Questões de Inglês

What’s in a name? The trouble with lingo

Remember the campaign in New York for garbage collectors to be called sanitation engineers?

Near the top of the strike’s agenda was the matter of getting the respect due to the people doing

such essential work. Unfortunately, the new euphemistic title clarified nothing about the work

and by now is either simply not heard for what it means, or is used in moments of gentle disdain.

[5]  A clearer term may have both generated the respect desired and withstood the test of time.

Clarity and sincerity matter. Terms which mislead, confuse or cause offence can become

a distraction from the real content of public debate. In the search for consensus, since public

understanding is harder to change than terminology, changing the terminology might be a better

place to start. No additional prejudice or emotion should be brought to a debate by the terminology

[10]  used in it. Here are two examples.

Genetic Engineering and Genetic Modification

Despite the insistence of biotech scientists that genes of completely different species are no

longer being mixed, the message isn’t being heard. They insist that they are now involved only

in developments which simply hasten the natural processes of selective and cross breeding or

[15]  cross pollination. As farmers and horticulturists have been doing exactly this, unquestioned, for

years, they cannot understand public resistance.

The problem may well be the terminology. In this context, the words “scientific” or “genetic” have

been irreparably sullied. If “genetic engineering” has, in the public’s view, become synonymous

with the indiscriminate mixing of genes, and if the softer label “genetically modified” hasn’t been

[20]  able to shake off a perception of sinister overtones, these terms might as well be dropped − or

left attached only to experiments in Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory.

Ideally, a new agricultural term would leave out the word “genetic” altogether: it seems to

frighten the public. Assuming it described science’s benign genetic activities accurately, the term

“productivity breeding” is not a trivial call for a euphemism; besides, it would probably encounter

[25]  less public opposition.

So, let’s have new terms for selective cross breeding by scientists who simply speed up the same

process that is carried out in nature.

Clean coal*

If this new term was intended to be clear, it hasn’t worked.

[30]  In “Politics and the English Language” (1946), George Orwell wrote that because so much political

speech involves defending the indefensible, it has to consist largely of euphemism. He insisted

that, in politics, these euphemisms are “swindles” and “perversions” left deliberately vague in

order to mislead. Deliberate or not, “clean coal” is one of these. Aside from being a contradiction

in terms, the name is misleading, creating the impression of the existence of a new type of coal. In

[35]  fact, it is ordinary coal which has been treated to “eliminate” most of its destructive by-products,

which are then buried. The whole process produces emissions. This, though, isn’t clear when it

is simply labelled “clean coal”. The term just doesn’t seem sincere. It’s a red rag to any green.

It’s not asking too much to expect the term describing these procedures to be more accurate. A

clearer term would be less provocative.

[40]  So, what’s in a name? A lot. There’s the possibility of confusion, prejudice, perversions and

swindles. For the sake of fair debate, let’s mean what we say and say what we mean.

SEEARGH MACAULAY www.londongrip.com 

What’s in a name? The trouble with lingo

Remember the campaign in New York for garbage collectors to be called sanitation engineers?

Near the top of the strike’s agenda was the matter of getting the respect due to the people doing

such essential work. Unfortunately, the new euphemistic title clarified nothing about the work

and by now is either simply not heard for what it means, or is used in moments of gentle disdain.

[5]  A clearer term may have both generated the respect desired and withstood the test of time.

Clarity and sincerity matter. Terms which mislead, confuse or cause offence can become

a distraction from the real content of public debate. In the search for consensus, since public

understanding is harder to change than terminology, changing the terminology might be a better

place to start. No additional prejudice or emotion should be brought to a debate by the terminology

[10]  used in it. Here are two examples.

Genetic Engineering and Genetic Modification

Despite the insistence of biotech scientists that genes of completely different species are no

longer being mixed, the message isn’t being heard. They insist that they are now involved only

in developments which simply hasten the natural processes of selective and cross breeding or

[15]  cross pollination. As farmers and horticulturists have been doing exactly this, unquestioned, for

years, they cannot understand public resistance.

The problem may well be the terminology. In this context, the words “scientific” or “genetic” have

been irreparably sullied. If “genetic engineering” has, in the public’s view, become synonymous

with the indiscriminate mixing of genes, and if the softer label “genetically modified” hasn’t been

[20]  able to shake off a perception of sinister overtones, these terms might as well be dropped − or

left attached only to experiments in Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory.

