Arrant Pedantry

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No Dice

If you’ve ever had to learn a foreign language, you may have struggled to memorize plural forms of nouns. German, for example, has about a half a dozen ways of forming plurals, and it’s a chore to remember which kind of plural each noun takes. English, by comparison, is ridiculously easy. Here’s how it works for nearly every English noun: add -s to the end. Sometimes you need to insert an e before the s, and sometimes you need to change a preceding y to ie, but that’s the rule in a nutshell.

Of course, there are still plenty of exceptions: a couple that end in -en (oxen and the strange double plural children), a handful of umlaut plurals (man–men, foot–feet, mouse–mice, etc.), some uninflected plurals (usually for domesticated or game animals, such as sheep, deer, and so on), and a plethora of foreign borrowings (particularly from Latin and Greek) that often follow rules from their donor languages but occasionally don’t. There are a few other oddballs—like person–people, for example—but nearly every English count noun fits into one of these categories.

But there’s one plural that doesn’t fit into any of these categories, because it’s been caught for centuries in a strange limbo between count nouns, which take plural forms, and mass nouns, which don’t. It’s dice. If you need a refresher, mass nouns generally refer to things that are not discrete, such as milk or oil, though some refer to things that are made of discrete pieces “whose indivual identities are not usually important to us,” as Arnold Zwicky put it in this Language Log post—words like corn or rice. You could count the individual grains or kernels if you wanted to, but why would you ever want to?

And this is how dice slipped through the cracks of language change. Originally, die was a regular noun that formed its plural by adding an s sound to the end. (For the moment, let’s leave aside the issue of spelling, because Middle and Early Modern English spelling was anything but standard.) At some point in the history of English, the final -s in plurals was voiceless, meaning that it was always pronounced with an s sound, not a z sound. But then that changed, probably sometime in the 1500s, so that the final -s was always voiced—that is, pronounced as a z—unless it followed a voiceless sound. Strangely, this sound change seems to have affected only the plural and possessive -s endings and not other word-final s’s.

But around that time, we start seeing the plural of die, when referring to those little cubes with pips used for games and whatnot, spelled as dice (and similar forms). In Modern English spelling, the final -s on a plural can be either voiced or voiceless, depending on the preceding word, but -ce is always voiceless. As the regular plural ending was becoming voiced for many many words, it remained voiceless in dice. Why?

Well, apparently because people had stopped thinking of it as a plural and started thinking of it as a mass noun, much like corn and rice, so they stopped seeing the s sound on the end as the plural marker and started perceiving it as simply part of the word. Singular dice can be found back to the late 1300s, and when the sound change came along in the 1500s and voiced most plural -s endings, dice was left behind, with its spelling altered to show that it was unequivocally voiceless. In other senses of the word, die was still thought of as a regular count noun, so its plural forms ended up as dies.*

Dice wasn’t the only word passed over in this way, though; truce (originally the plural of true, meaning “pledge” or “oath”), bodice (plural of body), and pence (a contracted plural form of penny) come to us the same way. Speakers subconsciously reanalyzed these words as mass nouns or singular count nouns, so their final s sounds stayed voiceless. Similarly, once, twice, and thrice were originally genitive forms, but they ceased to be thought of as such and consequently retained their voiceless sounds, respelled with ce.

But the strange thing is that whereas the words mentioned above made the transition to mass nouns or new singular count nouns, usage of dice has been split for centuries. We’ve never fully made the switch to thinking of dice as a mass noun, used regardless of the actual number of the things, because, unlike rice or corn, we do frequently care about the number of dice being used. Instead of a true mass noun, it’s become an uninflected count noun—one dice, two dice—for many people, though it exists alongside the original singular die. But singular dice is rare in print, because we’re told that it’s properly one die, two dice, even though some dictionaries note that singular dice is much more frequent in gaming than die.

So where does that leave us? You can go with singular die and possibly be thought of as something of a pedant, or you can go with singular dice and possibly be thought of as a little ignorant. As for me, I usually use singular die and feel twinges of self-loathing when I do so; I haven’t had the heart to correct my boys when they use singular dice.

