NIGHTMARE CONVERSATIONS



(Or: Why I hate cocktail parties)



One of my recurring nightmare conversations was described perfectly by David Carkeet, one of my favorite novelists (whose protagonist just happens to be a linguist):



They were playing Meet the Linguist. Cook hated to play Meet the Linguist. ... After some chat about Bruce's printing plant, Bruce asked Cook what his line of work was ("General linguistics," said Cook), then what the point of it was.

Cook said, simply, that linguistics was "interesting."

Bruce said, "So say something interesting."



(David Carkeet, The Full Catastrophe,
Washington Square Press, 1990)





If it's not that conversation, it's this one:


Them: "You're a linguist? How many languages do you speak?"

[Pause while I try to figure out what they want to hear. They certainly don't want a lecture about the difference between linguists and polyglots, what linguists actually do, and how most linguists don't speak all that many languages, although they know an awful lot about language in general and about some languages in specific. They just want a number. If it's a big number, they won't believe me -- or worse, they'll believe me and hate me for it; if it's a small number, they'll be disappointed in me and embarrassed for me. ]

Me: "[arbitrary number. nine? eleven? thirteen?]"

Them: "Wow."

[They look around the room, desperately hoping to find a non-linguist to talk to.]





Oh, well. Just an occupational hazard, not quite on the order of breathing asbestos or getting shot.





David Lightfoot dedicates his book The Language Lottery (MIT Press, 1983) "to anyone who ever met a couple of linguistics in a bar and asked them what they did for a living." It's clear that, like me, he has often been asked that question. Doubtless it has often led to his being asked what linguistics is, as well. How should you answer the latter question when you don't have time to write a book in reply, and you don't have any means of forcing the stranger to read your book anyway?

Often I think I ought simply to lie about what I do.

(Geoffrey Pullum, "The stranger in the bar,"
The great Eskimo vocabulary hoax and other irreverent essays on the study of language,
UChicago, 1991)




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