one, so that the Enemy may defeat itself and the engine of the world grind down. Yet the Enemy, like Virtue, is present in more worlds than one.
This is a story of makers and builders, of children who even as children set their mark upon the world. This is a story to show the dear niece of our colleague C.S. Lewis that the only magical cordial she needs is a devotion to modern industrial medical practice. It is a story, first and foremost, of how not even the foulest witchery can stand before the pure exercise of reason; and we dedicate it,
says Mrs. Schiff, regarding the notes for the next three days of performances, and hoping that the readers will understand that this is literal and the author's note is not the entire performance,
to the spirit of our dear departed colleague Erwin Schrodinger, whom we suspect to be dead but whose actual state we have elected not to investigate.
It begins like this:
One by one, the men of mind disappear from the world. The wheels begin to grind down.
There are four children of extraordinary gifts and greater heart in John Galt's world. Their names are Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy Pevensie.
"Children," say Mr. and Mrs. Pevensie, "it's time for you to go."
Aslan Shrugged: The Wardrobe
Peter, Edmund, Lucy, and Susan travel to a hidden valley. They stay at the home of Professor Galt.
"Professor Galt is perfect in every respect," sighs Lucy.
"I guess he'd make a fine engine," says Edmund. "But men like him should stick to their engines and leave the politics to higher minds."
"Edmund!" snaps Peter. "That's a rotter of a thing to say."
"I just don't see why we have to leave the world to fend for itself," says Edmund. "I want to build railroads."
"My cosmetics are too good for them," says Susan. She's only 12, but already her cosmetics empire rivals Avon. "They want me to live as a slave so that they can be beautiful. Edmund, John Galt is right."
"I suppose," sighs Edmund. "It's just so hard---to just leave them to fend for themselves."
"Right," says Peter. "Still, this is a fine house. Plenty of birds to see and strange rooms to explore. And then the rest of the valley!"
Most of the Professor's house is hallways and guest rooms, like you'd expect, but there are a few surprises. In one room they find a radical new kind of plastic. In another, an advanced Foreman grill, sophisticated beyond anything George Foreman ever created for the outside world. In a third, they find a computing device, more capable than Eniac but small enough to fit on a hardwood desk.
One day, when they are playing hide and seek to sharpen their ability to both cooperate and compete in a hostile market, Lucy discovers that the wardrobe has no back. The coats go on forever.
"Curious!" Lucy says. "Another invention?"
She proceeds inwards through the coats. She travels what seems like a hundred yards, passing more wealth in furs than she had imagined was in all of Colorado. Then she feels something cold and wet on her shoulder. "Snow?" she asks. She brushes at her shoulder. Reason quickly informs her that it is snow.
"And, why," she says, "a lamp post!"
The lamp post shines like a monument to industry. Its light does not die even in the coldest winter. All around it is not house, or hidden valley, or even wardrobe, but rather forest---an ancient forest, in the grip of an unnatural cold. Lucy cannot resist. She ventures out a little ways into the forest, always keeping an eye on the lamp post's reassuring light.
"Oh!" she says.
"Oh!" says another voice. For she has encountered a queer creature. This is Mr. Tumnus, the faun, a creature much like a human but with cloven hooves, and horns, and a taste for simpler pleasures.
"My name is Lucy Pevensie," Lucy says, quite flustered. After a moment, she remembers how a doctor is supposed to introduce herself, and adds, "Doctor Pevensie, I suppose, if we should be formal."
She is fascinated by the faun's legs, which defy normal principles of orthopedics. If he were hurt! she thinks. Oh, let him not hurt them! It should take entirely new techniques and tools to fix such legs. But the first inklings of how to approach such a surgery are already forming in her mind.
"Mr. Tumnus," says the faun. "And you would be . . . a daughter of Eve?"
"Yes, I suppose," says Lucy, on reflection. "Were you . . . I mean, is your condition natural?"
"A daughter of Eve!" declares the faun. "How marvelous! I had thought all your kind had abandoned us!"
"Abandoned?"
"Well, yes," says the faun. "One by one . . . the humans . . . no one knows where they went . . . it wasn't our fault, you know," he protests. "It's all the witch's fault. Not ours."
