Professional Documents
Culture Documents
The great books of the world provide us with one of our best demonstrations of
the universality of genius among human populations. Consider the diversity in this
selection of authors:
What words do students really need to know if they are to read comfortably in the classics of
English and American literature? My own ten-year study of 34,000 examples from 130 different
works indicates that the following words appear with extraordinary frequency. They are the top
100 words in my Classic Words database, in descending order of frequency, and they appear even
in so-called children’s classics, such as Tom Sawyer, Peter Pan, The Wind in the Willows, and The
Call of the Wild. Read left to right and then down.
A note on the elitist curriculum fallacy. I know, I hear it too: the classics are an elitist curriculum,
inappropriate for many students and groups of students, unsuited for the majority of futures that
students in our schools will actually attain. Most students should not or need not be taught
classics; instead, they should be taught things more practical and useful for the lives they will lead.
The first point, of course, is that educating all students to a high standard is not elitist—it is
teaching great books and great ideas only to honors and gifted college-bound students that is elitist.
Let me emphasize a point I mentioned earlier: I have taught all ability levels for nearly twenty years,
and I know that all students love beautiful books and beautiful ideas; all students love challenge; all
students love to have a pride in their own minds; all students love the feeling that they are learning.
Elitist? What’s so democratic about deliberately limiting the education of some students? Making
assumptions about the futures that kids with lower reading levels will attain is an insidious form of
bias—by depriving them of a genuinely strong education, we create a self-fulfilling tragic prophecy.
Classics aren’t practical? What’s so practical about being poorly educated?
Some years ago, I taught two basic classes and two gifted classes in the same semester—this in a
school where the tracking system included four tracks: gifted, honors, standard, and basic. The
basic kids, as you might guess, were not only basic in reading level; they were also alienated and
academically intimidated. Even so, I couldn’t face using basal readers and blue worksheets with
them; it just seemed like putting another nail in their coffin. So I did the obvious thing: I talked to
the kids. “Listen,” I said, “how would you like to read some good stuff? I mean famous books
with original characters and stories? What if we read one or two of these books aloud together as a
trial, and I will make sure that no one is embarrassed? If you get to a word you don’t know, you
can either try to pronounce it, or think for a minute before trying it, or ask me how to pronounce it,
and I will tell you. What do you think?” They thought they’d try it, so long as if it didn’t work,
we’d quit.
Well, that year we read 2,000 pages of classics aloud. My basic class read The Red Badge of
Courage, Journey to the Center of the Earth, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Time Machine, I Am the
Cheese, The Hobbit, The Prince and the Pauper, and I don’t remember what all. We had a
wonderful time, I and the kids who had once said, “Man, Mr. Thompson, I never read a WHOLE
BOOK before!” One day that spring, my Exceptional Children’s Director came to visit and to see
if I needed anything for my gifted classes. As she came in, the basic kids were discussing Scout
Finch and Boo Radley and the importance of standing in someone else’s shoes. The discussion
turned synthetic—to whether Scout Finch was smarter than Henry Fleming or Bilbo Baggins. The
kids got into a vehement comparative argument, pointing out facts and incidents from the stories to
support their claims. Finally, the period ended, and the kids filed out arguing, leaving my
Exceptional Children’s Director sitting in one of the student desks, looking at me with a puzzled
countenance. “Mike,” she asked, “was that one of your gifted classes?” It was another example
of the Pygmalion Effect, in which the class becomes what you envision it to be, like the sculpture of
I kn ow
e
I th i n k
BINARY DIAGRAM
Sirens
m
the
me
llifl
uo
us
subj
LV SC
1. In the end we capitulated and the Zone Council reduced its holdings.
a. a comma after the prepositional phrase
b. a comma after the dependent clause
c. a comma after the independent clause
d. an apostrophe in the contraction
e. commas before and after the appositive
3. The pilot expostulated when Newton our only navigator jumped out.
a. a comma to separate the adjectives preceding the noun
b. a comma after the dependent clause
c. a comma after the independent clause
d. commas around the appositive
e. commas around the noun of direct address
5. The well intended remark and the retort caused twenty one disputes.
a. a comma between the adjectives that precede the noun.
b. a hyphen in the compound adjective that precedes the noun.
c. a comma after the dependent clause
d. a hyphen in the compound number
e. an apostrophe in the possessive noun
6. In the ascetic decor of the cabin the Spartan said At least its gray.
a. a comma after the prepositional phrases
b. an apostrophe in the contraction
c. a comma before the direct quotation
d. quotation marks around the direct quotation
e. a period inside the closing quotation marks
Landlo Floppyla
Your ship crashes and you find yourself in a strange, alien land, with green clouds and
yellow mountains. Navy blue streams traverse the landscape, and pink fish jump from the water. A
crisp, cool wind blows the mauve trees to the west, or is it the east? The three suns shine down
from the crimson sky, casting a triple shadow. Strange, yes, but the strangest part is yet to come:
the grammar.
In this land, the language is just like English, except that certain rules are different. For
example:
1. Singular nouns all end in -lo, and plural nouns all end in -lolo, not -s. The subject
complement suffix is attached after the singular/plural suffix.
2. Adjectives immediately follow nouns, and end in -la.
3. Adverbs immediately follow what they modify, and end in -loo.
4. The first word of every sentence is the verb, unless the sentence is interrogative. Verbs
begin with the hissing sound sss-.
