Around the time of the Second World War, both Simone Weil and George Orwell were lamenting the misuse of language. At first glance, this is not altogether remarkable, for criticisms about language’s mistreatment seem constant throughout history. However, both Orwell in “Politics and the English Language” and Weil in “The Power of Words” are writing with a certain heightened seriousness that we can argue is lacking in previous laments over language’s decline. Surrounded by war in a century where possibilities for slaughter were fast proving limitless, understanding how language could contribute to bloodshed was of paramount importance. As a result, the writers go beyond that standard argument we may already be familiar with – that sloppiness in language indicates and produces sloppiness of thought.
No, their goal was loftier than that. As Weil put it, “To clarify thought, to discredit the intrinsically meaningless words, and to define the use of others by precise analysis – to do this, strange though it may appear, might be a way of saving lives.”
Orwell
Of the two, it is Orwell whose essay is more practical. Many of us read “Politics and the English Language” today as a kind of guide to decent prose style. That was what prompted me first to glance at it a few years ago. Orwell begins his piece with a series of examples of bad, careless prose. From these he identifies a few common elements – “staleness of imagery” and “lack of precision” chief among them. He goes into detail, noting problems like pretentious, often Latinate diction; the use of meaningless words in art criticism; needlessly complicated language (generally when we use compounds when a single verb will do); and finally, the dying metaphor – the metaphor which by its familiarity has all the impact of a fish’s flailing upon the whaler’s deck. Orwell then follows up his criticisms by ending with a list of advice that you feel you ought to pin onto your fridge door:
i. Never use a metaphor, simile or other figure of speech which you are used to seeing in print.
ii. Never use a long word where a short one will do.
iii. If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out.
iv. Never use the passive where you can use the active.
v. Never use a foreign phrase, a scientific word or a jargon word if you can think of an everyday English equivalent.
vi. Break any of these rules sooner than say anything outright barbarous.
“Politics and the English Language” was published just after the end of the Second World War. It lacks some of the urgency of Weil’s essay, which was written when she returned from the Spanish Civil War, where she had been volunteering with the anarchists. For Weil, that war was obviously a prelude of the horrors to come – horrors she might prevent, if only she reached the right people with her voice. Orwell, meanwhile, has the resignation of an older man – he was already in his forties, while Weil was my age (twenty-five) when she wrote her essay. Though Orwell’s criticism of bad writing listed above is important, there is an attack on political writing in particular that I consider far more crucial than the sloppiness of aged professors and arts critics.
It is this part of Orwell’s piece that we can read fruitfully next to Weil’s. Orwell’s main problem with political writing is that it uses meaningless words, or at the very least words that have been emptied as much of their meaning as possible. “The word Fascism has now no meaning except in so far as it signifies ‘something not desirable’.” Even “democracy” has no meaning, Orwell notes, except as a thing that is desirable, and hence a thing you use to describe what you personally want.
This meaningless has the result that “words of this kind are often used in a consciously dishonest way. That is, the person who uses them has his own private definition, but allows his hearer to think he means something quite different”. By saying he acts for democracy, a general launching a coup can gather the support of an unthinking population at large, while his real goal is the consolidation of his own power. I say unthinking, because such actions rely on a reflex – the reflexive view that democracy is good, and hence those who claim to act in its name must deserve our support.
Meaningless words allow for reflexive action, while another tool we often use, consciously or not, is abstract language. By replacing specifics with euphemisms or vague terminology, we numb our listeners to the real content hidden behind the words. For “Purges”, read the systematic arbitrary imprisonment and murder of our enemies without fair trial; for “liquidation,” read “murder”; and to give a more modern example, for “special military operation” read “war”. Orwell notes that the key element of such language is that it lets us to “name things without calling up mental pictures of them.” In Orwell’s time, most political writing gladly abused this kind of language – and it wasn’t all fascists and communists’ doing. After all, we were still “pacifying” and “bringing civilization” to the colonies at this time in the Allied world, a great hypocrisy Weil is very critical of as well.
For Orwell, “Political writing is bad writing” because political writing demands this kind of numbing language. “Orthodoxy, of whatever colour, seems to demand a lifeless, imitative style.” The point of most pamphlets is not to persuade, but to set light emotions that have already been charged by a tensed time, while keeping the mind itself dormant. Writers do this by repeating language that identifies the enemy and identifies our own group. Hence “democracy”, or “communism”, or “fascism”, or “dogs”, or “rats” in Orwell’s time. In our own day we might read “woke” or “leftists” or “alt-right” in the same, utterly meaningless way. Such language, emptied of meaning, and packed with group-associations, dehumanises people and also makes concepts unreal. By never defining “woke” or “fascist” seriously, there is no way to understand any associated political programmes in a way that might leave a space open for compromise and finding common ground.
To conclude, we can say that Orwell’s essay argues our goal must be clear language, because clear language is sincere and comprehensible. And because it lacks the evasiveness built into the abstract and the meaningless, it forces us to stay within acceptable moral boundaries in our politics. “We must murder our political opponents to ensure we maintain power” is only rarely a phrase that we can actually say without opposition. If we all actually aimed at sincerity of prose and voice, we would never end up in those rare situations in which such language can go unopposed at all.
Weil
Orwell’s arguments are straightforward and sensible. Clear language is honest language, and honest language keeps our politics in good bounds. Bad language allows for dangerous suggestions, whether we mean for this or not. Weil, however, goes more directly into why meaningless language in particular (words like “fascist” and “communist” and “woke” in their regular usage) is outright dangerous. She is explicit where Orwell only hints at the benefits of clear language, when she says that clear language can potentially save lives.