"I'm sorry," says Lucy. There is something in the faun's protests and evasive attitude that makes her subtly uncomfortable---as if some fundamental component of the creature's soul were absent from her view.
"You simply must come for tea," declares the faun. "You will like tea."
"Oh dear," says Lucy, who spilled the tea at last tea-time. She is not good with formal occasions.
"Well, it's good tea," says the faun, "and you no doubt deserve the pleasure, after traveling all the way here."
"I should like to be warm and adequately nourished," Lucy admits.
So they retire to Mr. Tumnus' abode.
"Tell me about this 'witch,'" Lucy says, in businesslike fashion.
"Oh, no," says Mr. Tumnus. He looks away. He pours the tea. "That's far too depressing a subject for now. We should discuss the latest fashions."
"I'm a doctor," says Lucy, embarrassed. "I'm eight years old. I haven't had time for fashion. I've barely had time for my residency."
Mr. Tumnus looks Lucy's outfit up and down. "Well," he says. He looks down. "Well. Well."
Then suddenly the faun is crying. "Of course you're right," he says. "Of course you deserve to know. I'm a bad faun. A terrible person. I shouldn't have tried to divert you from your course. I can't help it. I'm weak, you know. It's not my fault. I just haven't had the opportunities you've had. I've grown up here, in a medieval kingdom of talking animals ruled by a terrible white witch. I haven't had your human opportunities for medical training and such."
Lucy leans forward. "I can tell that you're good at heart," she says. She puts her hand on Mr. Tumnus' hand. He sniffles a bit more, but the tears are drying. "You want to do the right thing. You're just not very good at seeing what that is."
"Yes," exclaims Mr. Tumnus. He brightens. "Yes, that's it. You will fix everything, won't you? I'll work hard! I'll participate! But there's only so much I can do."
"What's wrong?" says Lucy. "Is it a medical problem?"
"No," says Mr. Tumnus. "It's that all the Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve left us."
"Left?"
"To the far mysterious land of War Drobe," says Mr. Tumnus. "For . . ."
The faun gestures.
"It was Digory Ketterley. He said, 'Look, all of you, upon Aslan---'"
And here, a strange thrill passes through Lucy's heart, as if that name contained every beauty and every joy---
"'Aslan, supporting on his shoulders the suffering of the world. It is through his virtue that all of you may sin. It is through his pain and his labor that all of you are sustained. He is the cause for all your iniquity. Well, it's not fair! Why should he take it? What if the lion that bears up this sinful world were to . . . shrug?'"
"Oh," says Lucy.
"And when he heard these words, it was as if a great burden fell away from the king of beasts, and his shoulders, that had slumped, grew high. And he roared, and it was full of joy and sorrow. And then he turned. And he walked away from us, then, away from the talking animals and the fauns and the women of the wood and the wells, and left us alone, and one by one the humans followed, until there were no more Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve in all of Narnia."
"Oh!" says Lucy. "How terrible."
For Lucy may have been persuaded to leave the world by Professor Galt, but that does not mean that her heart was not a child's heart, or that she could hear such a story and be unmoved.
"We had no one to turn to," says Mr. Tumnus. "No one but the witch. But she is not good at maintaining the engine of Narnia. Since she has taken over, it has always been winter and never Christmas. Only Aslan can bring the spring. Only Santa can bring Christmas. And they do not come. But now you are here. You can fix it. You can make it all right again."
Lucy sighs. She looks down at the table. She clenches her teeth. She is determinedly silent.
"You will, won't you? Say you will!---Oh, your face speaks of such pain!"
Then Lucy's expression clears, and it is only a distant sadness.
"I can't," she says. "If I set up hospitals, if I teach you medicine, if I try to organize spring or Christmas, it'll only reinforce the witch's rule."
"I see," says Mr. Tumnus.
So he takes her back to the wardrobe and she is gone.
Aslan Shrugged: The Witch
All four of the Pevensie children naturally interrogated John Galt about these events. "Do you have a gateway to another world in your wardrobe?" they ask.
