In the Land of Invented Languages

by Arika Okrent

  Winston Churchill, himself a tireless advocate of plain language, was a fan of Basic English and made efforts to promote it. He thought it could help create a different kind of empire, one based not on “taking away other people’s provinces or land or grinding them down in exploitation” but on a shared language. He encouraged the BBC to take it to the airwaves and teach it far and wide.

  He also appealed to President Roosevelt to join the cause of Basic English. Roosevelt promised to look into the matter, but he couldn’t resist teasing that Churchill’s inspiring speech about offering his “blood, toil, tears, and sweat” to his country may have been less effective if he “had been able to offer the British people only blood, work, eye water and face water, which I understand is the best that Basic English can do with five famous words.”

  For all they did to argue for its virtues, neither Churchill nor Ogden actually used Basic English in their own writings. They rather took luxurious advantage of English vocabulary. But Ogden didn’t really intend for Basic English to replace full English. It was to serve as a second, auxiliary language, a utilitarian lingua franca. He advertised two other benefits. For foreigners, it would serve as an easy entrée into fuller English. For English speakers, it would serve as “an apparatus for the development of clarity of thought and expression.”

  I’m not so sure Basic English fit the bill on either point. Although sometimes the Basic English version is clearer (“First, God made the heaven and the earth.” I like that. It’s snappy), at other times it seems to strangle itself on its own restrictions:

  Seven and eighty years have gone by from the day when our fathers gave to this land a new nation—a nation which came to birth in the thought that all men are free, a nation given up to the idea that all men are equal.

  “Came to birth in the thought that all men are free”? How does that clarify things? And if you don’t speak English, how are you supposed to know that “given up to” means “dedicated to”? Just because you are familiar with the “operator” words that Ogden expected to bear the brunt of so much meaning, you don’t necessarily have any idea what they mean when put together. It is precisely those words, and the huge number of idioms they participate in, that make English such a headache for the non-native speaker. You haven’t really solved much by replacing “happen” with “come about,” “tease” with “make sport,” or “intend” with “have a mind to.”

  In 1943, Churchill touted Basic English in a speech at Harvard, and soon the reporters were at Ogden’s doorstep. He received them wearing a mask and, over the course of the interview, exited and entered the room through different doors, each time wearing a different mask. This behavior was a symptom of his generally irreverent attitude and what friends called his “impish humor.” He wore masks on other occasions, explaining that when the speaker wears a mask, the listener is forced to pay attention to the content of the speech. Whatever the content of his speech that day, he did nothing to dispel the impression that Basic English was kind of a kooky idea. When Churchill left office in 1945, officials at the BBC suggested that Basic English be left “on a high shelf in a dark corner.”

  Ogden’s plan wasn’t without merit. The promotion of plain language is a fine idea and I’m all for it. A simplified form of English is clearly a good thing for someone trying to learn the language. In 1959, two years after Ogden’s death, the Voice of America began broadcasting news stories in something they called Special English, and these programs are still popular today in non-English-speaking countries all over the world. Special English is simplified, but not according to any particular theory or rules. It doesn’t have anything against verbs, and while it has a core vocabulary of fifteen hundred words, other terms are introduced when they are needed, along with brief explanations. The few rules it does claim—no passive voice, one idea per sentence—are violated when they interfere with sensible judgment. It is what Basic English probably would have become if Ogden wasn’t so hung up on grand philosophical justifications for his system. Or with having it be a “system” rather than a loose set of guidelines.

  Basic English also might have had a better chance if Ogden had been a little less eccentric. But it almost didn’t matter what his personality was like, for by the time he came along, the whole endeavor of inventing or even manipulating a language had been so thoroughly tainted with the eau de quackery that even the most sober, sensible language inventor had little hope of being taken seriously.

