Skip to main content

Language and our capacity to communicate

So many articles of late lament the nature of public discourse. The dog whistles, the sound bites, the 'spin', the cliches. Kate Holden yesterday and Barry Jones today. The discussion of ideas, the debates on merit are lost to shrill positions which play to prejudices.

The death of Robert Hughes yesterday sent me back to his tomes-magnificent books on art The Shock of the New, my inscribed copy of American Visions, his ode to fishing A Jerk on the End and his magnificent piece on Australian history, The Fatal Shore. Hughes in The Fatal Shore describes the delineation of language by land, landscape, rivers, ridges and other natural barriers. Tribes around Sydney Harbour spoke different languages, and they had no need to learn each others' tongues as their self sufficient lifestyle made them content where they were, in a land replete with food and the harbour filled with fish.

We observe the world and make sense of it-interpret and reflect on the experience which is ours. Hughes says his fishing taught him much about art-the observation, the attention to tiny changes, the effects of light through water, the movement of ripples and what they meant.

We assume our take on the world as natural-to us it is. But with the rise of online comment, has our language, and with it, our ideas, begun to degenerate? I wonder if the immediacy of comment, the rush to make note first has made our reflections intemperate. This seems fairly obvious. Even the tools of emoticons and buttons to 'tweet' and 'like' and 'favourite' and 'retweet' and 'share' speak to a language of reduction. These forums are not the place for reflection.

The trolls are out and about in the world of online opinion. Today I read that Age/SMH blogger John Birmingham has had to increase monitoring and blocking due to the vile exchanges which fill his comments streams. Sullied waters. These rivers of mud blur true meaning too-hate-filled idealogues spew ill thought spears at each other.

My father might be losing his tongue...


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

A morning too early, a morning too late

Sensing  the  future It was our last morning in New York City. It was a morning too early to be leaving, and as it turned out, a morning too late. Dad was on his final lap of life, and we were making a dash home to cheer him along as he hit the home straight .  I went down to breakfast with a heavy heart. The bar was buzzing. Halloween scenes were already playing out in the streets. A kind waiter asked me 'have you got your costume sorted for tonight?' To which I stumbled, 'no...I I I have to go home. My dad's sick...' and began to cry. The dear boy was shocked, 'Oh, I'm so sooorreeee. Do you wanna hug?' I could barely breathe. NO, I managed. I ate cereal alone, and had grapefruit juice. Dad loved grapefruit. I packed the last of my things, and stumbled out through the lobby, past glamorous girls in fabulous costumes. Mark had already run off to explore the neighbourhood after checking out of the hotel early. It didn't seem...

Coming of Age

The bricks were always cold underneath my bum. Cold and hard. I could feel their sharp edges. In the nights we sat and talked, my brother and I and the neighbourhood boys. The smells of sour smoke and saliva on one, body odour on another, and menace on the other. The fluorescent globes hummed from the train station platform across the road, and the street lights pooled at the corner. Inside was out of bounds to these boys, so we met on our side stairs. The frosted glass door between us and our home. These were the kids we didn’t trust, the boys from the wrong side of the tracks. Where were their parents? Absent fathers, unsighted mothers, these boys roamed the streets and set me on edge. The attraction to the dirt, to the smell of one’s mouth...I can still feel it now. It was an urge, but not an infatuation.  The hearts of these boys remained hidden. It was as if they walked in costumes, played their parts, and kept their distance. One day, my mum greeted me at...

Shadow of the Oaks

As soon as I saw it, I wished I hadn't. There was something deadly ominous about the darkened room. Bare wood floors, panelled wood walls, slices of weak light coming in through the long, autumnal windows. Funereal. I could hardly process it.  A sign. The room was empty, the service cancelled, the food and drink all dried up. Finished.  It was our last day in New York, and we had returned to the Oak Room at The Plaza to toast Dad with a negroni. At this stage, when we knew he was fading, e ach negroni seemed like a communion .  The Plaza was one of the places him and mum had honeymooned. The last time we'd been in NYC, with kids in tow, we had blown a couple of hundred dollars on fancy burgers and lemonades for the kids, and champagne and wine with dinner for us. Spending mum and dad's trip gift money.  That was nearly 5 years earlier. We had taken our girl to look for Eloise , the little literary inhabitant of the Plaza...