This is because Weil’s topic, in “The Power of Words”, is language and war. Specifically, it is about the language we use to justify wars. Here we come back to the problem of meaningless language that Orwell spoke of. Weil notes that our modern wars “are conflicts with no definable objective”, a type of conflict that is inevitably most bitter. I imagine many of us would disagree with Weil instinctively. The most obvious example of a war that has a definable objective is Allies’ participation in the Second World War. But now, think of any other war, and the matter becomes much more difficult. We all know that in the case of the Great War the sides “sleepwalked” into the conflict. You can possibly think of some other examples to confirm or deny this, but what is interesting are the arguments Weil makes about the consequences of meaningless war goals.
In any war where the goals are defined, it is possible to “weight the value of the stake against the probable cost of the struggle and decide how great an effort it justifies.” This serves a preventative purpose, as when we define goals in this way, we find that war rarely if ever proves a worthwhile activity. But more important than preventing war, clear goals allow for ending it by making a compromise between the sides’ goals possible. Alternatively, in a meaningless war, “there is no longer any common measure or proportion”, and thus a compromise is impossible – including with ourselves, about the worthiness of fighting at all.
No war can be entirely meaningless but the meaning that fills a meaningless war is an extremely dangerous one. The only possible meaning for a meaningless war is the cost of it, in other words the sacrifices and pains it has demanded. This is unavoidable, except by having a real goal, and it results in wars that are self-perpetuating, and last until both nations are utterly ruined. In such a war, the argument “the dead do not wish it”, cannot be fought against, because there are no real objectives to measure the necessary future sacrifices with. And so, we fight, we die, and we water the grass with our blood.
The Trojan War, over Helen, is an example of a meaningless conflict. Helen was just a symbol, and like a chalice filling with blood she gained her meaning as men died for her. But in Weil’s world, “the role of Helen is played by words with capital letters.” Words like fascist or communist have limited meanings except to identify, as noted above, an in-group and an out-group. This prevents the limited practical differences between the totalitarian regimes of the USSR and Hitler’s Germany, for example, from being an obstacle to them declaring each other mortal enemies. The capitalisation of such words takes away any practical meaning to them and thus the concreteness that, again, might allow compromise.
These meaningless words which serve only to create the conditions for bloodshed are not limited to those hefty ideological words, though. “National interest” and “national security” are other examples of words whose meaning appears neutral, but which under Weil’s gaze reveal themselves to be primarily about securing the resources to succeed in war. Because success in any potential war is based on ensuring that others do not succeed, national interest inevitably leads to national conflict, and compromises are impossible where there can be only success and failure.
A binary choice, victory or defeat, success, or failure, are the rails which these abstract, capitalised words force us to travel along. For Weil, this is insanity. Everything, for her, lies upon a spectrum. This is the way of thinking which she wants us to adopt in our own lives. When there are no absolutes, distinctions can always be drawn, and ground shifted between positions to allow for a compromise.
By contrast, once we think only in isms and absolutes, murder appears permissible. When we cannot kill capitalism, for it is too abstract to wound with blade or bomb, we decide to kill capitalists instead. Everything soon becomes justifiable when the goal is an ill-defined victory. What shocks Weil is the way that human beings seemingly will choose death and violence over actually interrogating the meaning of the words that they are using to justify the most barbarous acts: “apparently it is easier to kill, and even to die, than to ask ourselves a few quite simple questions.” It is disappointing that this really does seem to be the case.
Similarities and Differences
Both Orwell and Weil in these essays take language as their topic, and they follow a well-travelled path in deploring contemporary language’s lack of clarity. Orwell focuses on how abstract and vague language numbs us to potentially horrific facts, ultimately allowing us to tolerate the intolerable – colonialism, totalitarianism, and so on. Weil is less interested in giving writing advice. The words that are her enemies in “The Power of Words” are not just words on the page, or even words in speeches, but words in the mind. Given capital letters and made abstractions, they carry us into conflicts that we cannot end because they brook no compromise by denying common ground or any sense of measurement and limit.
Orwell’s call in “Politics and the English Language” is primarily to write better, so that we might think better and avoid bad positions; Weil demands instead that we interrogate what we believe and set ourselves up to think according to “the ideas of limit, measure, degree, proportion, relation, comparison, contingency, interdependence, interrelation of means and ends”. Both writers’ messages are important, but Weil’s one is the more urgent and more lofty.
It will not have escaped readers’ notice that there is a hot war going on at the time of writing, and plenty of internal conflict closer to home for those who live outside the combatants’ lands. These two essays provide guidance about the ways that language plays into creating and sustain such violent divisions, whether they are physical or still as yet merely verbal. That clarity is a virtue is undeniable. And Orwell’s essay is such a joy to read that everyone should study it as a model for effective prose.
But Weil’s essay, to my mind, is the more important at the present time. The ongoing war is for one side utterly meaningless, and for the other in danger of becoming abstracted in the way Weil warns against. It is easy, when suffering greatly, to make sacrifice one’s argument for continuing battle. But this makes compromise impossible and thus anything except a peace reached through exhaustion. That is not to deny that the one side’s stated goals are reasonable and generally moral. But there must be a limit to the cost we are willing to put in for that victory, no matter how moral or even just that victory may be. By losing sight of Weil’s ideas of boundaries and proportion, we can fall into a situation where inertia and the blood already clogging the trenches are preventing the thing that is almost certainly most worthwhile of all: peace.