"I have been but little in," said Ninian hastily...

Most people who know me are aware that I am prey to many and varied irrational enthusiasms and loathings. When it comes to punctuation (a subject that, of course, everyone feels desperately strongly about!), I am a vocal advocate of the serial (or Oxford) comma and a deadly foe of the unnecessary (often called the grocer's) apostrophe ("we sell orange's and lemon's.")

Like the persistent inappropriate use of the subjective case ("he gave the document to George and I"), persistent inappropriate use of the apostrophe indicates a sort of harassed sensibility of "I know I'm not doing something right, but I'm not sure what, so I'll just do the opposite of what comes naturally." Instead of taking the (relatively short amount of) time to learn how to do something right, the user is doing something different, repetitively and intransigently. To me, this says, "I am not only poorly educated, but I am also stubborn and refuse to make even a small effort to learn."

I have a tiny bit of sympathy (though only a tiny bit) for those who use it with acronyms (at least in America, where we still put them in all caps; of the decadent UK, where they have thrown away all decency and humanity and strip their acronyms of their caps, I cannot speak--it is too painful). Obviously, such words have something different about them, and I can understand the clumsy thought process of the prehistoric brain trickling along "It's different. So, when I make it plural--shouldn't that be different too?" But no, Piltdown Man (and Woman): if you put one PATRIOT missile next to another PATRIOT missile, you do not have two PATRIOT's, just two PATRIOTs. Trust me--you're overthinking this, and thinking is clearly not your long suit.

So, how sad does it make me, browsing the latest entry in J.L. Bell's Boston 1775 blog (the blog that makes me want to be a professional historian every time I read it) to see our Great Leader, the Chairman Mao of the USA of A, writing to a fellow officer during the Revolution:

It is unnecessary for me to observe to you, the multiplicity of business I am Involved In—the number of Letters, Orders, & Instruction’s I have to write—

Oh, ouch! General, my general, did you have to do that? But, you know, they just had different sensibilities about these things in the 18th century. After all, if one looks at the paragraph as a whole, there is enough grammatical disorder and mayhem there to set an entire schoolroom full of English teachers fainting and reaching for the spirits of hartshorn.

It is unnecessary for me to observe to you, the multiplicity of business I am Involved In—the number of Letters, Orders, & Instruction’s I have to write—with many other matters which call loudly for Aids that are ready Pen-men—I have long waited in exasperation of Colo. Reeds return, but now despair of it. Randolph who was also ready at his Pen, leaves me little room to expect him; my business in short, will not allow me to wait, as I have none but Mr. Harrison (for Mr. Moylan must be call’d of to attend his duty as Commissary of Musters) who can afford me much assistance in that way, and he, in case Colo. Reed should not return, has the promise of succeeding him.

An unnecessary apostrophe in one line, and the screaming absence of a needed on in the next. We won't even discuss the spelling and the unnecessary capitalisation. Yes, General Washington, yes, you do need a new secretary. Soon.

In all good humour, gentle readers, allow me to remain, your humble and obedient &c.

Reading a SciF/Fantasy book review, I came across this passage.

It’s a literary trope that does exist outside the sf genre, but it’s much harder to find, and in my mind at least is rarely as viscerally satisfying.

Is it just me, or do others feel this betrays the reviewer's astounding lack of familiarity with much of mainstream literature? It seems as if just this sort of self-realisation is a terrifically common part of modern fiction, from Charles Dickens to JD Salinger to Jhumpa Lahiri.

"Level plains of smooth sand—a little rosier than buff, a little paler than salmon—are interrupted only by occasional peaks of rock—black, stark, and shapeless. Rainless storms dance tirelessly over the hot, crisp surface of the ground. The fine sand, driven by the wind, gathers into deep drifts, and silts among the dark rocks of the hills, exactly as snow hangs about an Alpine summit; only it is a fiery snow, such as might fall in hell. The earth burns with the quenchless thirst of ages, and in the steel-blue sky scarcely a cloud obstructs the unrelenting triumph of the sun.

Through the desert flows the river—a thread of blue silk drawn across an enormous brown drugget [a kind of cheap woolen carpeting]; and even this thread is brown for half the year. Where the water laps the sand and soaks into the banks there grows an avenue of vegetation which seems very beautiful and luxuriant by contrast with what lies beyond. The Nile, through all the three thousand miles of its course vital to everything that lives beside it, is never so precious as here. The traveller clings to the strong river as to an old friend, staunch in the hour of need. All the world blazes, but here is shade. The deserts are hot, but the Nile is cool. The land is parched, but here is abundant water. The picture painted in burnt sienna is relieved by a grateful flash of green.

Yet he who had not seen the desert or felt the sun heavily on his shoulders would hardly admire the fertility of the riparian scrub. Unnourishing reeds and grasses grow rank and coarse from the water's edge. The dark, rotten soil between the tussocks is cracked and granulated by the drying up of the annual flood. The character of the vegetation is inhospitable. Thorn-bushes, bristling like hedgehogs and thriving arrogantly, everywhere predominate and with their prickly tangles obstruct or forbid the path. Only the palms by the brink are kindly, and men journeying along the Nile must look often towards their bushy tops, where among the spreading foliage the red and yellow glint of date clusters proclaims the ripening of a generous crop, and protests that Nature is not always mischievous and cruel.

The banks of the Nile, except by contrast with the desert, display an abundance of barrenness. Their characteristic is monotony. Their attraction is their sadness. Yet there is one hour when all is changed. Just before the sun sets towards the western cliffs a delicious flush brightens and enlivens the landscape. It is as though some Titanic artist in an hour of inspiration were retouching the picture, painting in dark purple shadows among the rocks, strengthening the lights on the sands, gilding and beautifying everything, and making the whole scene live. The river, whose windings make it look like a lake, turns from muddy brown to silver-grey. The sky from a dull blue deepens into violet in the west. Everything under that magic touch becomes vivid and alive. And then the sun sinks altogether behind the rocks, the colors fade out of the sky, the flush off the sands, and gradually everything darkens and grows grey—like a man's cheek when he is bleeding to death. We are left sad and sorrowful in the dark, until the stars light up and remind us that there is always something beyond."

Ten pages and 2500 words? How about 16 pages and 4200 words? :-)

I'll put together a summary for you all later--as always, when I finally start in on a paper, I find it even more fascinating than I could have expected.

Right now, though, I have some cleaning to finish and some cooking to do!

My credits page at PlayHisotry.net Rather nice, I think, especially their choice of photo (I gave them several).