*For more on the reconstruction of the plural ending in English, see the section on the English plural suffix in the chapter “Reconstruction” in Language History: An Introduction, by Andrew L. Sihler (Philadelphia: John Benjamins, 2000).

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Here’s You a Benefactive Dative

Yesterday I heard an interesting construction that I’ve only heard of once before. Several months ago a coworker of mine was talking about a family reunion she’d been to, at which one of her cousins had offered her an apple and said, “Here’s you an apple.” I’d never heard anything like it before, but I’d completely forgotten about it until I heard it in person yesterday.

I decided to do a little research and see what I could find about the construction, but I came up mostly dry. Mark Liberman mentioned it in a Language Log post on personal datives but didn’t provide any further explanation. It was also mentioned, again without explanation, in a 1946 article in American Speech, “‘Swarp’ and Some Other Kentucky Words”.

Then there’s Here’s You a Blog, so named because the author encountered the construction in Kentucky and liked it. I also found this forum discussion, which includes some speculation on its distribution and origins. It sounds like it’s most common in the Southern US, especially the Gulf Coast, though I just heard it here in Utah, and my coworker heard it around here, too—her cousins apparently live about ten or fifteen minutes away from me. Perhaps it’s a little like the needs + past participle construction in that it’s especially frequent in one region (namely western Pennsylvania and Ohio) but can be found throughout most of the United States.

But while the needs + past participle construction apparently comes from Scottish, I can’t find any evidence about where here’s you a comes from. It doesn’t sound like German to me (though my German is certainly not good enough to say for certain), and though I suppose it could be a Scotch-Irish construction, my three weeks of trying to teach myself Scottish weren’t enough to give me any clue on this.*

What I find most interesting about this construction is that it’s a little different from both regular dative constructions in English, such as I gave him a book or He baked her a cake, and personal datives, such as I love me some ice cream or He caught him a fish. The regular dative appears with ditransitive verbs, that is, verbs that take both direct and indirect objects. The dative is the indirect object and is typically the recipient of the direct object. So in I gave him a book, him is the indirect object, receiving the book, the direct object. Dative pronouns can usually be moved to a prepositional phrase with to or for, as in I gave a book to him or He baked a cake for her.

With personal datives, the dative pronoun is coreferential with the subject—that is, the dative pronoun refers to the same entity as the subject—and in some cases can be replaced with a reflexive pronoun, as in He caught himself a fish. Note that this doesn’t work in many cases—*I love myself some ice cream is just flat-out strange if not ungrammatical. Generally, though, this kind of dative works much like the standard dative; it appears after a transitive verb and shows that the subject is in some way receiving or benefitting from the direct object. While not standard English, the personal dative is apparently fairly common in Southern and Appalachian English.

But here’s you a doesn’t use a transitive verb; it uses an intransitive verb—a copula verb, to be more specific—with a dummy subject. That is, though here fills the subject role of the sentence, it’s essentially a placeholder to call attention to what comes after the verb. And whereas the dative in the personal dative is coreferential with the subject, with here’s you a it is not, because there’s no real subject for you to refer to. What’s more, intransitive verbs—especially copula verbs like be—don’t take objects, but here we have one that seems to have an indirect object.**

So syntactically, there’s no real person or thing that is giving the direct object to the indirect object, and there’s no real action of giving something to someone. But as with some standard datives, this one can be paraphrased with for you. Just as we can transform He baked her a cake into He baked a cake for her, we could turn Here’s you an apple into Here’s an apple for you. This particular kind of dative is called a benefactive dative, meaning that something is being done for or on behalf of someone.

I still don’t feel like I know what’s going on with this construction, and unless I missed something in my searching, it seems that virtually nothing has been written about it yet. Do any of my readers happen to know more about it? Has anyone else heard it, and if so, where?

*Though now I can say such useful phrases as “Halò, Ciamar a tha thu? Tha gu math, tapadh leat. Tha mi a fuireach anns an taigh-òsda.” I’m sure that’ll come in really handy the next time I’m in the Scottish highlands.