"I couldn't make my engine work with normal thermodynamic principles," admits Professor Galt. "So I kitbashed together some dimensional theory. The details, however, are a trade secret."
He grins at them. "Figure them out if you can."
"Rotter," says Edmund.
But he can't resist the challenge in Professor Galt's eyes. So Edmund is the next of them to travel to the wardrobe and investigate the land of Narnia.
In the woods, he hears a distant jingling. Soon, a strange sleigh pulls up, drawn by white reindeer and driven by a dwarf. A white witch sits beside the dwarf as a passenger.
"Hello," Edmund says. He is very cold, and has a bit of a sniffle.
"Identify yourself!" snaps the witch. "You are a very large dwarf---or, perhaps, a snake that has assumed human form?"
"If it please you," says Edmund, "I'm a railroad tycoon."
Edmund looks down.
Honesty impels him to add, "A boy genius tycoon. I haven't been able to actually lay much track yet."
The witch narrows her eyes. "Impossible," she says. "All the boys are gone. Are you speaking the truth? Are you really a Son of Adam?"
"I'm the son of Mr. Pevensie," says Edmund. "But I guess his first name might be Adam. I've never really asked."
The witch looks at the dwarf. There is suppressed excitement in her voice. "We might not have to use reindeer any more. If he could rebuild the Caer Paravel line . . . boy!" she snaps, turning back to Edmund. "I can provide addictive substances and hollow assurances to compensate you for your time. But you'd have to be willing to abide by my regulations."
"I . . ."
"Have you seen the line?" she asks. She hops down from the sleigh. She brushes the snow away from the ground. She shows him the remnant of track.
Edmund's voice catches in his throat. "What metal is that?" he asks.
"It's Plummer Metal," says the witch. "Also called 'Turkish Delight.'"
"You can ensure me a supply of this? For my railroad?"
"Of course," says the witch, airily. She waves her hand. "I'll make sure those lazy dwarf miners fall into line."
"Turkish Delight," whispers Edmund, and runs his hand over the metal. And in that moment, he is lost. He looks up. "I'll do it. And I can get you my siblings, too."
"Siblings?" asks the witch.
"Peter's a military genius," says Edmund. "And Lucy's a whizbang doctor. And Susan . . ."
He hesitates. He's never seen that much value in what Susan does. So he puts it diplomatically. "She could probably do something about that complexion of yours."
"Ah," says the witch. She looks at the dwarf. The dwarf looks at the witch. They are both remembering a prophecy: when two human kings and two human queens sit again at Caer Paravel, it will mean the end not just of the winter but of the witch.
"Are you any good at . . . demolitions?" the witch asks. "For there is a castle in the way of the railroad line, and four thrones that simply must go."
Edmund straightens. "Whatever it takes, ma'am. Whatever it takes."
Aslan Shrugged: The Lion
After their evening tea, Lucy, Susan, and Peter also travel to Narnia. The first step of their investigation is to seek out Mr. Tumnus' home. There they find only a note ominous upon the door:
Closed - by order of the White Witch, under Ordinance 1219.
"Well, that's a thing," says Peter.
"We are too late," says Susan.
"Let's ask those beavers what happened," Lucy says. She points at Mr. and Mrs. Beaver, who are skulking in the shadows nearby.
"I say," calls Peter. "Can you talk?"
"Not that there's been much point in talking," frets Mr. Beaver.
"Animals," clucks Mrs. Beaver. "Everyone's animals these days. But maybe Aslan will fix things."
"I remember the days of Aslan," says Mr. Beaver. "Why, people had moral authority then."
"And trains!"
"But he's not a tame lion," says Mr. Beaver.
"Yes. He showed those witches in Washington what for!"
"But he left us."
"He left us."
"Oh!" cries Mr. Beaver. "What's the use? Who is Digory Ketterley?"
For all that the beavers' words were cold and despairing, still there was a fire lit in each of the children's hearts; for the beavers had spoken the name Aslan, and that name warmed the children from within.
"Please," says Peter. "Tell me of Aslan."