5. There are no object pronouns, only subject pronouns; everything is thought to be alive.
6. All subject pronouns begin with the prefix lee-
7. Direct objects and objects of verbals begin with the prefix lum-.
8. Subject complements begin with lim- and end with -mil.
9. The preposition begins with the prefix ner- is the last word of the prepositional phrase.
10. Interrogative sentences begin with the word hooop.
11. The second person pronoun is never spoken, out of respect. This missing word is
indicated by the humming sound, mmmm.
12. The definite article is rach and the indefinite article is roop.
As you gaze around in mute stupefaction, a creature flops flappily across the ground to you,
peers intensely into your eyes, his nose almost touching yours. He blinks, and says in Floppy:
Translate the alien’s language into ordinary English. Then translate a well known saying in
English into Floppy. You might choose a famous paragraph from a historical document, or a
humorous dialogue in a television commercial.
________
What the heck are you? I never saw anything so strange as you before. Are you a
monster? Why is your nose below your eyes? I have nice scales on my tummy.
Would you like to pat my head?
Fred and Joe enter. Fred looks down, and picks up a banana.
Fred runs away screaming, and Joe sits down, peels the banana, and eats it.
finis
Here are most of the Greek and Latin stems found in The Word Within the Word and within that
group, those found in Caesar’s English, which are in boldface.
Micropoem: When we say that a beginner is a neophyte, we are comparing the beginner to a
new (neo) plant (phyte) that has just pushed through the surface of the ground. In other words, to call
a person a neophyte is to use a metaphor—only we often become so accustomed to using a word in
its metaphorical sense that we forget that we are even doing so. The word neophyte is also a good
example of the way we borrow words from various fields (in this case botany) for more general
usage.
cosmoplexity (koz mo pléx i tee) n. [cosmo (universe), plex (weave)] 1. chronic befuddlement
over the meaning of life 2. extreme obsession with the size and scale of the
universe resulting in overwhelming feelings of insignificance.
carnorogation (karn oh row gay’ shun) n. [carn (flesh), rogat (ask), tion (act)] 1. the cheeky habit
of asking others how much they weigh 2. the obsessive need to read all of the
dietary information on every item of packaged food in the supermarket before adding
it to the shopping cart.
egomuric (ee go myoor’ ik) adj. [ego (I), mur (wall)] 1. putting up behavioral or psycholgical
barriers which prevent people from knowing you 2. responding with subterfuges or
circumlocutions to all personal questions.
entomonomy (in toe moe’ no me) n. [entomo (insect), nomy (name or law)] 1. the unfortunate
habitual reference to one’s associates as forms of insects, as gadflies, wasps, social
butterflies, busy bees, flies in the ointment, and so forth 2. excessive use of the
phrase, “Stop bugging me.”
exism (ecks’ ism) n. [ex (out), ism (doctrine)] 1. the pathological addiction to the phrase,
“I’m outa here.” 2. chronic and habitual staring at the doors and windows during
conversation.
flagespection (flaj’ uh speck shun) n. [flag (whip), spect (look), tion (act)] 1. taking pleasure in
seeing others punished 2. a form of crowd pathology characterized by gathering to
observe tragedy.
lithovidesis (lith o vid’ e sis) n. [lith (rock), vid (look)] 1. a look which turns one to stone, as
the look of the Gorgon 2. the look of one whose name you have mispronounced.
mendify (men’ dih fy) v. [mend (flaw), fy (make)] 1. to deliberately err in an assignment, so
as to avoid receiving future assignments 2. any deliberate or dissembling
introduction of flaws into one’s work; sabotage.
pecuniopia (peh kyoo nee o’ pia) n. [pecunia (money), opia (sight)] 1. an obsession with
profit or financial concerns 2. seeing potential “dollar signs” in every activity.
resequious (ree seek’ we ous) adj. [re (again), sequ (follow), ous (full of)] 1. following
someone around, even after being asked not to 2. following someone as he or she
performs a duty which requires them to move back and forth.
sarcoposition (sar ko po zish’ un) n. [sarco (flesh), pos (put), tion (act)] 1. sitting in the middle of
a seat for two, so that no one else will sit down, as on a bus 2. sprawling out with
arms and legs in a movie theater seat, so that a stranger will not sit in either seat
next to you.
telependence (tell uh pend’ ence) n. [tele (far), pend (hang)] 1. the supernatural ability to hang
someone from a distance, as in secret revenge 2. (rare) the handicap of being
emotionally dependent upon someone who is far away.
Romero enters and sees Juleen leaning against the Classic Coke machine.
She sees him too, whispers to her friend, laughs, and looks away demurely at MTV
on the television. Instantly a star-crossed lover, Romero tremulously whispers,
“Oh, she doth teach the video to glow!” He walks over to Juleen, reaches out, and
touches the tip of his index finger to the tip of her index finger.
Romero: If I profane, with my maladroit hand, this magnum opus, my lips, two
expository emissaries, ready stand to conduct you to the realm of
surrealistic forgiveness.
Juleen: Good Emissary, you do wrong your protagonist’s lips too much in this,
for a scholarly exegesis is how the truly forgiving kiss.
Juleen: Aye, Emissary, lips which they forsooth must use in valediction.
Romero: Oh, brave stoic, then no move make, while my valediction I take.
(kisses her)
Juleen: Until this night, I have not known the true diction of a valediction. If
this be farewell, prithee let me read all your final analects! (kisses
him)
Romero: And yet my mind misgives some moribund end, yet hanging in the
ignominious stars, to my despised life, and methinks I do presage the
vile chill of a cold sarcophagus. (they kiss again)
finis
787 9770554
mith@mac.com
http://homepage.mac.com/mith/
To order Our Gifted Children or any of the titles above, call Royal Fireworks Press
at 845 726-4444.