Post by Croswynd on Feb 11, 2015 15:02:14 GMT -5
The table was filled with a variety of food from throughout the ages. Stuffed pheasant and chocolate pie stood by gelatin and french fries. The scents wafted together and created a heavenly aroma. Ice water, wine and Sprite stood by in jugs, plastic bottles and glasses, to be poured by faceless servants of indefinite age, gender and race.
A tablecloth that would be at home on a king’s table decorated the hardwood table. Swirls of dark and light stood out in tasteful knots across the visible hardwood. Behind the table, a fire crackled and snapped. The fire sent a soft, orange glow across the rug in front of it. A supply of wood was stored nearby, and another servant stood nearby with a poker, ready to prod at the wood should it presume to die down.
A crooked, hunched figure sat at the head of the table in a massive chair adorned with gold filigree. A scroll lay across the table in front of him, and his quill danced across the page. His eyes were light, and a smile adorned his face. A long, white beard hung from his chin and the wrinkles that shadowed at the edge of his lips and the top of his forehead were but faint outlines.
There came a knock at the door, and a servant, helmeted and anonymous, thrust the butt of his spear into the ground. The servant cleared their throat. “Announcing Playwright William Shakespeare, the Bard of Avon,” the figure said, and bowed slightly as the man walked in beside him.
“My, that I am surprised to be here,” William marveled aloud. He was clothed in a simple smock and leggings. His hair fell in graceful curls, and his mustache was well groomed.
The figure at the head of the table looked up and smiled. “So glad you could make it, my dear Shakespeare. To meet the man who contributed so many words to the English language is indeed an honor. Sit, please!”
William nodded happily, and a servant pulled the chair back for him to sit in. He complied with the host’s request and laid his fingers atop the table in a steeple. “Might I ask why I am here, however?”
“Soon enough, you will know,” the host replied with a hearty wink and a cheery smile.
From their right came another knock from another door. This time, a figure dressed in a modern policeman’s uniform held open the door to admit the next guest.
“Jonathan Swift, poet and Dean of St. Patrick’s Cathedral,” the figure said evenly. Jonathan stepped forth into the room, quite dandy and dapper. His hair tumbled down to his shoulders in a waterfall of white.
“Welcome Jonathan!” the host said happily, and gestured to the chair. “The last two guests should be arriving shortly!”
As if on cue, two more doors opened, and the servants gave their own announcements.
“Robert Lowth, author and Bishop of the Church of England!”
“Geoffrey Chaucer, the Father of English Literature and poet!”
Chaucer walked in first, his portly frame waltzing toward the chair immediately. His beard was nearly as well-groomed as Shakespeare’s, and his clothes were of high quality. “Apologies for my tardiness, Host.”
The host waved the apology away. “Think nothing of it!”
In walked Robert Lowth last, his hair as billowy as a cloud. A vest and long sleeves adorned his upper half, and dark pants of rich fabric cloaked his legs. He took his seat without a word, and turned to the host.
“Ah, what a wonderful visit this will be,” the host said, and he rubbed his hands together excitedly. “Eat, eat, my friends, and we shall talk. Much to discuss, there is.”
The guests complied, and they dug into the anachronistic food, watched over by the varied time-period-dressed servants. Not a mention was made of the setting, however.
“If I may ask,” William said first, once an appropriate amount of time had passed in the meal, “though I could understand your servants’ announcements, I’ve not understood a whit of what my companions have said themselves; why?”
The host’s prodigious eyebrows raised, and he tapped a hand against his forehead. “Oh, how could I forget! Thank you for reminding me, William. You, see, each of you are from periods of time far from one another, aside from Mr. Lowth and Mr. Swift,” he added as an aside to the two men on the same side of the table, “despite speaking English!”
“No wonder their words struck me as familiar,” Chaucer said suddenly, and he stroked his beard and leaned back. “As if they were almost the sounds I am familiar with, yet just off.”
“Chaucer and Shakespeare,” Lowth whispered in awe to Swift beside him. “To sit here, and listen to their speech…”
“‘Tis quite a wonder, indeed,” Swift replied dryly. “Yet it would be easier if we could understand each other, no?”
“Indeed, indeed!” The host replied, and he gestured at them with a wave from beneath his voluminous sleeves. “Speak, my friends, and understand. After all, for tonight’s conversation, much must be understood!”
“On that topic, what is tonight’s conversation, might I ask?” William replied curiously, and he looked at each of the men beside him in turn.
“Why, about our shared language, of course!” the host said, as if it were the most obvious idea in the world. “You can tell English has changed from the few moments you spoke in the hint of familiarity. How do you feel about this?”
“Obviously much has changed,” Jonathan Swift spoke up with a slight scowl. “And I wish it had not. I admire the language as it was, not what it is and will continue to be if rules are not set in place to steer it in a concrete direction.”