**In the Language Log post referenced above, Liberman quotes Laurence Horn as saying that personal datives aren’t actually indirect object and that “they are not arguments at all, but non-subcategorized pronouns.” I don’t know enough syntax to really understand what this means; maybe someone will help out in the comments.

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Most Awarded

The other day a friend of mine complained about the use of the phrase “most-awarded” in a commercial for the Jeep Cherokee, which called it the “most-awarded SUV ever.” It bothered him, he said, because “they are saying lots of Cherokees get given away as awards, but that’s not what they mean.” I was surprised—I thought it was pretty clear that it meant “the SUV that has been given the most awards”—but several other people chimed in to say that they read it the other way—the SUV most given as an award. One person suggested that it was just another example of advertisers bastardizing the language, while another thought that it was an attempt to be funny by saying one thing but meaning another. And of course the question came up, “Can you correctly say that something has been ‘awarded’ if it is not the award?

There’s absolutely nothing incorrect about it, though it is technically ambiguous. The problem is that in this instance, “awarded” is a passive construction (technically a reduced one), meaning that what is normally an object has been moved to subject position. But it’s ambiguous because “awarded” is ditransitive, which means that it can take both a direct and an indirect object. Most transitive verbs (that is, verbs that take objects) can take only one object, as in “The boy kicked the ball,” but some can take two, as in “The boy gave his friend the ball.” In both sentences, the ball is the direct object, but in the second sentence, we also have an indirect object, his friend.

The same holds for the verb award—you award something to someone (or something), like “The committee awarded him (indirect object) the Nobel Prize (direct object)” or “Car and Driver awarded the Cherokee (indirect object) SUV of the Year (direct object).” (I don’t know if they actually did.) To put the sentence in the passive voice, we can move either one of the objects to subject position, giving us either “The Cherokee was awarded SUV of the Year (by Car and Driver)” or “SUV of the Year was awarded to the Cherokee (by Car and Driver).”

The structural ambiguity comes in when you turn a sentence like this into a reduced passive, as in “most-awarded SUV.” The adjectival phrase “most-awarded” derives from the fuller passive clause “The Cherokee was awarded the most.” Structurally speaking, because award is ditransitive, this could derive from something like either “The Cherokee was awarded to people the most” or “The Cherokee was awarded the most awards.” (Ignore the awkward repetition of the latter; we’re just interested in the structure here, not in elegance.)

Put back into the active voice, this could be either “(Someone) awarded the Cherokee to the most people” or “(Someone) awarded the Cherokee the most awards.” (In either case, it’s not relevant who the subject is, especially since it’s presumably multiple someones.) In the first sentence, the Cherokee is being given as an award; in the second, it’s receiving the awards.

At first, my intuition was that there was something strange about giving a car as an award; it could be a reward or a prize, but in my mind an award is something like the Nobel Prize or an Academy Award or some sort of cash prize. But then I remembered the infamous leg lamp from A Christmas Story, which the father repeatedly describes as “a major award.” So obviously an award could be something other than a medal or a cash amount.

Corpus data wasn’t very helpful, either. COCA gives only five hits for “most awarded,” but all of them support my reading—“the SUV that has received the most awards”—by making the subject the recipient of the award, not the thing being awarded to someone. The Google Books corpus provides more hits, and though most of them still use the “has received the most awards” sense, there’s a little more variation here, with some employing the “most given as an award” sense, such as “The Nobel Prize in physics is the most awarded of all the five prize categories.”

Next I turned to Twitter to solve the argument. I wrote, “Help me settle an argument: Does ‘most-awarded SUV’ mean ‘SUV most given as an award’ or ‘SUV that has received the most awards’?” The results were not terribly helpful. Out of five responses, three voted for “most given as an award” and two voted for “has received the most awards,” though one noted that either was possible.

Honestly, I was baffled, though I think there’s something of an answer in here somewhere. In most of the examples I came across in the corpora, it’s very clear from context what the award is and who or what is receiving it. If I tell you that Schindler’s List is the most-awarded movie in history (at least it was in 1994, when one of the corpus examples was written), you know that the movie received awards, not that someone received a movie as an award. And if I tell you that the PhD is the most-awarded degree, you know that someone is receiving the degree, not that the degree is receiving an award.

