Philip Hilton writes,

In today’s world it is a fact that we face a constantly changing language. Slang evolves, it seems, overnight. New techno-jargon comes into our home quicker than the technology itself. In addition, there is more or less a general disrespect for old or complex words. So, it behooves us to ask: Is change in language necessarily degeneration? If not, what counts as degenerate, ‘bad’ changing language; and what is ‘good’ changing language? And why do so many people care?

Is there really any point in having a changing language? Or rather, is there any value in a static language*? According to many, the goal of language is clarity, and so any change which destroys linguistic clarity is a hindrance. Those who subscribe to this view believe that clear communication is intrinsic to language. By definition, they say, language is clear communication. To change the language, is, as it were, to muddy the settled waters, to muck up the clean-swept linguistic house. Q.E.D: language ought to be static.

However, this argument ignores the other rôles which language plays. Language is more than simply an instrument of communication, like a $5 wrench: to be clinically used on unyielding problems, without love or care. To be discarded when unneeded. Undeniably, language also has aesthetic qualities; it can be as much an object of love as an instrument of conveying information. Then too, language is a playground, where beautiful (or horrific) things are created.

The fact that many famous authors have taken this view scarcely requires examples. Derrida, of course, has stated this outright, emphasizing how deconstructionists enjoy ‘playing’ with texts, but previous generations have felt it as well. Isn’t that the joy of Catullus, Ovid, Alexander Pope? To play with words — to cleverly combine — to willfully unweave — to sensually stimulate – to joke on ambiguities? Ars gratia artis.

Clarity is not often the aim in poetical works. Language, in poetry, as opposed to prose, is a continual combination of words into new and challenging combinations. These combinations are often intended to have be difficult to understand, or to convey their meaning in an unusual way. (For instance, in onomatopoiea, where words convey meaning by their sound, rather than their significance.) Often, ambiguity is employed.

E.E Cummings and T.S Eliot intended their poetry to be difficult, slippery, and unclear. (At any rate, if they set out to be clear, they failed pathetically.) The consequence is that it is so much the more challenging and appealing, because it is undecideable. If they had been absolutely clear, they would not still be read. In their case, we love their writings precisely because they were ambiguous. They coined words; they coined phrases; they played with our mind.

Naturally, not all language is poetic. On the opposite end of the scale, in academia, clear, unambiguous communication is valuable. We hope that the engineers who design our bridges do not ‘poetically’ call meters ‘yards’, or kilograms ‘pounds’. But in general, most language, and most ordinary communication, falls somewhere in between. It does not need to be absolutely unambiguous; it should not sound like The Waste Land.

In summary — what I’m saying is that language is as much a playground as a tool (no pun intended). We must alternately consider it as a ‘friend of pleasure’ and a ‘friend of utility’**, depending on the case. It is too simplistic just to say that an evolving language is per se bad. The very fact that a language is evolving means that it is alive, that people are using it poetically, rather than utilitiarianly. And that, I think, is a very good thing.

* By a static language I mean one in which new words continue to be added, naming new things, but in which old words do not take on new meanings, or change. Also, one in which the grammar remains the same.