The triumph of English
A world empire by other means
The new world language seems to be good for everyone—except the speakers of minority tongues, and native English-speakers too perhaps
IT IS everywhere. Some 380m people speak it as their first language and perhaps two-thirds as many again as their second. A billion are learning it, about a third of the world's population are in some sense exposed to it and by 2050, it is predicted, half the world will be more or less proficient in it. It is the language of globalisation—of international business, politics and diplomacy. It is the language of computers and the Internet. You'll see it on posters in Côte d'Ivoire, you'll hear it in pop songs in Tokyo, you'll read it in official documents in Phnom Penh. Deutsche Welle broadcasts in it. Bjork, an Icelander, sings in it. French business schools teach in it. It is the medium of expression in cabinet meetings in Bolivia. Truly, the tongue spoken back in the 1300s only by the “low people” of England, as Robert of Gloucester put it at the time, has come a long way. It is now the global language.
How come? Not because English is easy. True, genders are simple, since English relies on “it” as the pronoun for all inanimate nouns, reserving masculine for bona fide males and feminine for females (and countries and ships). But the verbs tend to be irregular, the grammar bizarre and the match between spelling and pronunciation a nightmare. English is now so widely spoken in so many places that umpteen versions have evolved, some so peculiar that even “native” speakers may have trouble understanding each other. But if only one version existed, that would present difficulties enough. Even everyday English is a language of subtlety, nuance and complexity. John Simmons, a language consultant for Interbrand, likes to cite the word “set”, an apparently simple word that takes on different meanings in a sporting, cooking, social or mathematical context—and that is before any little words are combined with it. Then, as a verb, it becomes “set aside”, “set up”, “set down”, “set in”, “set on”, “set about”, “set against” and so on, terms that “leave even native speakers bewildered about [its] core meaning.”
English has few barriers to entry. Terms from “downloading” to “phat” are readily received
As a language with many origins—Romance, Germanic, Norse, Celtic and so on—English was bound to be a mess. But its elasticity makes it messier, as well as stronger. When it comes to new words, English puts up few barriers to entry. Every year publishers bring out new dictionaries listing neologisms galore. The past decade, for instance, has produced not just a host of Internettery, computerese and phonebabble (“browsers”, “downloading”, “texting” and so on) but quantities of teenspeak (“fave”, “fit”, “pants”, “phat”, “sad”). All are readily received by English, however much some fogies may resist them. Those who stand guard over the French language, by contrast, agonise for years over whether to allow CD-Rom (no, it must be cédérom), frotte-manche, a Belgian word for a sycophant (sanctioned), or a sort of的用法euroland (no, the term is la zone euro). Oddly, shampooing (unknown as a noun in English) seemed to pass the French Academy nem con, perhaps because the British had originally taken “shampoo” from Hindi.
Albion's tongue unsullied
English-speakers have not always been so Angst-free about this laisser-faire attitude to the
ir language, so ready to present a façade of insouciance at the de facto acceptance of foreign words among their clichés, bons mots and other dicta. In the 18th century three writers—Joseph Addison (who founded the Spectator), Daniel Defoe (who wrote “Robinson Crusoe”) and Jonathan Swift (“Gulliver's Travels”)—wanted to see a committee set up to regulate the language. Like a good protectionist, Addison wrote:
I have often ain Men might be set apart, as Superintendents of our Language, to hinder any Words of Foreign Coin from passing among us; and in particular to prohibit any French Phrases from becoming current in this Kingdom, when those of our own stamp are altogether as valuable.
Fortunately, the principles of free trade triumphed, as Samuel Johnson, the compiler of the first great English dictionary, rather reluctantly came to admit. “May the lexicographer be derided,” he declared, “who shall imagine that his dictionary can embalm With this hope, however, academies have been instituted to guard the avenues of but their vigilance and activity have hitherto enchain syllables, and to lash the wind, are equally the undertakings of pride.”
Pride, however, is seldom absent when language is under discussion, and no wonder, for the success or failure of a language has little to do with its inherent qualities “and everything to do with the power of the people who speak it.” And that, as Professor Jean Aitchison of Oxford University points out, is particularly true of English.

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