Ideally, a new agricultural term would leave out the word “genetic” altogether: it seems to

frighten the public. Assuming it described science’s benign genetic activities accurately, the term

“productivity breeding” is not a trivial call for a euphemism; besides, it would probably encounter

[25]  less public opposition.

So, let’s have new terms for selective cross breeding by scientists who simply speed up the same

process that is carried out in nature.

Clean coal*

If this new term was intended to be clear, it hasn’t worked.

[30]  In “Politics and the English Language” (1946), George Orwell wrote that because so much political

speech involves defending the indefensible, it has to consist largely of euphemism. He insisted

that, in politics, these euphemisms are “swindles” and “perversions” left deliberately vague in

order to mislead. Deliberate or not, “clean coal” is one of these. Aside from being a contradiction

in terms, the name is misleading, creating the impression of the existence of a new type of coal. In

[35]  fact, it is ordinary coal which has been treated to “eliminate” most of its destructive by-products,

which are then buried. The whole process produces emissions. This, though, isn’t clear when it

is simply labelled “clean coal”. The term just doesn’t seem sincere. It’s a red rag to any green.

It’s not asking too much to expect the term describing these procedures to be more accurate. A

clearer term would be less provocative.

[40]  So, what’s in a name? A lot. There’s the possibility of confusion, prejudice, perversions and

swindles. For the sake of fair debate, let’s mean what we say and say what we mean.

SEEARGH MACAULAY www.londongrip.com 

What’s in a name? The trouble with lingo

Remember the campaign in New York for garbage collectors to be called sanitation engineers?

Near the top of the strike’s agenda was the matter of getting the respect due to the people doing

such essential work. Unfortunately, the new euphemistic title clarified nothing about the work

and by now is either simply not heard for what it means, or is used in moments of gentle disdain.

[5]  A clearer term may have both generated the respect desired and withstood the test of time.

Clarity and sincerity matter. Terms which mislead, confuse or cause offence can become

a distraction from the real content of public debate. In the search for consensus, since public

understanding is harder to change than terminology, changing the terminology might be a better

place to start. No additional prejudice or emotion should be brought to a debate by the terminology

[10]  used in it. Here are two examples.

Genetic Engineering and Genetic Modification

Despite the insistence of biotech scientists that genes of completely different species are no

longer being mixed, the message isn’t being heard. They insist that they are now involved only

in developments which simply hasten the natural processes of selective and cross breeding or

[15]  cross pollination. As farmers and horticulturists have been doing exactly this, unquestioned, for

years, they cannot understand public resistance.

The problem may well be the terminology. In this context, the words “scientific” or “genetic” have

been irreparably sullied. If “genetic engineering” has, in the public’s view, become synonymous

with the indiscriminate mixing of genes, and if the softer label “genetically modified” hasn’t been

[20]  able to shake off a perception of sinister overtones, these terms might as well be dropped − or

left attached only to experiments in Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory.

Ideally, a new agricultural term would leave out the word “genetic” altogether: it seems to

frighten the public. Assuming it described science’s benign genetic activities accurately, the term

“productivity breeding” is not a trivial call for a euphemism; besides, it would probably encounter

[25]  less public opposition.

So, let’s have new terms for selective cross breeding by scientists who simply speed up the same

process that is carried out in nature.

Clean coal*

If this new term was intended to be clear, it hasn’t worked.

[30]  In “Politics and the English Language” (1946), George Orwell wrote that because so much political

speech involves defending the indefensible, it has to consist largely of euphemism. He insisted

that, in politics, these euphemisms are “swindles” and “perversions” left deliberately vague in

order to mislead. Deliberate or not, “clean coal” is one of these. Aside from being a contradiction

in terms, the name is misleading, creating the impression of the existence of a new type of coal. In

[35]  fact, it is ordinary coal which has been treated to “eliminate” most of its destructive by-products,

which are then buried. The whole process produces emissions. This, though, isn’t clear when it

is simply labelled “clean coal”. The term just doesn’t seem sincere. It’s a red rag to any green.

It’s not asking too much to expect the term describing these procedures to be more accurate. A

clearer term would be less provocative.

[40]  So, what’s in a name? A lot. There’s the possibility of confusion, prejudice, perversions and

swindles. For the sake of fair debate, let’s mean what we say and say what we mean.

SEEARGH MACAULAY www.londongrip.com 

Happiness

It was almost nightfall. The whole day: rain, torrents of rain. Drenched to the bone, I arrived in a

little Calabrian village. I had to find a hearth where I could dry out, a corner where I could sleep.

