Language [antikvár]

The Gift of Lan^ua^e Dr. Samuel Johnson's wife, an old story goes, once burst into a room to find the great writer, usually a most faithful husband, kissing the upstairs maid. "Mr. Johnson," his wife exclaimed, "I'm surprised!" "No, Madam," said Johnson, "I am surprised. You are astonished." This probably apocryphal anecdote contains a kernel of truth about language. Few people in any age have been as conscious as was Dr. Johnson of the words they use or the words they hear. Perhaps only Johnson, compiler of the first great dictionary of the English language, would have recalled under such stressful circumstances that the original meaning of "surprised" is "taken unawares." It is a general truth, in fact, that few people are normally conscious of the complexity of the language they speak so casually and easily every day of their lives. They just speak, almost entirely unaware of the subtleties of the word choices they are making, of the grammar they are using, of sentence structure or emphasis. Somehow the appropriate words are formed in the mind. Somehow the speech organs—larynx, tongue, teeth, lips—enunciate the words, all with no sense of effort. Sentences roll out without the speaker being in the least conscious of the rules of grammar that govern their structure. Emphasis changes as if by magic as the speaker's voice or word choice indicates the emotional tone of his remarks. All normal humans do this automatically, as if by instinct. This gift of language is even more remarkable considering that the average adult can pick and choose from a reservoir of some 50,000 words, can make the vocal sounds necessary to articulate them all and can string this wealth of expression in meaningful orders according to the complex rules that govern the use of his native tongue. He can usually come up with the words and phrases that are appropriate to every occasion, enabling him to chatter trivialities or to discuss the ultimate meaning of the universe. When voice or vocabulary fail, he calls on ges- 7