"There's rumors he's back, though," says Mr. Beaver. He looks suddenly sharp and cunning. "If he's back, you'd tell him to stay, wouldn't you? He can't just abandon us forever! Not him, not the humans, you can't just leave, we need you! We're just talking animals! We don't even have opposable thumbs!"
"That's true," Lucy says. "Their hands are quite clever but not really up to maintaining a modern industrial society." She thinks about this. "Still, some kind of prosthetic might be possible."
"If he's back," says Mrs. Beaver, "then it's at the Stone Table you'll be meeting him. That's where that kind of pow-wow always happens. Frightful place. Exploiting the workers, that's what it is. Still, I suppose you have to have people like you. Heads for industry and all that."
"He's a lion," says Mr. Beaver. "The lion, if you know what I mean."
"We're not that bad," says Mrs. Beaver. Her voice is suddenly pleading. "It's just that we don't have any thumbs, you see."
"I do," says Peter. "Strangely enough, I do."
So they travel to the Stone Table, with the beavers nervously trailing behind.
Aslan is there.
It is hard to look upon Aslan. He is clean and tall and great and beautiful. His eyes shine with intelligence. Yet there is something in him that makes all of them suddenly humble, and to uncomfortably look down.
"You talk to him," Lucy says, to Peter. "You're the oldest."
So Peter does.
"Sir," he says, "I love you."
"Yes," agree Lucy and Susan, nodding their heads.
"That is flattering," rumbles the great lion.
"No," says Peter. "It is earned. It is the coin I trade you for your virtue."
"Perhaps," says Aslan. He laughs, rich and deep. "Yet . . . you have mislaid one of your number, Peter Pevensie."
"Edmund?" says Peter. "I'm sure he's around here somewhere. Probably planning a railroad."
"Ah," says Aslan.
"Oh," cries Lucy, for she sees what the others do not---the sadness hidden in the lion's face. "What is it?" she asks.
"Listen," says Aslan.
They listen. They hear the jingle of a distant bell, and the sound of a sleigh.
"It is the white witch," says Aslan.
The witch's sleigh emerges from the trees and stops. The witch stares at Aslan for a good long time. Then, one by one, the witch, the dwarf, and Edmund get down from the sleigh. The dwarf inclines his head, just slightly, to the lion. Edmund bows low. But the witch just stares, and her eyes are strangely dead.
"You came back," says the witch. The words sound hollow and empty in the air.
"I did."
The witch raises her chin, bluffly. "I have a tycoon," she says. "He's a boy genius. He belongs to me."
"I will take him from you," says Aslan.
"You can't," cries the witch. "I need him. Narnia needs him."
"I will take Narnia from you," says Aslan.
"How?"
"Ah," sighs the lion. Then he turns, and his shoulders sink, and he begins to walk to the Stone Table. "I will show him what you are."
The witch's eyes come to life and grow very keen indeed.
"You'll do it, then? The sacrifice?" she asks.
Aslan casts a look back over his shoulder, and the witch goes still.
"I do not make sacrifices," rumbles the lion.
"You could almost see her blood growing cold," Edmund will say later. "Blue beneath the white. She was terrified of him."
The lion lays himself down on the table. "Peter," he says. "Have you a sword?"
Though only 13, Peter is a general in the military of three separate countries, and so he answers, "A dress sword."
"Then draw it," says Aslan, "and cut open my heart."
"I can't," says Peter.
The lion is silent.
Peter's face contorts with a terrible grief and shame. "You cannot ask this. It is too much."
"Do you know," asks the lion, "how spring comes to Narnia?"
Peter looks at Susan, who is the closest to a natural scientist amongst the Pevensie children.
"It's usually fairly standardized," Susan says.
"When it is a winter such as this," says Aslan, "brought by sin compounded upon sin, incompetence compounding inefficiency, the king must give his life to break the winter cold. This is the thing that the witch could never do."
"But how can you sacrifice your life?" weeps Peter.
The lion's words are terrible, and they lash at Peter like the winter cold. "Have I not told you, Son of Adam? Have you no ears? I do not make sacrifices."
"I'm sorry," whispers Peter.