“Hear, hear,” Robert Lowth said with a raise of his hand. “A strict code should be had, to keep the language from changing toward utter corruption. How can we expect our ancestors to understand our speech and writing, as is already the case here, if there is no limits?”
William frowned at that, and he tapped his finger on the table. “But if limits were to be placed, from what source would new words appear? Where would the creativity inherent in our very selves express? Would you contend to constrict our language until it cannot grow or evolve?”
“Evolution is not necessary,” Swift replied curtly, and he crossed his arms and sat back in his chair. “Or if it is, strict direction is required. One needs look no further than contractions, fanciful terms of art or unnecessarily clipped words.”
“Without change, the language would stagnate,” William argued, and he leaned forward in his chair. “I, myself, created many new words in my large repertoire of works. Would you call those words that you, yourself, still use a pointless and disgusting endeavour?”
Robert Lowth raised his hands up. “Let us not use such words to describe the sanctity of a set of rules. Your contributions were major, indeed, but they were only required because of the narrowness of English in your time. English is large enough now, without need of superfluous terms for ideas and objects we already have.”
“And thus you would throttle the future of creativity from writers like myself,” William replied with a sneer.
“If necessary,” Swift replied with a sneer of equal distaste.
“Perhaps a compromise can be made,” Chaucer spoke for the first time in the conversation. His soft spoken, deep voice was enough to draw the other guests’ attention, as well as that of the host’s. “For I know that language must change, and I see that it can grow in ways I cannot even imagine. My efforts in poetry and literature are credited as the foundation of English as it is known today, though my own responsibility for such a change is quite overstated. Yet I am also the reason some words became used enough to stand the test of time.
“If there is to be a compromise, I suggest this: a detailed look into our language and a catalogue of all the words used. Rules may be set, to stay safe the understanding of English across the ages, but new words and their records may be added, as well. Change is inevitable, but it can be directed, as Swift and Lowth point out. But it may be directed with a steady hand, as William wishes, rather than the kick of a spur.”
“Proposed wisdom from a man far flung from the current time,” Swift said suddenly, and not kindly.
“Respect, Swift!” Lowth hissed. “Though we disagree, an insult to the father of our language is too far.”
“Lowth speaks sense, at last,” William said evenly, with a hint of a smile.
“Current time is not so current as one may think,” the host interrupted before Swift could retort. A gleam stood out in the host’s eyes. “Perhaps you would prefer to see the language as it has become?”
“Become?” William asked curiously, his nose twitching in interest.
“Of course,” the host replied, and he waved his hand.
Knowledge passed between the four men, from their times and modern. English changed before their mind’s eye and ear, and it appeared and was spoken to them as it has become. A light danced in William’s eye, and an easy smile sprang to his lips. Curiosity and wonder adorned Chaucer’s face. Thunderclouds hung over Swift, his mouth turned in a frown. Lowth’s eyebrows drew down, and he tapped the table.
“This is what English has become…” Chaucer was the first to speak.
“What it has become is… barely English at all!” Swift said with a smack of his fist into his palm. “This is why rules are required! It has been corrupted too far!”
“Yet it holds to rules even so,” Lowth said slowly as he recounted the storm of images and sounds in his mind. “Perhaps not as strict as you and I would like, but they do exist.”
“A compromise,” William declared, with a full smile.
Swift looked from man to man, and what he saw was thoughtfulness. Not even Lowth seemed to support his opinion as he had before. Again, he listened and saw English as it was now, and again he felt a distaste creep into his sneer. English was a hodgepodge language, no longer completely English, no longer whole and pure. It borrowed from others and it strayed from its origin repeatedly.
What good could there be in this? Swift thought.
“I do not like how English borrows and assimilates other languages into its own,” Lowth admitted darkly, “but it does adhere to certain rules.”
“I can respect that,” William replied, and Chaucer nodded beside him.
“As can I,” Swift said grumpily. “Though I feel differently from you gentlemen on its whole.”
“We are more of like mind than you may think, Jonathan,” Lowth said with a sigh. “But what we like and what is are two different things.”
“Regardless of our opinions, English has moved on,” Chaucer replied in kind, with a sigh.
“Such is the nature of language and life.” William chuckled.
“Banished to dust, I would rather be,” Swift replied, and stood up. “And it seems that is my fate regardless. Why did you bring us here, Host?”
Host started at the sudden change of subject, and he looked up at Swift. “To see what you imagine, and to share your thoughts here on this paper.”
“For what purpose?” William asked.
Host smiled, and the guests disappeared, blown away to dust. The tablecloth and the food atop it crumbled and dissipated. The servants fell away into shadow. Yet the chair Host resided upon continued to exist, and his pen and scroll did, as well. He sat in an emptiness, and leaned back in his chair.
