Eager to preserve the English language against a rising tide of nonsense, a British newspaper asked readers last week to compose a piece of prose crammed with as many infuriating phrases as possible. The results make entertaining reading.

“I hear what you’re saying but, with all due respect, it’s not exactly rocket science,” begins one excellent example. “The bottom line is you wear your heart on your sleeve and, when all is said and done, this is all part and parcel of the ongoing bigger picture.” Another declared, “let’s face facts here, this could be my conduit to a whole new ball game. Awesome, or what?”

Some of the entries mocked bureaucratese: “Our own cost-benefit analysis of the ongoing target shortfall is that this predicament needs to be addressed proactively”. Others celebrated slang, either American (“chill to the max”) or British (“I was gobsmacked”) in origin. And all of them suggested an explanation for why it seems so difficult to follow the ludicrously early American presidential campaign: Too many of the candidates speak in prose crammed with as many infuriating phrases as possible.

The worst offender is Hillary Clinton, who is “running for president because I believe if we set big goals and we work together to achieve them, we can restore the American dream today and for the next generation”. Clinton also believes that “we can give people the education and opportunities they need to fulfil their God-given potential,” and that “the foundation of a strong economy is the investments we make in each other”. Who could possibly disagree?

Political campaigns only get interesting when the candidates stop speaking in ringing generalities and infuriating phrases — which doesn’t mean that they become successful, or even good for the country. John McCain’s campaign in 2000 appealed precisely because he eschewed prepared gobbledygook — though that wasn’t enough even to win the Republican nomination. I am also still convinced that voters initially liked George W Bush’s inarticulacy: At least he didn’t sound quite as smooth, and ultimately meaningless, as everyone else. Only with time did his natural-born inability to speak English begin to produce infuriating phrases of unique pointlessness: “These are big achievements for this country, and the people of Bulgaria ought to be proud of the achievements that they have achieved” was a recent classic.

At the moment, the brightest new hope for the English language is Barack Obama, a fact I didn’t fully appreciate until I inattentively picked up what I thought was his best-selling new book, Dreams From My Father. Expecting a dull political tract, I discovered an engaging story of his enigmatic father and his eccentric childhood, full of unexpected observations about race and identity in America and Africa, written with real elegance: (“Miscegenation”, he writes at one point: “The word is humpbacked, ugly, portending a monstrous outcome: like antebellum or octoroon, it evokes images of another era”). Then I discovered that I’d read the wrong book: Obama wrote Dreams From My Father 15 years ago, before becoming a political candidate of any kind. Though his recent “elect-me-president” book, The Audacity of Hope, has been praised for its prose, the jacket blurb describes it as “Senator Obama’s vision of how we can move beyond our divisions” to create a “radically hopeful consensus”.

Let’s face it, guys: No good writer, however eloquent, can possibly survive a two-year presidential campaign.
Washington Post