Sooner
or later, every writer must decide what kind of words are appropriate for his
writing, and this applies particularly to words that are euphemistically
described as "strong language"—common "cusswords" and the
language of the gutter. As a former Infantry soldier and (worse yet) a graduate
student, I guess I've heard them all. And I've put a good bit of thought into
their proper place, if any, in my life and writing.
Consequently,
I've come to reject the most commonly accepted justifications of using these
words in fiction, drama, and film. These "four-letter words" have certainly
burgeoned in today's publications, films, and TV scripts. They assault the ears
of channel surfers, and they so dominate fictional conversations that often
these words are the dialogue.
The
usual justification is a claim of "realism" in two senses. First, it
is said that because people actually talk that way, realistic fiction must
accurately report their words. Second, it is claimed that four-letter words
bring us into closer contact with “real life” than other words do-- that is,
there is less distance between the word and the thing it represents.
Neither
claim can withstand serious examination.
The
first confuses "realism" with literalism. Fiction is not real life.
It is an artifice that creates the illusion
of real life. So, if the writer must report people's words literally, what
excuses him from including all other elements of life literally? Must every
fictional day begin with the hero shaving?
And
what about actions often excluded from fiction--praying, for instance?
Depending on which poll one reads, 50 to 80 percent of Americans pray every
day. By the "realism" criterion, shouldn't the correct percentage of
fictional characters pray with appropriate frequency during the narrative?
My
conclusion: if "realism" does not justify literal inclusion of other
elements in fiction, it does not justify literal inclusion of specific words.
Nor
can the claim that four-letter words are closer to "reality"
withstand questioning. Many uses of those words are, to put it mildly,
figurative. There may have been a time when attributing bisexual reproductive
capabilities to inanimate objects was amusing. But if so, the idea is now so
clichéd that it's no longer humorous.
And
on representing reality, let's consider the so-called "f-word." The
early English (probably Anglo-Saxon) from which it descends was a savage
language appropriate to the savage times in which it
was spoken. Then, perhaps, the word may have accurately described physical
relationships between men and women. But many cultural changes have altered
that reality.
One
such change was the twelfth-century invention of romantic (courtly) love,
popularized by Eleanor of Aquitaine and
Chrétien de Troyes. And in the 1590s, Edmund Spenser synthesized various love
traditions into an ideal combining the romance of courtly love with the
intellectuality of Platonic love and a dash of physicality from Ovid--all
justified by marriage, one of the seven sacraments of the church. Spenser's
synthesis held general acceptance until about 1900, when it eroded under the
influence of naturalistic philosophy and Freudian psychology.
The
point for "realistic" fiction is this: if the "f-word” today
accurately describes the physical relationship between a man and woman, it does
so only because the couple is immune to or ignorant of the cultural experience
the past millennium.
My
conclusion is that if the customary justifications do not stand up under
examination, the real reasons for using "strong language" must lie
elsewhere. Some involve today's cultural warfare, but another is more pertinent
here. Writers know that conflict is
basic to all good fiction. “Strong language” helps lazy writers gain the appearance of conflict without the hard
work of creating genuine conflict,
which is always generated by a story’s basic narrative structure. In other
words, "strong language" substitutes for genuine creativity.
Profligate
use of "strong language" will always be chic, of course. But as the
brilliant screenwriter Morrie Ryskind put it, "The chic are always wrong."
Donn Taylor is a poet and novelist who holds a PhD in Renaissance literature and has more than 20 years’ experience teaching poetry. His poetry has appeared in Christianity and Literature, The Lamp-Post (Journal of the California C. S. Lewis Society), and other journals, as well as general audience publications such as the Presbyterian Record (Canada). His poetry collection Dust and Diamond: Poems of Earth and Beyond was published in 2008. His fiction includes a suspense novel, The Lazarus File, and a light-hearted mystery, Rhapsody in Red. He has also published essays on writing, literary criticism, ethical issues, and U. S. foreign policy. In a prior incarnation, he served in two wars with the U. S. Army.