“To tell a story, of course.”
((This was an assignment for History of the English Language.))
A tablecloth that would be at home on a king’s table decorated the hardwood table. Swirls of dark and light stood out in tasteful knots across the visible hardwood. Behind the table, a fire crackled and snapped. The fire sent a soft, orange glow across the rug in front of it. A supply of wood was stored nearby, and another servant stood nearby with a poker, ready to prod at the wood should it presume to die down.
A crooked, hunched figure sat at the head of the table in a massive chair adorned with gold filigree. A scroll lay across the table in front of him, and his quill danced across the page. His eyes were light, and a smile adorned his face. A long, white beard hung from his chin and the wrinkles that shadowed at the edge of his lips and the top of his forehead were but faint outlines.
There came a knock at the door, and a servant, helmeted and anonymous, thrust the butt of his spear into the ground. The servant cleared their throat. “Announcing Playwright William Shakespeare, the Bard of Avon,” the figure said, and bowed slightly as the man walked in beside him.
“My, that I am surprised to be here,” William marveled aloud. He was clothed in a simple smock and leggings. His hair fell in graceful curls, and his mustache was well groomed.
The figure at the head of the table looked up and smiled. “So glad you could make it, my dear Shakespeare. To meet the man who contributed so many words to the English language is indeed an honor. Sit, please!”
William nodded happily, and a servant pulled the chair back for him to sit in. He complied with the host’s request and laid his fingers atop the table in a steeple. “Might I ask why I am here, however?”
“Soon enough, you will know,” the host replied with a hearty wink and a cheery smile.
From their right came another knock from another door. This time, a figure dressed in a modern policeman’s uniform held open the door to admit the next guest.
“Jonathan Swift, poet and Dean of St. Patrick’s Cathedral,” the figure said evenly. Jonathan stepped forth into the room, quite dandy and dapper. His hair tumbled down to his shoulders in a waterfall of white.
“Welcome Jonathan!” the host said happily, and gestured to the chair. “The last two guests should be arriving shortly!”
As if on cue, two more doors opened, and the servants gave their own announcements.
“Robert Lowth, author and Bishop of the Church of England!”
“Geoffrey Chaucer, the Father of English Literature and poet!”
Chaucer walked in first, his portly frame waltzing toward the chair immediately. His beard was nearly as well-groomed as Shakespeare’s, and his clothes were of high quality. “Apologies for my tardiness, Host.”
The host waved the apology away. “Think nothing of it!”
In walked Robert Lowth last, his hair as billowy as a cloud. A vest and long sleeves adorned his upper half, and dark pants of rich fabric cloaked his legs. He took his seat without a word, and turned to the host.
“Ah, what a wonderful visit this will be,” the host said, and he rubbed his hands together excitedly. “Eat, eat, my friends, and we shall talk. Much to discuss, there is.”
The guests complied, and they dug into the anachronistic food, watched over by the varied time-period-dressed servants. Not a mention was made of the setting, however.
“If I may ask,” William said first, once an appropriate amount of time had passed in the meal, “though I could understand your servants’ announcements, I’ve not understood a whit of what my companions have said themselves; why?”
The host’s prodigious eyebrows raised, and he tapped a hand against his forehead. “Oh, how could I forget! Thank you for reminding me, William. You, see, each of you are from periods of time far from one another, aside from Mr. Lowth and Mr. Swift,” he added as an aside to the two men on the same side of the table, “despite speaking English!”
“No wonder their words struck me as familiar,” Chaucer said suddenly, and he stroked his beard and leaned back. “As if they were almost the sounds I am familiar with, yet just off.”
“Chaucer and Shakespeare,” Lowth whispered in awe to Swift beside him. “To sit here, and listen to their speech…”
“‘Tis quite a wonder, indeed,” Swift replied dryly. “Yet it would be easier if we could understand each other, no?”
“Indeed, indeed!” The host replied, and he gestured at them with a wave from beneath his voluminous sleeves. “Speak, my friends, and understand. After all, for tonight’s conversation, much must be understood!”
“On that topic, what is tonight’s conversation, might I ask?” William replied curiously, and he looked at each of the men beside him in turn.
“Why, about our shared language, of course!” the host said, as if it were the most obvious idea in the world. “You can tell English has changed from the few moments you spoke in the hint of familiarity. How do you feel about this?”
“Obviously much has changed,” Jonathan Swift spoke up with a slight scowl. “And I wish it had not. I admire the language as it was, not what it is and will continue to be if rules are not set in place to steer it in a concrete direction.”