"I am not sacrificing my life," says Aslan. "I am exchanging it for a thing of greater value. I do this for the animals, that they may know another spring; for the centaurs, and the women of the wood and well, and the fauns, and the unicorns; and for Edmund, who was tasted the Turkish Delight and cannot otherwise be redeemed."
"Din't taste it," says Edmund. "Just touched it. Maybe with my tongue. Just a little. But not really tasting."
Peter looks at Edmund.
"I do not do this thing," rumbles Aslan, "because you are unworthy and small. You are not. I do not do this thing to save an evil land. It is not. I do this because Narnia is good. I do this because you are good. I do this because you are worth this to me. Because in a world that seems very dark I will prove to you that you are worthy of my life."
Peter is still looking at Edmund.
"It's good metal!" protests Edmund quietly. "Lighter and stronger than steel, and I bet it's faster-pouring too. You'd've tasted it too."
"I see," says Peter. For he does.
"And now you understand," says Aslan. And he rests his head upon the table and closes his eyes to wait.
Peter hesitates a long moment. Then in one motion he draws his sword and strikes the lion's heart, and the blood of the king pours down onto the ice to bring the thaw. Lucy, playing seppuku second as she has always done---for Susan is too delicate for blood---strikes off the lion's head to end his pain.
"At last," says the witch. "It shall be spring."
Peter looks up at her. His eyes are clouded with tears and lion's blood.
"All shall know it," the witch exults. "It shall be my greatest triumph!"
Peter twitches. He starts to move. But it is Edmund who is standing next to the witch that moment, Edmund whose breath is as hot as a lion's breath upon the witch's face, Edmund whose child's features have gone as cold and hard as Plummer Metal Rails.
"You?" he says. "You would take credit for this?"
Lucy is aware, as she has never been aware, of how terrible Edmund's anger is, and how frail is the power of the witch.
"You would sully this?"
And Edmund has taken the witch by the arm and pulled her around until she is face to face with the lion and the blood.
"This is what you wanted? This is your work?"
"I only wanted to bring the spring," says the witch. "I only wanted fairness. I only wanted Narnia to live. I did what was best for everyone---"
The lion's last breath rattles out, and in the face of that strepitus something breaks within the witch's mind. She confronts at last what she has always known and never spoken in the silence of her soul---that her rule is not one of governance but of destruction, that she has longed not so much to bring the spring but to bring down Aslan and revel in his death, that it is true what has been said, that such creatures as herself are not the oil but the grit in the engine of the world.
She tears her arm free from Edmund's grasp and runs.
There is a silence.
"I don't suppose you've got a job for a dwarf?" asks the dwarf. "I'm a bit of a bastard, and I'll charge you through the nose, but I drive a meaner sleigh than anyone else in the business."
It is a moment of brightness through the clouds of sorrow, and Peter laughs. "I suppose I'll be needing---"
Then the reality hits, again, that Aslan is dead, and his words run out.
"I---"
The four Pevensie children sink down onto the ground, and numbly, in the snow, as the distant rivers crack and rumble with the thaw, they wait for dawn.
"Is there any chance he might come back?" Susan asks, in the last hours of the night.
"It was a fatal blow," whispers Lucy, unhappy with her own medical judgment yet unwilling to abandon it. "We could clone him, perhaps, but I'd say brain death set in within minutes."
"Then why do we wait?" asks Susan.
"Because Aslan is Aslan," says Peter. "A is A. The world cannot survive without him. We are dependent upon the world. Therefore, we must assume that he will return, not because it is reasonable, but because it is the only viable alternative for us."
"We do not need Narnia," says Edmund. "We can go home. Surely, for there is love, there is an Aslan there."
Peter blushes a little.
"What?"
"I closed the door to the wardrobe," says Peter, "while we were inside."
Edmund lets out a long, pained breath. "I see."
"Then we must hope," says Lucy, "for without him, there is nothing left to hope for."
And then it is the dawn.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Former Chinese Premier Zhao Ziyang's secret journals were smuggled out of China and are to be published May 19th, for the 20th anniversary of the Tiananmen Square demonstrations.
