idea of where your income comes from, as true innocence means not knowing where babies come from. The middle classes make money, and are thus permanently preoccupied with it, while the gentry spend it, and thus do not need to harp on it so much. American talk about dollars may sometimes be brash, but at least is not conducted behind one’s hand, as though one is conspiring with a hit man to do away with one’s spouse. Old-fashioned Britons talk about money as discreetly as they do about sex. You do not discuss it loudly, any more than you tell a passing stranger about your erectile dysfunction.
There is a similar reticence about the British brand of English. I was once a Fellow of an Oxford college of which the Warden (Principal) was the legendary wit and bon viveur Sir Maurice Bowra. It was this patrician rogue who, when invited to the wedding of a glamorous young pair, is said to have remarked, “Lovely couple, slept with them both.” Though famously gay, he once rather grudgingly contemplated marriage, and on being asked why he had chosen a rather plain woman with whom to tie the knot, replied breezily, “Ah well, buggers can’t be choosers.”
Bowra’s most superlative term of praise was “far from bad,” which is technically known as litotes. In Americanese, this would be the equivalent of “wonderful” preceded by three or four “verys.” Shakespeare was far from bad, so was Châteauneuf-du-Pape, and so was lying naked on the banks of the river Isis in full, shameless view of passing boaters. One suspects that in his more pious moments, which were admittedly somewhat rare, Bowra thought that God was far from bad as well. Homer was “quite a clever fellow,” while the more melancholic of the nineteenth-century novelists were “the gloomy boys.” Botticelli was “not at all a disgrace,” though some of the more flamboyant Romantic poets “laid it on a bit thick.” Malt whisky, J. S. Bach and ravishingly handsome male undergraduates “could be worse.” “Not a little boring” meant mind-numbingly monotonous.
If the British upper classes hold that it is not good form to gush, it is because emotion is seen a form of weakness, and to display such weakness before one’s social inferiors or colonial subjects is to risk a bullet through the brain. Emotional constipation can save your life. Those who do not have their tender feelings beaten out of them at school may be subjected to a more lethal kind of beating in the long run. Understatement thus has political roots. It can sometimes be pressed to bizarre extremes. A few years ago, an Englishman who happened to be in Japan when the country was struck by an earthquake, tsunami, large-scale fires and a threat of nuclear meltdown, was asked about the situation on BBC television. “Well,” he replied, “it’s not very nice and I rather wish it hadn’t happened.” “Not very nice” is British for “unbelievably awful.” When an American is asked how she is, she might reply, “Pretty good.” A typical British or Irish response would be, “Not too bad.” Or alternatively, “Can’t grumble,” a statement which has never actually prevented the British from grumbling. It would take a collision with a comet to do that.
Amping Up, Playing Down
The American impulse is to amplify, while the British habit is to diminish. When thanked, an American might say, “It’s my pleasure,” “You’re very welcome” or, “You bet,” whereas the British, who tend naturally to the negative and low-profiled, tend to murmur, “Don’t mention it,” “Not at all,” “No problem,” or even the hideous “No probs.” In an unintended put-down, they imply that they have done nothing worth being thanked for—that being helpful to you does not count as an event, and that your gratitude is therefore both superfluous and embarrassing.
“It can’t do any harm” in British English usually means that it is precious beyond words. The British, unlike
There is a similar reticence about the British brand of English. I was once a Fellow of an Oxford college of which the Warden (Principal) was the legendary wit and bon viveur Sir Maurice Bowra. It was this patrician rogue who, when invited to the wedding of a glamorous young pair, is said to have remarked, “Lovely couple, slept with them both.” Though famously gay, he once rather grudgingly contemplated marriage, and on being asked why he had chosen a rather plain woman with whom to tie the knot, replied breezily, “Ah well, buggers can’t be choosers.”
Bowra’s most superlative term of praise was “far from bad,” which is technically known as litotes. In Americanese, this would be the equivalent of “wonderful” preceded by three or four “verys.” Shakespeare was far from bad, so was Châteauneuf-du-Pape, and so was lying naked on the banks of the river Isis in full, shameless view of passing boaters. One suspects that in his more pious moments, which were admittedly somewhat rare, Bowra thought that God was far from bad as well. Homer was “quite a clever fellow,” while the more melancholic of the nineteenth-century novelists were “the gloomy boys.” Botticelli was “not at all a disgrace,” though some of the more flamboyant Romantic poets “laid it on a bit thick.” Malt whisky, J. S. Bach and ravishingly handsome male undergraduates “could be worse.” “Not a little boring” meant mind-numbingly monotonous.
If the British upper classes hold that it is not good form to gush, it is because emotion is seen a form of weakness, and to display such weakness before one’s social inferiors or colonial subjects is to risk a bullet through the brain. Emotional constipation can save your life. Those who do not have their tender feelings beaten out of them at school may be subjected to a more lethal kind of beating in the long run. Understatement thus has political roots. It can sometimes be pressed to bizarre extremes. A few years ago, an Englishman who happened to be in Japan when the country was struck by an earthquake, tsunami, large-scale fires and a threat of nuclear meltdown, was asked about the situation on BBC television. “Well,” he replied, “it’s not very nice and I rather wish it hadn’t happened.” “Not very nice” is British for “unbelievably awful.” When an American is asked how she is, she might reply, “Pretty good.” A typical British or Irish response would be, “Not too bad.” Or alternatively, “Can’t grumble,” a statement which has never actually prevented the British from grumbling. It would take a collision with a comet to do that.
Amping Up, Playing Down
The American impulse is to amplify, while the British habit is to diminish. When thanked, an American might say, “It’s my pleasure,” “You’re very welcome” or, “You bet,” whereas the British, who tend naturally to the negative and low-profiled, tend to murmur, “Don’t mention it,” “Not at all,” “No problem,” or even the hideous “No probs.” In an unintended put-down, they imply that they have done nothing worth being thanked for—that being helpful to you does not count as an event, and that your gratitude is therefore both superfluous and embarrassing.
“It can’t do any harm” in British English usually means that it is precious beyond words. The British, unlike
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