Mitch's Blog

Balderdash

Like many people, I swear a lot, and I’m even a little proud of it. But I have resolved to reduce swearing to special occasions after reading this article in The New York Times: “Why Does Everybody Swear All The Time Now?". And that’s even though I disagree with the conclusions of the article.

Swearing has become meaningless noise, like saying “um” or “like.” It’s just something people say to convey unearned edginess or rebelliousness. Dropping “F” bombs doesn’t make me cowboy, it just makes me like millions of other people who also swear a lot.

As a writer, I am aware of economy of language and too often swearing serves no purpose. Save it for times when it really matters.

As for the Times article: It starts out well enough. Mark Edmundson, a professor at the University of Virginia, talks about the previous rules of decorum for when swearing was appropriate. “These days, curse words fill the air like angry drones – an ambient buzzing of bitter, nasty words,” he says, which is a nice turn of phrase. Also, this: “A sprinkle of salt gives your dinner savor; a handful kills it.”

But here’s the part where I disagree:

When you curse compulsively you produce a view of the world that’s smaller and meaner.

…

Omnipresent cursing, the programmatic reduction of nearly everything, pollutes our worldview. It makes it harder to see what is true and good and beautiful. We become blind to instances of courage and compassion. Our world shrinks. And we shrink along with it.

On the other hand, the willingness to use decent words suggests a decent heart and mind.

To that I say: Bulls—

I mean, nonsense.

I don’t think swearing makes us meaner people. Plenty of great people swear a lot, and plenty of awful people refrain from profanity. But swearing has become noise, and I’m aware it makes some people uncomfortable, so I’m just going to dial it back and save it for rare occasions.

This blog is a dog's breakfast

Dogs start the day with a spoonful of Alpo or some other canned meat on top of a heap of patented, vitaminized kibble. In no time the meal is gobbled down and the dish licked clean and, like as not, poked noisily about the kitchen like a hockey puck, amid waggings. But I can recall another era, when every dog took a quick first look into his dish, to see what was in there. It was different each morning, but might contain a last chunk of pot roast or ham hock, plus gravy, from the previous night’s dinner table, a scraping of scrambled eggs, a slice or two of stale bread, leftover lima beans or spinach, a fresh but limp carrot, a splash of milk, and a half-bitten doughnut. It went down just as fast and probably did no harm, but what I’m getting at here is the old phrase “a dog’s breakfast,” because that’s what this book is. A mélange, a grab bag, a plate of hors d’oeuvres, a teenager’s closet, a bit of everything. A dog’s breakfast.

— Roger Angell, “This Old Man: All in Pieces.”