The streets were deserted, the doors bolted. The dogs were the only ones to scent the stranger’s

breath; they began to bark from within the courtyards. The peasants in this region are wild and

[5]  misanthropic, suspicious of strangers. I hesitated at every door, extended my hand, but did not

dare to knock.

O for my late grandfather in Crete!, who took his lantern each evening and made the rounds of

the village to see if any stranger had come. He would take him home, feed him, give him a bed for

the night, and then in the morning see him off with a cup of wine and a slice of bread. Here in the

[10]  Calabrian villages there were no such grandfathers.

Suddenly I saw an open door at the edge of the village. Inclining my head, I looked in: a murky

corridor with a lighted fire at the far end and an old lady bent over it. She seemed to be cooking.

I crossed the threshold and entered. I reached the fire and sat down on a stool which I found in

front of the hearth. The old lady was squatting on another stool, stirring the meal with a wooden

[15]  spoon. I felt that she eyed me rapidly, without turning. But she said nothing. Taking off my jacket,

I began to dry it. I sensed happiness rising in me like warmth, from my feet to my shins, my thighs,

my breast. Hungrily, avidly, I breathed in the delicious smell of the steam rising from the pot.

Once more I realized to what an extent earthly happiness is made to the measure of man. It is not

a rare bird which we must pursue at one moment in heaven, at the next in our minds. Happiness

[20]  is a domestic bird in our own courtyards.

As soon as we finished, she prepared a bed for me on a bench to the right of the table. I lay down,

and she lay down on the other bench opposite me. Outside the rain was falling by the bucketful.

For a considerable time I heard the water cackle on the roof, mixed with the old lady’s calm, quiet

breathing. She must have been tired, for she fell asleep the moment she inclined her head. Little

[25]  by little, with the rain and the old lady’s respiration, I too slipped into sleep. When I awoke, I saw

daylight peering through the cracks in the door.

The old lady had already risen and placed a saucepan on the fire to prepare the morning milk.

I looked at her now in the sparse daylight. Shriveled and hump, she could fit into the palm of

your hand. Her legs were so swollen that she had to stop at every step and catch her breath.

[30]  But her eyes, only her large, pitch-black eyes, gleamed with youthful, unaging brilliance. How

beautiful she must have been in her youth, I thought to myself, cursing man’s fate, his inevitable

deterioration. Sitting down opposite each other again, we drank the milk. Then I rose and slung

my carpetbag over my shoulder. I took out my wallet, but the old lady colored deeply.

“No, no,” she murmured, extending her hand.

[35]  As I looked at her in astonishment, the whole of her wrinkled face suddenly gleamed.

“Goodbye, and God bless you,” she said. “May the Lord repay you for the good you’ve done me.

Since my husband died I’ve never slept so well.”

NIKOS KAZANTZAKIS* http://grammar.about.com 

Happiness

It was almost nightfall. The whole day: rain, torrents of rain. Drenched to the bone, I arrived in a

little Calabrian village. I had to find a hearth where I could dry out, a corner where I could sleep.

The streets were deserted, the doors bolted. The dogs were the only ones to scent the stranger’s

breath; they began to bark from within the courtyards. The peasants in this region are wild and

[5]  misanthropic, suspicious of strangers. I hesitated at every door, extended my hand, but did not

dare to knock.

O for my late grandfather in Crete!, who took his lantern each evening and made the rounds of

the village to see if any stranger had come. He would take him home, feed him, give him a bed for

the night, and then in the morning see him off with a cup of wine and a slice of bread. Here in the

[10]  Calabrian villages there were no such grandfathers.

Suddenly I saw an open door at the edge of the village. Inclining my head, I looked in: a murky

corridor with a lighted fire at the far end and an old lady bent over it. She seemed to be cooking.

I crossed the threshold and entered. I reached the fire and sat down on a stool which I found in

front of the hearth. The old lady was squatting on another stool, stirring the meal with a wooden

[15]  spoon. I felt that she eyed me rapidly, without turning. But she said nothing. Taking off my jacket,

I began to dry it. I sensed happiness rising in me like warmth, from my feet to my shins, my thighs,

my breast. Hungrily, avidly, I breathed in the delicious smell of the steam rising from the pot.

Once more I realized to what an extent earthly happiness is made to the measure of man. It is not

a rare bird which we must pursue at one moment in heaven, at the next in our minds. Happiness

[20]  is a domestic bird in our own courtyards.