6月3日夜，我正同家人在院子裏乘凉，聽到街上有密集的槍聲。一場舉世震驚的悲劇終于未能避免地發生了。
“六四”悲劇三年後，我記下了這些材料，這場悲劇已經過去好多年了。這場風波的積極分子，除少數人逃出國外，大部分人被抓、被判、被反覆審問。情况現在應當是非常清楚了，應該說以下三個問題可以回答了：
第一，當時說學潮是一場有領導、有計劃、有預謀的“反黨反社會主義”的政治鬥爭。現在可以問一下，究竟是什麽人在領導？如何計劃，如何預謀的？有哪些材料能够說明這一點？還說黨內有黑手，黑手是誰呀？
第二，說這場動亂的目的是要顛覆共和國，推翻共産黨，這方面又有什麽材料？我當時就說過，多數人是要我們改正錯誤，而不是要根本上推翻我們的制度。這麽多年過去了，審訊中得到什麽材料？究竟是我說得對還是他們說得對？許多外出的民運分子都說，他們在“六四”前，還是希望黨往好處改變。“六四”以後，黨使他們完全絕望，使他們和黨處在對立的方面。在學潮期間，學生提出過很多口號、要求，但就是沒有提物價問題，而當時物價問題是社會上很大的熱點，是很容易引起共鳴的。學生們要和共産黨作對，這麽敏感的問題他們爲什麽不利用呢？提這樣的問題不是更能動員群衆嗎？學生不提物價問題，可見學生們知道物價問題涉及改革，如果直接提出物價問題動員群衆，實際上要反對、否定改革。可見不是這種情况。
第三，將“六四”定性爲反革命暴亂，能不能站得住脚？學生一直是守秩序的，不少材料說明，在解放軍遭到圍攻時，許多地方反而是學生來保護解放軍。大量市民阻攔解放軍進城，究竟是爲了什麽？是要推翻共和國嗎？當然，那麽多人的行動，總有極少數人混在人群裏面攻打解放軍，但那是一種混亂情况。北京市不少流氓、流竄犯乘機鬧事，那是完全可能的。難道能把這些行爲說成是廣大市民、學生的行爲嗎？這個問題到現在應當很清楚了。
English.
On the night of June 3rd, while sitting in the courtyard with my family, I heard intense gunfire. A tragedy to shock the world had not been averted, and was happening after all.
I prepared the above written material three years after the June Fourth tragedy. Many years have now passed since this tragedy. Of the activists involved in this incident, except for the few who escaped abroad, most were arrested, sentenced, and repeatedly interrogated. The truth must have been determined by now. Certainly the following three questions should have been answered by now.
First, it was determined then that the student movement was “a planned conspiracy” of anti-Party, anti-socialist elements with leadership. So now we must ask, who were these leaders? What was the plan? What was the conspiracy? What evidence exists to support this? It was also said that there were “black hands” within the Party. Then who were they?
Second, it was said that this event was aimed at overthrowing the People’s Republic and the Communist Party. Where is the evidence? I had said at the time that most people were only asking us to correct our flaws, not attempting to overthrow our political system. After so many years, what evidence has been obtained through the interrogations? Have I been proven right, or have they? Many of the democracy activists in exile say that before June Fourth, they had still believed that the Party could improve itself. After June Fourth, however, they saw the Party as hopeless and only then did they take a stand to oppose the Party. During the demonstrations, students raised many slogans and demands, but the problem of inflation was conspicuously missing, though inflation was a hot topic that could easily have resonated with and ignited all of society. If the students had intended on opposing the Communist Party back then, why hadn’t they utilized this sensitive topic? If intent on mobilizing the masses, wouldn’t it have been easier to raise questions like this one? In hindsight, it’s obvious that the reason the students did not raise the issue of inflation was that they knew that this issue was related to the reform program, and if pointedly raised to mobilize the masses, it could have turned out to obstruct the reform process.
Third, can it be proven that the June Fourth movement was “counterrevolutionary turmoil,” as it was designated? The students were orderly. Many reports indicate that on the occasions when the People’s Liberation Army came under attack, in many incidents it was the students who had come to its defense. Large numbers of city residents blocked the PLA from entering the city. Why? Were they intent on overthrowing the republic?