“Hear, hear,” Robert Lowth said with a raise of his hand. “A strict code should be had, to keep the language from changing toward utter corruption. How can we expect our ancestors to understand our speech and writing, as is already the case here, if there is no limits?”
William frowned at that, and he tapped his finger on the table. “But if limits were to be placed, from what source would new words appear? Where would the creativity inherent in our very selves express? Would you contend to constrict our language until it cannot grow or evolve?”
“Evolution is not necessary,” Swift replied curtly, and he crossed his arms and sat back in his chair. “Or if it is, strict direction is required. One needs look no further than contractions, fanciful terms of art or unnecessarily clipped words.”
“Without change, the language would stagnate,” William argued, and he leaned forward in his chair. “I, myself, created many new words in my large repertoire of works. Would you call those words that you, yourself, still use a pointless and disgusting endeavour?”
Robert Lowth raised his hands up. “Let us not use such words to describe the sanctity of a set of rules. Your contributions were major, indeed, but they were only required because of the narrowness of English in your time. English is large enough now, without need of superfluous terms for ideas and objects we already have.”
“And thus you would throttle the future of creativity from writers like myself,” William replied with a sneer.
“If necessary,” Swift replied with a sneer of equal distaste.
“Perhaps a compromise can be made,” Chaucer spoke for the first time in the conversation. His soft spoken, deep voice was enough to draw the other guests’ attention, as well as that of the host’s. “For I know that language must change, and I see that it can grow in ways I cannot even imagine. My efforts in poetry and literature are credited as the foundation of English as it is known today, though my own responsibility for such a change is quite overstated. Yet I am also the reason some words became used enough to stand the test of time.
“If there is to be a compromise, I suggest this: a detailed look into our language and a catalogue of all the words used. Rules may be set, to stay safe the understanding of English across the ages, but new words and their records may be added, as well. Change is inevitable, but it can be directed, as Swift and Lowth point out. But it may be directed with a steady hand, as William wishes, rather than the kick of a spur.”
“Proposed wisdom from a man far flung from the current time,” Swift said suddenly, and not kindly.
“Respect, Swift!” Lowth hissed. “Though we disagree, an insult to the father of our language is too far.”
“Lowth speaks sense, at last,” William said evenly, with a hint of a smile.
“Current time is not so current as one may think,” the host interrupted before Swift could retort. A gleam stood out in the host’s eyes. “Perhaps you would prefer to see the language as it has become?”
“Become?” William asked curiously, his nose twitching in interest.
“Of course,” the host replied, and he waved his hand.
Knowledge passed between the four men, from their times and modern. English changed before their mind’s eye and ear, and it appeared and was spoken to them as it has become. A light danced in William’s eye, and an easy smile sprang to his lips. Curiosity and wonder adorned Chaucer’s face. Thunderclouds hung over Swift, his mouth turned in a frown. Lowth’s eyebrows drew down, and he tapped the table.
“This is what English has become…” Chaucer was the first to speak.
“What it has become is… barely English at all!” Swift said with a smack of his fist into his palm. “This is why rules are required! It has been corrupted too far!”
“Yet it holds to rules even so,” Lowth said slowly as he recounted the storm of images and sounds in his mind. “Perhaps not as strict as you and I would like, but they do exist.”
“A compromise,” William declared, with a full smile.
Swift looked from man to man, and what he saw was thoughtfulness. Not even Lowth seemed to support his opinion as he had before. Again, he listened and saw English as it was now, and again he felt a distaste creep into his sneer. English was a hodgepodge language, no longer completely English, no longer whole and pure. It borrowed from others and it strayed from its origin repeatedly.
What good could there be in this? Swift thought.
“I do not like how English borrows and assimilates other languages into its own,” Lowth admitted darkly, “but it does adhere to certain rules.”
“I can respect that,” William replied, and Chaucer nodded beside him.
“As can I,” Swift said grumpily. “Though I feel differently from you gentlemen on its whole.”
“We are more of like mind than you may think, Jonathan,” Lowth said with a sigh. “But what we like and what is are two different things.”
“Regardless of our opinions, English has moved on,” Chaucer replied in kind, with a sigh.
“Such is the nature of language and life.” William chuckled.
“Banished to dust, I would rather be,” Swift replied, and stood up. “And it seems that is my fate regardless. Why did you bring us here, Host?”
Host started at the sudden change of subject, and he looked up at Swift. “To see what you imagine, and to share your thoughts here on this paper.”
“For what purpose?” William asked.
Host smiled, and the guests disappeared, blown away to dust. The tablecloth and the food atop it crumbled and dissipated. The servants fell away into shadow. Yet the chair Host resided upon continued to exist, and his pen and scroll did, as well. He sat in an emptiness, and leaned back in his chair.
“To tell a story, of course.”
((This was an assignment for History of the English Language.))
