A fortnight or so ago (at least at the time these words were penned), a piece by my esteemed colleague Mr. Strayer in these pages referred to his communications misadventures with "some guy named Muhammad," and then went on to refer to a professor here as "Tom." So flabbergasted at these liberties was the present columnist that upon reading them he very nearly dropped and broke his monocle, which he was in the process of dabbing at with a Wet-Nap. He felt faint for a good half-hour afterwards, and later felt compelled to write these few words on the necessities and advantages of a modicum of formality, particularly in the written language.
Formality in written and spoken language provides a necessary counter to the vulgarity and insolence which is never far from social intercourse, particularly in these United States. This columnist, for one, must confess that if someone whose acquaintance he had not the pleasure of were to refer to him contemptuously in print as "some fellow named Lubin," he would be strongly inclined to take a horsewhip to the party in question. Similarly, though we may concede that a chap may be Tom Brown while at school, though we may even allow that he be Tom Brown while attending, say, Oxford, we must absolutely deny the possibility that when he becomes a distinguished professor he can go by anything but Mr., or Dr., Thomas Brown.
Mass usage of abbreviated names for adults is as a rule a foolish thing, the exceptions being royalty viewed nostalgically, viz., Good Queen Bess, and great-hearted persons who are unfortunately of dubious birth, viz., Tom Jones. It is particularly painful to hear children being encouraged at an early age in this country to address their parents by their first names, a system by no means conducive to filial piety.
The wide array of professional titles and the established epistolary pleasantries of the Latin nations, with their "Egregio Signore" this and their "Votre humble serviteur" that, and their acute consciousness of variation in forms of address, are some indications of how far in advance of the Anglo-Saxon world they are in this area, and Americans would do well to learn, or rather to re-learn, from their example.
It can scarcely be overemphasised that the great force inimical to all formality is the insidious influence of communications technology in all its ugly and sterile forms. The possibilities of formality were drawn in a good deal with the advent of the telephone, which made communication excessively easy and eliminated for good any true privacy in households. They took another hit with the fax machine, and are staggering under the blow of the new computer technologies. The impersonality and anonymity of e-mail tends to give rise to outstanding abuses of good manners.
The author has found that, because his name appears in print, strangers feel entitled to send him unsolicited BlitzMail messages, calling him by his given name and even (he shudders at the thought) by an abbreviated form of that name, in order to discuss everything from fishing spots to Los Angeles Laker fortunes. It is highly unlikely that these persons would take the same liberties over the telephone or in an enveloped letter.
The occasional necessity, too, of communicating with professors by e-mail unfortunately makes students familiar with their first names, which does not tend towards a suitable respect for their station. Indeed we may say in general that "facilitated" communications relentlessly smash and tread underfoot those soothing ornaments of courtesy and social deference, which form a vital network of familiar conventions and tacit barriers, in any society that would dare call itself civilized. Despite their omnipresence, these pestilent trends can and must be successfully resisted and reversed.
A curious characteristic of the United States with regard to this formality/informality question, and one which reflects the generally schizophrenic nature of the country, is the contradiction between an inclination to the most ponderous formality in printed matter and the greatest informality in conversation. So it falls out that the Dartmouth student whose BlitzMail account reads Reginald Percival Fauntleroy III will typically be known to his fellows as "Glub."
The American newspapers, also, have of late adopted a smug familiarity with the notable subjects on whom they comment. Past generations of writers and artists in particular may feel grateful for the grave, considering the treatment they would have to endure now. A USA Today book review transposed to last century might announce that in, say, A Christmas Carol, "Chuck Dickens serves up the feel-good family fare once again..." The columnist can only contemplate the possibility for a few seconds before stretching out a tremulous hand for the bottle of sea-sick pills, and trusts he is not alone in this sentiment.
