[“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet.” Turns out Shakespeare got this one wrong. As Margaret Atwood points out in her blog, every revolution is immediately followed by a massive wave of re-naming. SB SM]
In the Writing Burrow
Whatever comes into my addled, shrinking brain.
DEC 13, 2023
I was born in the Dark Ages before there were smart phones or even personal computers. So I know much arcane lore lost to view, such as how to mend socks. I write all kinds of things. Sometimes I draw comix. I ramble on.
This is the inside of the 15th century Saint Salvator’s Chapel at St. Andrews University in Scotland. Pretty gorgeous eh? From that pulpit to the right of the picture, I preached a sermon to those graduating on November 29. This is what I said:
Good morning, and congratulations to the graduating class. I feel extremely privileged to be sermonizing in this beautiful building, which is not being bombed by drones or rockets, and in which I can practice “free speech” and express displeasing opinions without being imprisoned or shot by the government in power – a privilege that many today do not enjoy.
The title of my sermon is “Who Says What’s What?” The text is from Genesis 2:19: “And out of the ground the Lord God formed every beast of the field, and every fowl of the air; and brought them unto Adam to see what he would call them; and whatsoever Adam called every living creature, that was the name thereof.”
The act of naming is the first thing Adam does after being created; and it is the second thing God does: he names the sun, moon, and stars. What things are called was evidently of great importance to God, and it is indeed of great importance to us humans – we are the only hominid species (jury’s out on the Neanderthals) who have a complex grammar with a past perfect and a future perfect tense. Fido the dog can remember his dinnertime, but he will never ask himself, “Where did dogs come from in the first place?” or “Where will I, Fido, go once I am dead?” – leaving us to wonder whether grammar created theology, or the other way around – a displeasing question that would have had me frying at the stake a few hundred years ago. You see how dangerous words can be.
Naming is very powerful; which is why, at times of revolution, regime change, and swift vacillations in public opinion, there is so much re-naming. Statues are pulled down, histories are re-written, and the names of countries, cities, and streets are replaced. That’s been going on at least since Ancient Egypt. More recently: the U.S.S.R. dissolved and Leningrad went back to being St. Petersburg; the First World War broke out and the Canadian city of Berlin changed its German name to the safer one of Kitchener; during the burn-it-all-down high times of the French Revolution, the months of the year were renamed – Brumaire for late fall because it was misty, Thermidor for high summer because it was hot –and the 365 days were given individual names — those of agriculturally related items, such as Turnip, Manure, and Watering Pot. This scheme was a well-meaning tribute to peasant labours; but “Let’s have lunch on Manure” does not exactly spark joy. This calendar didn’t last long.
Our own time is also rife with burn-it-all-down movements, not only on the sloganeering MAGA and Brexiteering Right but also on the virtue-signalling I-am-Purer-than-You left. Both would do well to study the French Revolution – the template for all revolutions since, including the Russian one, the Italian and German mid-century ones which were revolutions of the right, and the Chinese one. The pattern has been: justified anger and the best of intentions to begin with, followed by economic chaos, increased polarization, power struggles, mob violence, an orgy of renaming, a blood-soaked period of Terror followed by a violent reaction, economic chaos, and finally along comes I-alone-can-fix-it Napoleon – grabbing power, crowning himself Emperor, and then responsible for the deaths of millions. I myself am off to see the film Napoleon as soon as possible, partly because one critic said Napoleon sounds like “a perverted horse.” (Having once been told that I sound like “a nasal telephone operator, I’m sensitive to these things.) “Perverted horse” – what does that mean? Can a horse even be perverted, and who’s to say what “perverted” is, anyway?
As a young child, the Victorian writer, John Ruskin, preached a very short sermon: “People, be good.” How cute, we think, and how true – if people only would be good! But hang on a minute: who defines what is good? There are wildly differing opinions.
Similar often-used words prove equally evasive. For instance, what does “progressive” mean? That you’re in favour of eugenics, and of sterilizing women against their wills? It once did mean that. How about “conservative”? It used to mean the very opposite of mob rule and enforced conformity – but not anymore. How about “feminism”? Do you mean that women should have equal rights under the law, or that – as one brand has it – all men should be shoved off a cliff, with a few kept for breeding purposes? Does “liberal democracy” mean a tolerance for plurality, or is it just – as some say – an excuse for rampant capitalism? Perhaps it’s time to translate such loosely-used terms back into their precise meanings. Otherwise, they will more and more come to resemble the phrase “perverted horse” – words, but what if anything do they denote?
According to Albert Speer, Hitler’s lead architect, “what distinguished the Third Reich from all previous dictatorships was its use of all the means of communication to sustain itself and to deprive its objects of the power of independent thought.” The conditions for a similar control already exist. Lazy and vague language is likely to cover either a nothingness or a horror.
Language is slippery. But as the story of Adam’s naming act tells us, it’s also crucial. A phrase from one of my poems is often quoted: “A word after a word after a word is power.” That’s true, but there’s a caveat: those words are not necessarily benign. Like every human tool, words can be used to create or to destroy.
So use your words of power. But use them with care. Use them precisely, to say what you actually mean. Use them to interrogate sloppy speech. Use them justly and truly: do they really apply to the case in point? Use them to name your own fears, which can be the most powerful naming act of all.
The task of true naming is ongoing. It will be your task now. I wish you the very best of luck with it.
Farewell; which means goodbye. But it also means: fare well. May your journey prosper.
© 2023 Margaret Atwood