As soon as we finished, she prepared a bed for me on a bench to the right of the table. I lay down,

and she lay down on the other bench opposite me. Outside the rain was falling by the bucketful.

For a considerable time I heard the water cackle on the roof, mixed with the old lady’s calm, quiet

breathing. She must have been tired, for she fell asleep the moment she inclined her head. Little

[25]  by little, with the rain and the old lady’s respiration, I too slipped into sleep. When I awoke, I saw

daylight peering through the cracks in the door.

The old lady had already risen and placed a saucepan on the fire to prepare the morning milk.

I looked at her now in the sparse daylight. Shriveled and hump, she could fit into the palm of

your hand. Her legs were so swollen that she had to stop at every step and catch her breath.

[30]  But her eyes, only her large, pitch-black eyes, gleamed with youthful, unaging brilliance. How

beautiful she must have been in her youth, I thought to myself, cursing man’s fate, his inevitable

deterioration. Sitting down opposite each other again, we drank the milk. Then I rose and slung

my carpetbag over my shoulder. I took out my wallet, but the old lady colored deeply.

“No, no,” she murmured, extending her hand.

[35]  As I looked at her in astonishment, the whole of her wrinkled face suddenly gleamed.

“Goodbye, and God bless you,” she said. “May the Lord repay you for the good you’ve done me.

Since my husband died I’ve never slept so well.”

NIKOS KAZANTZAKIS* http://grammar.about.com 

Happiness

It was almost nightfall. The whole day: rain, torrents of rain. Drenched to the bone, I arrived in a

little Calabrian village. I had to find a hearth where I could dry out, a corner where I could sleep.

The streets were deserted, the doors bolted. The dogs were the only ones to scent the stranger’s

breath; they began to bark from within the courtyards. The peasants in this region are wild and

[5]  misanthropic, suspicious of strangers. I hesitated at every door, extended my hand, but did not

dare to knock.

O for my late grandfather in Crete!, who took his lantern each evening and made the rounds of

the village to see if any stranger had come. He would take him home, feed him, give him a bed for

the night, and then in the morning see him off with a cup of wine and a slice of bread. Here in the

[10]  Calabrian villages there were no such grandfathers.

Suddenly I saw an open door at the edge of the village. Inclining my head, I looked in: a murky

corridor with a lighted fire at the far end and an old lady bent over it. She seemed to be cooking.

I crossed the threshold and entered. I reached the fire and sat down on a stool which I found in

front of the hearth. The old lady was squatting on another stool, stirring the meal with a wooden

[15]  spoon. I felt that she eyed me rapidly, without turning. But she said nothing. Taking off my jacket,

I began to dry it. I sensed happiness rising in me like warmth, from my feet to my shins, my thighs,

my breast. Hungrily, avidly, I breathed in the delicious smell of the steam rising from the pot.

Once more I realized to what an extent earthly happiness is made to the measure of man. It is not

a rare bird which we must pursue at one moment in heaven, at the next in our minds. Happiness

[20]  is a domestic bird in our own courtyards.

As soon as we finished, she prepared a bed for me on a bench to the right of the table. I lay down,

and she lay down on the other bench opposite me. Outside the rain was falling by the bucketful.

For a considerable time I heard the water cackle on the roof, mixed with the old lady’s calm, quiet

breathing. She must have been tired, for she fell asleep the moment she inclined her head. Little

[25]  by little, with the rain and the old lady’s respiration, I too slipped into sleep. When I awoke, I saw

daylight peering through the cracks in the door.

The old lady had already risen and placed a saucepan on the fire to prepare the morning milk.

I looked at her now in the sparse daylight. Shriveled and hump, she could fit into the palm of

your hand. Her legs were so swollen that she had to stop at every step and catch her breath.

[30]  But her eyes, only her large, pitch-black eyes, gleamed with youthful, unaging brilliance. How

beautiful she must have been in her youth, I thought to myself, cursing man’s fate, his inevitable

deterioration. Sitting down opposite each other again, we drank the milk. Then I rose and slung

my carpetbag over my shoulder. I took out my wallet, but the old lady colored deeply.

“No, no,” she murmured, extending her hand.

[35]  As I looked at her in astonishment, the whole of her wrinkled face suddenly gleamed.

“Goodbye, and God bless you,” she said. “May the Lord repay you for the good you’ve done me.

Since my husband died I’ve never slept so well.”

NIKOS KAZANTZAKIS* http://grammar.about.com