  Language schemes had always been viewed a little skeptically. John Locke, a contemporary of Wilkins’s, said he didn’t think that anyone could “pretend to attempt the perfect reforming the languages of the world, no not so much as of his own country, without rendering himself ridiculous.” But in the seventeenth century, highly prestigious people were working on the development of philosophical languages, and their work was circulated and discussed among the biggest names of the day.

  And although at the beginning of the era of international languages, plenty of jokes were made at the expense of Volapük and Esperanto and other languages that came to public attention, they did get attention, and sometimes from quite esteemed sources. Respected institutions like the American Philosophical Association and the American Association for the Advancement of Science got involved in the international language question, and major papers reported on the different projects as they came out. Esperanto got a lot of press. In 1910, when the sixth universal Esperanto congress was held in Washington, D.C., the Washington Evening Star carried the headline “Zamenhof Alvenas” (Zamenhof Arrives), and the Washington Post ran daily stories on the program of events.

  Public recognition of invented languages manifested itself in other ways, too. A Scottish company produced an Esperanto cigarette (“The international smoke”), and Cadbury manufactured an Esperanto chocolate. When the universal congress was held in Barcelona, the king of Spain sent a horse-drawn carriage to pick Zamenhof up on his arrival. Later, as Zamenhof traveled south to Valencia, groups of people came out to greet his train at different stations, waving and cheering him on.

  As time went on and the crackpot element of Esperanto society became more pronounced, people concerned about their public image became less willing to be associated with it. And as the number of invented languages increased to the point where the language inventors were (in the words of one newspaper editorial) fixing to “out-Babel Babel,” the newspapers and the scientific academies stopped paying attention.

  Hundreds of language projects were published at the beginning of the twentieth century, and many of them were second or third attempts by people who weren’t quite satisfied with their own original “optimal” solutions. Language inventors are, after all, motivated by the urge to reform and improve, and many of them, once they got going, found it hard to stop. They grew dissatisfied with their own projects and continued to tinker and adjust, publishing revised versions of their languages. Ernst Beermann, not satisfied with his Novilatiin (1895), later created Novilatin (1907). Woldemar Rosenberger (onetime director of the Volapük Academy) created Idiom Neutral (1902), followed by Idiom Neutral Reformed (1907), followed by Reform-Neutral (1912). Some of the most prolific producers were former Volapükists, such as Julius Lott, who gave us Verkehrssprache (1888), Compromiss-Sprache (1889), Lingua Internazional (1890), Mundolingue (1890), and Lingue International (1899); or Esperantists, such as René de Saussure (brother of Ferdinand, the father of modern linguistics), who gave us Antido I (1907), Antido II (1910), Lingvo Kosmopolita (1912), Esperantida (1919), Nov-Esperanto (1925), Mondialo (1929), Universal-Esperanto (1935), and Esperanto II (1937).

  One particularly productive multiple offender was Elias Molee, the author of American Language (1888), Pure Saxon English (1890), Tutonish (1902), Niu Teutonish (1906), Altuto-nish (1911), Alteutonik (1915), Dynamic Language (1921), and Toito Spike (1923). Molee was born in Muskego, Wisconsin, to recently arrived Norwegian immigrant parents. In his autobiography, molee’s wandering (written without capital letters, wh
ich he considered “cruel, non-ethical, non-artistic, and non-scientific”), he describes an idyllic childhood spent listening to tales of Norse mythology in his family’s log cabin, eating “good pancakes with milk in e dough n much egg n butter in it,” and roaming the fields picking fresh berries, plums, and nuts with the local children. Most of the neighboring families were Norwegian, but there were also quite a few Germans, as well as one or two English-speaking American households. As the children played, they developed their own little dialect, which they used to communicate with one another: “1 day we caught hold of 1 or 2 english words from henry n mary adams, at another time, 1 or 2 words from otto n emma shumaker in low german, sometimes they learned 1, 2, or 3 words from e tveite or e molee children in norwegian, as e norwegian n german children were e most numerous, e new union language leaned largely toward e teutonic side with very few latin words.” They called their language “tutitu” and even used it to act as interpreters between their parents.