Of course, whenever there are large numbers of people involved, there will always be some tiny minority within the crowd who might want to attack the PLA. It was a chaotic situation. It is perfectly possible that some hooligans took advantage of the situation to make trouble, but how can these actions be attributed to the majority of the citizens and students? By now, the answer to this question should be clear.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Join Winnie's war and mind your language
Andrew Pegler
March 30, 2009
Sometimes words are not enough, especially the wrong words.
WINSTON Churchill might be well known for the battles he waged in the name of the Allied forces, but it is the lesser-known war he declared on the desecration of the English language that still rages.
At the height of the Battle of Britain, with war all around him, Churchill barked out an edict banning bureaucratese, legalese, officialese, jargon and other gobbledegook in favour of plain English. To him it was the fastest method of conveying concise, unambiguous messages to command.
As a practising plain English editor and writer, I can assure you this battle is coming at us on many fronts, from the supermarket shelves to our national capital. It is fed by intellectual vanity, fear of looking dumb, pesky lawyers (of course) and a public that has been bludgeoned into submission by its heavy, dull, self-important pedantry. This enemy of clarity and friend of the obscurantist feeds off our numb acceptance of it in our everyday lives.
Speaking of pesky lawyers, here's a sample of something I recently had to turn into plain English for a reluctant law firm: "The conditions of chapters 13 and 14 shall with modifications deemed as necessary extend and apply to and in relation to this Section and others, without affect to the aforementioned in the sense of its generality, in particular with the modification that any reference to plastic or plastic products shall be construed as a reference to rubber products also in full." That's 58 words. My solution was: "What chapters 13 and 14 say about plastic and plastic products also applies to rubber." That's 15 words — say no more!
Just as you can't turn a sow's ear into a silk purse, neither should you be turning nouns into verbs. For those out there who practise these verbal gymnastics, I have "benchmarked" your attainment and have decided not to "calendar" you a meeting so "access" your information on your way out my door before I "task" you a spanking. Mind you, it can sometimes work. For example, US visionary Buckminster Fuller once described God "as a verb not a noun, proper or improper". He saw God as not a thing but a doing word. He was a genius and they are allowed to do say that sort of thing. Mind you, he didn't go on to say "I God you", but you get the drift.
Then there's the buzzword salads that slink across my desk and curl up in the corner, staring their evil stare. Buzzword users like to hide in the vagaries of big words. They use "realise" rather than "do", "facilitate" rather than "make easier", or — my pet hate — "utilise" rather than "use". These jumbled assaults on my beloved English seem designed to intimidate, depersonalise and, I suspect, divert the reader from the fact that the writer does not really have an answer.
Scratch the surface and you are in free fall, for these battalions of nothingness often carry no precise meaning. A case in point is the following blast of corporate waffle I was recently asked to edit for plain English as part of an annual report for a finance client: "By analysing and validating strategies moving forward we can better ascertain our total customer satisfaction base and thus better empower our interactive competency team process." In other words: "Closely monitoring strategies teaches us more about customer satisfaction and improves our teamwork."
Not surprisingly, however, it is the bottom-line imperative that will probably drive companies and governments to take up plain English. Recent US research demonstrates that Australian business may be losing as much as $2 billion a year through unclear communication, which equates to about 35,000 jobs. This is based on a US survey of 3000 customers about the promotional material they are emailed and mailed. It was found that up to a third were simply boycotting products that came with bad writing, costing the US economy about $10 billion a year.
However, it's not all bad news as the recent stoush in the US over Facebook's user agreement demonstrates. The company took a public relations belting after the blogosphere raged at it for making changes to its user agreement without notice and without it really being clear what the changes were. The main problem was changes to two sentences that gave Facebook a licence over any content posted on its site even after a user has deleted their profile. In an amazing turn of events for a modern business, Facebook is taking bold steps to recraft its "terms of services" agreement into plain English. If this goes ahead, and if Facebook users start to demand the same plain English language of the other companies, it might set an important precedent for all consumers. After all, real consumer choice doesn't exist unless we can read, understand and then act on information we are presented with. In the words of Albert Einstein, "everything should be made as simple as possible, but not one bit simpler".