But with a car, it’s more ambiguous. Cars can receive awards, and people can presumably receive cars as awards. And although I think it’s clear that the first meaning is intended, a lot of people are irked by it or don’t get the intended meaning at all.

The upshot of this is that it underscores the importance of researching points of usage before declaring an answer. At first I was convinced that I was clearly right and everyone else was wrong. But though my intuition coincides with the intended meaning, intuition alone isn’t enough to explain what’s going on. You need real-world data for that, and sometimes you find that the answer is not as simple as you thought.

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However

Several weeks ago, Bob Scopatz asked in a comment about the word however, specifically whether it should be preceded by a comma or a semicolon when it’s used between two clauses. He says that a comma always seems fine to him, but apparently this causes people to look askance at him.

The rule here is pretty straightforward, and Purdue’s Online Writing Lab has a nice explanation. Independent clauses joined by coordinating conjunctions are separated by a comma; independent clauses that are not joined by coordinating conjunctions or are joined by what OWL calls “conjunctive adverbs” require a semicolon.

I’ve also seen the terms “transitional adverb” and “transitional phrase,” though the latter usually refers to multiword constructions like as a result, for example, and so on. These terms are probably more accurate since (I believe) words and phrases like however are not, strictly speaking, conjunctions. Though they do show a relationship between two clauses, that relationship is more semantic or rhetorical than grammatical.

Since however falls into this group, it should be preceded by a semicolon, though it can also start a new sentence. Grammar-Monster.com has some nice illustrative examples:

I am leaving on Tuesday, however, I will be back on Wednesday to collect my wages.
I am leaving on Tuesday; however, I will be back on Wednesday to collect my wages.
I am leaving on Tuesday. However, I will be back on Wednesday to collect my wages.

The first example is incorrect, while the latter two are correct. Note that “however” is also followed by a comma. (But would also work here, though in that case it would be preceded by a comma and not followed by one.)

Bob also mentioned that he sometimes starts a sentence with “however,” and this usage is a little more controversial. Strunk & White and others forbade however in sentence- or clause-initial position, sometimes with the argument that in this position it can only mean “in whatever way” or “to whatever extent.”

It’s true that however is sometimes used this way, as in “However it is defined, the middle class is standing on shaky ground,” to borrow an example from COCA. But this is clearly different from the Grammar-Monster sentences above. In those, the punctuation—namely the comma after “however”—indicates that this is not the “in whatever way” however, but rather the “on the contrary” or “in spite of that” one.

Some editors fastidiously move sentence-initial “howevers” to a position later in the sentence, as in I will be back on Wednesday, however, to collect my wages. As long as it’s punctuated correctly, it’s fine in either location, so there’s no need to move it. But note that when it occurs in the middle of a clause, it’s surrounded by commas.

It’s possible that sentence-initial however could be ambiguous without the following comma, but even then the confusion is likely to be momentary. I don’t see this as a compelling reason to avoid sentence-initial however, though I do believe it’s important to punctuate it properly, with both a preceding semicolon or period and a following comma, to avoid tripping up the reader.

In a nutshell, however is an adverb, not a true conjunction, so it can’t join two independent clauses with just a comma. You can either join those clauses with a semicolon or separate them with a period. But either way, however should be set off by commas. When it’s in the middle of a clause, the commas go on both sides; when it’s at the beginning of a clause, it just needs a following comma. Hopefully this will help Bob (and others) stop getting those funny looks.

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Edited Usage Survey

This is just a reminder for those who volunteered to participate in my edited usage survey. I know I said the deadline was very flexible, but I’m at the point where I need to start moving things along. If you volunteered and haven’t returned your manuscript to me yet but would still like to participate, could you please return it to me by February 15th?

Also, if you haven’t volunteered yet but would like to, you can still do so (provided you get your results to me by the 15th). Just go to this page and fill out the form. I’ll send you a manuscript to edit, and then you can email it back to me when you’re done.

Thanks!