  Molee later attended Luther College in Iowa and studied languages at Albion Academy and the University of Wisconsin. He did not like having to study Latin and Greek, and resented the way their influence made English more difficult than it needed to be. He once read a sermon and didn’t understand the word “cacophonous.” He “felt chagrined and humbled to think that after graduating at an American Academy and after having studied so as to speak and enjoy several languages, after having learned considerable Latin and a little Greek, yet I could not understand so popular a production as a sermon.” As far as he was concerned, English had ceased to be a great language with the Norman Conquest. Why couldn’t it be more like the “teutonic” languages, he thought, such as German, which instead of the Greek-based “cacophonous” has its own word, übellautend (ill sounding), formed out of its own Germanic roots?

  Molee began to work on a language with a consistent spelling system and a regular grammar that was based on common Germanic roots. He started with American Language or Germanic English (1888):

  “Then drew near all the publicans and sinners for to hear him.” (Luke 15:1)

  This then became Pure Saxon English (1890):

  “Your highly welcome letter was brought to me yesterday.”

  This was followed a little more than a decade later by Tutonish(1902):

  dau shal not kil, dau shal not stiel dau shal not baer falsh vitnesu gegn dauo nabor.

  This turned into Niu Teutonish (1906):

  m seen eena d likt af ds velt een kold vintri morgn an d 3a dag of eenam.

  “I saw first the light of this world one cold wintry morning onas the 3rd day of January.”

  While Molee did seek “to re-unite all teutonic people into one language within fifty years,” he emphasized that his goal was not to dominate over others but to stick up for a language heritage that was under threat. He didn’t think it was fair that Esperanto and other heavily Latin-based languages were the most popular proposals for an international language. These “commerce languages,” as he called them, were geared toward people who did a lot of international business and could probably afford translators anyway. He wanted to help out the poor and uneducated American workingman who was being held back because he could read only “cheap newspapers and light stories of romance” because everything of higher value was full of fancy Greek words like “cacophonous” that necessitated a college education or an expensive dictionary.

  By the time he published Niu Teutonish, Molee was sixty-one years old and had suffered through a series of disappointments. He had married, lost an infant son, and divorced. He moved through Minnesota, the Dakotas, and Iowa, occasionally investing in tracts of land but always selling just before prices went up. At one point he took up with a widow of means, but she got tired of supporting him, and he went on his way. He traveled to the South with a plan for establishing a Norwegian colony there, but nothing came of it. He later moved to Washington State, where he tried his plan again in the town of LaCrosse by advertising in the Norwegian newspapers of the Midwest. He did attract many Norwegians to the area, and the settlement eventually became a success, but only after he had left it to try his fortunes in Tacoma.

  In 1907 he sold off some land and sailed for Europe, where he traveled for a few years, meeting with language professors and discussing his Teutonic language ideas. A professor in Oslo helped arrange an audience for him with King Haakon of Norway. Molee reported in his autobiography that “e king ws very friendly t me, who ws only a student v language n a newspaper correspondent, he bid me sit down in a costly cushion chair, we talked together for half an hour mostly about uniting together e Swedish, norwegian n danish languages.”

  After Molee returned to the States, he published Altutonish and then a few more versions of his language. In the last paragraph of his autobiography, which he completed in 1919, he endorses the right of a person to end his own life when he is no longer useful to society. As he entered his eighties, he apparently felt that he had done all he could. According to his 1928 obituary, “He ended his life with a shot on the 28th of September in the hotel in Tacoma where he had spent the past ten years.”

  The politeness of the Norwegian king not with standing, Molee could not interest anyone in his language projects, but that did not stop him from devoting his life to them. He was a man of big plans, one of many such men at the dawn of the twentieth century and one of many who never saw their plans go anywhere.