Andrew Pegler is a plain English editor and copywriter.
Andrew Pegler
March 30, 2009
Sometimes words are not enough, especially the wrong words.
WINSTON Churchill might be well known for the battles he waged in the name of the Allied forces, but it is the lesser-known war he declared on the desecration of the English language that still rages.
At the height of the Battle of Britain, with war all around him, Churchill barked out an edict banning bureaucratese, legalese, officialese, jargon and other gobbledegook in favour of plain English. To him it was the fastest method of conveying concise, unambiguous messages to command.
As a practising plain English editor and writer, I can assure you this battle is coming at us on many fronts, from the supermarket shelves to our national capital. It is fed by intellectual vanity, fear of looking dumb, pesky lawyers (of course) and a public that has been bludgeoned into submission by its heavy, dull, self-important pedantry. This enemy of clarity and friend of the obscurantist feeds off our numb acceptance of it in our everyday lives.
Speaking of pesky lawyers, here's a sample of something I recently had to turn into plain English for a reluctant law firm: "The conditions of chapters 13 and 14 shall with modifications deemed as necessary extend and apply to and in relation to this Section and others, without affect to the aforementioned in the sense of its generality, in particular with the modification that any reference to plastic or plastic products shall be construed as a reference to rubber products also in full." That's 58 words. My solution was: "What chapters 13 and 14 say about plastic and plastic products also applies to rubber." That's 15 words — say no more!
Just as you can't turn a sow's ear into a silk purse, neither should you be turning nouns into verbs. For those out there who practise these verbal gymnastics, I have "benchmarked" your attainment and have decided not to "calendar" you a meeting so "access" your information on your way out my door before I "task" you a spanking. Mind you, it can sometimes work. For example, US visionary Buckminster Fuller once described God "as a verb not a noun, proper or improper". He saw God as not a thing but a doing word. He was a genius and they are allowed to do say that sort of thing. Mind you, he didn't go on to say "I God you", but you get the drift.
Then there's the buzzword salads that slink across my desk and curl up in the corner, staring their evil stare. Buzzword users like to hide in the vagaries of big words. They use "realise" rather than "do", "facilitate" rather than "make easier", or — my pet hate — "utilise" rather than "use". These jumbled assaults on my beloved English seem designed to intimidate, depersonalise and, I suspect, divert the reader from the fact that the writer does not really have an answer.
Scratch the surface and you are in free fall, for these battalions of nothingness often carry no precise meaning. A case in point is the following blast of corporate waffle I was recently asked to edit for plain English as part of an annual report for a finance client: "By analysing and validating strategies moving forward we can better ascertain our total customer satisfaction base and thus better empower our interactive competency team process." In other words: "Closely monitoring strategies teaches us more about customer satisfaction and improves our teamwork."
Not surprisingly, however, it is the bottom-line imperative that will probably drive companies and governments to take up plain English. Recent US research demonstrates that Australian business may be losing as much as $2 billion a year through unclear communication, which equates to about 35,000 jobs. This is based on a US survey of 3000 customers about the promotional material they are emailed and mailed. It was found that up to a third were simply boycotting products that came with bad writing, costing the US economy about $10 billion a year.
However, it's not all bad news as the recent stoush in the US over Facebook's user agreement demonstrates. The company took a public relations belting after the blogosphere raged at it for making changes to its user agreement without notice and without it really being clear what the changes were. The main problem was changes to two sentences that gave Facebook a licence over any content posted on its site even after a user has deleted their profile. In an amazing turn of events for a modern business, Facebook is taking bold steps to recraft its "terms of services" agreement into plain English. If this goes ahead, and if Facebook users start to demand the same plain English language of the other companies, it might set an important precedent for all consumers. After all, real consumer choice doesn't exist unless we can read, understand and then act on information we are presented with. In the words of Albert Einstein, "everything should be made as simple as possible, but not one bit simpler".
Andrew Pegler is a plain English editor and copywriter.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
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