  The language invention craze had attracted all sorts of hucksters, charlatans, and dreamers. Edmund Shaftesbury, who was all three, published his Adam-Man Tongue in 1903. Shaftesbury’s real name was Webster Edgerly, but he was also known as Dr. Ralston, the founder of Ralstonism, a health food cult that advised its followers to eschew hot baked goods, walk on the balls of their feet, and eat “bacterial” foods, like raw eggs. (He also promoted whole-wheat cereal, and when the Purina Company asked him to endorse their wheat cereal, he agreed on the condition that it be named after him. The success of the product led to the company being renamed Ralston Purina.) He wrote over fifty self-help books on subjects from “sex magnetism” to “immortality” to “the Ralston brain regime”—and they were chock-full of racist rants, naive pseudoscience, and curmudgeonly attacks on modern society.

  He also dabbled in real-estate speculation and the theatrical arts, though without much success. His book Lessons in the Art of Acting—a catalog of the emotions and how to portray them—recommends “Frenzy” be indicated “by inclining the head backward, looking up; and clutching the hair with both hands.” This may help explain why a critic for the New York Times, in reviewing a play that Edgerly wrote, produced, and starred in, said the “originator, concocter, and financial backer of this forlorn enterprise is a misguided person, who evidently labors under the triple hallucination that he is a poet, a dramatist, and an actor.”

  His Adam-Man Tongue—so named because it is “the language of man (the human race) founded upon the primitive (Adam) roots and terms that are the watchwords of universal speech”—is nothing more than a bizarre-looking version of English. He provides a sample dialogue:

  MR. gentle: It b3 preti wqm tsdα (It be pretty warm today.)

  MR. bluff: Wut b3 preti wqm? (What be pretty warm?)

  MR. G: W4, du wedu. (Why, the weather.)

  MR. b: Wut wedu?

  MR. G: Dis wedu?

  MR. b: WΔI, hθ b3 dis wedu eni difrunt frqm eni udu?

  MR. G: It b3 wqmer.

  MR. b: Hθ ds ys no it b3?

  MR. G: Ik just supoz’d it b3'd.

  MR. b: B3 nqt du wedu du $αm evriver?

  MR. G: W4 nqn, it b3 wqmer in $om plα$ez Δnd kolder in uduz.

  And so on.

  In the second era of language invention (that of the simplified international language), for every upstanding, respected member of society who had a language plan (the chemist Wilhelm Ostwald, the mathematicians Louis Couturat and Giuseppe Peano, the linguist Otto Jespersen), there were two or three Shaftesburys leaving their impression
on the public perception of language creation. People who had once reacted to the practice with interest, bemusement, or mild irritation began to react with revulsion. One prominent psychologist had his own, distinctly Freudian explanation for this reaction: the drive to create languages was traceable to “displaced anal affects (ultimately derived from the satisfaction gained by the production of faeces or flatus).” The language inventors were smearing it on the walls, and the public was getting disgusted.

  Pretty soon anyone with prestige to protect stayed as far away as possible. The torch was passed to brave souls who were either too passionate about their missions to concern themselves with respectability or too out of touch with reality to care.

  And so began the third era of language invention. It is less well-defined than the first two. There was no unifying theme or idea behind the languages, no particular problem the inventors were trying to address. There were only individuals, working on the fringes of society, each with a separate, lonely agenda. They came up with further iterations of regularized Latin or English, or Esperanto-type hybrids. Some created philosophical-type languages, believing they were the first to have thought of such a thing. However, a few found a completely new approach, one that hadn’t been tried before because it was so obviously unworkable. Only someone on the outside, someone heedless to calls for common sense, would be crazy enough to try it—a pictorial symbol language. One of those who did, in an unlikely turn of events, found success. But it was not the type of success he hoped for. He spent the rest of his life sabotaging his success and any respect he had earned from it. In the process he nearly destroyed those who had helped him to gain the recognition he always wanted.

  Hit by a Personality Tornado