Spies may need codes, but they need plain English too

I learnt pretty much everything I know about how to be a spy shortly after I turned 7. That was the year I got The KnowHow Book of Spycraft for my birthday.

I had hours of serious fun with this book. It taught me how to make invisible ink and how to write messages in code. It taught me how to carry my messages safely ­­— inside pens or secret pockets — and how to plant them discreetly for my 'contacts' to find. Most importantly, it taught me that to avoid suspicion I should always wear a large trench coat with many pockets, and a fedora in a complementary colour.

What I didn't realise at the time was just how much this book wasn't teaching me. It made no mention of how to write up my spy reports in clear, concise language. It did not teach me that the 'intelligence' I gathered about my family and friends meant little if I could not convey it effectively.

Over 30 years later, I’m finally able to close this gap in my knowledge. The Guardian reports that America's Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) has a style guide for spies. It's available online.

At long last, I’ll be able to write convincingly and correctly about who really did steal that last cookie from the cookie jar. It wasn’t me. Honest.

To boldly split...

Cadet. "'SCUSE ME, SIR—ARE YOU A DOCTOR? THERE'S A BOY FAINTED."
Doctor. "AH—FATIGUE, I SUPPOSE?"
Cadet. "No, SIR. THE SERGEANT SPLIT AN INFINITIVE."
Punch, Vol. 156, April 30, 1919

Johnson bemoans the rule in the Economist style guide, which reads:

Happy the man who has never been told that it is wrong to split an infinitive: the ban is pointless. Unfortunately, to see it broken is so annoying to so many people that you should observe it.

The ban seems to have appeared during the 19th century, after at least six centuries of happy infinitive splitting. Since it made its way into school grammar texts, it has been memorised as a fixed rule, even though it makes no sense and isn't part of formal English grammar.

Theodore Bernstein said hopefully in Miss Thistlebottom’s Hobgoblins (1971) that “within the near future the split-infinitive bugaboo will be finally laid to rest.” Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary of English Usage describes the resistance to the construction as having “established itself in that subculture existing in the popular press and in folk belief.” Garner’s Modern American Usage includes the split infinitive in the entry Superstitions. John Bremner wrote in 1980, “This so-called rule has no foundation in grammar, logic, rhetoric or common sense.”(John E. McIntyre: You don't say]

So, for more than 100 years, style books written for professional writers give similar advice to the Economist: there is nothing wrong with splitting an infinitive, but don't do it because some people will think you've made a mistake. Johnson refers to an article on Language Log, 'Crazies Win'. Arnold Zwicky comprehensively demolishes both the split infinitive 'rule' itself, and the style guide ban. He says:

Whether teachers proscribe split infinitives because they believe in [No Split Infinitives] NSI or because they think that's the easy route around [Split Infinitives as Last Resort] SILR, their students grow up thinking that split infinitives are a Bad Thing. If, later in life, they come across SILR in the advice literature, what are they to make of it? What was once banned is now permissible, but in what circumstances? How to know when the alternatives are worse?

The advice givers have tacitly acquired their own tastes in the matter, but they can't assume that their readers (already) share these tastes. In fact, by formulating principles like NSI and SILR, they have failed to teach their readers anything useful about how they might judge different versions of infinitival verbal phrases.

In other words, Zwicky believes that the ban perpetuates the myth that there is something wrong with split infinitives. He finishes:

The objective fact is that split infinitives are standard English. So my advice is: split an infinitive if it suits you (or don't, if that suits you). Good writers do it. And you don't even have to have a defense for it; do it because it sounds right for you. Don't let the crazies win.

A matter of tone

Plain English isn't just a matter of well-chosen headings, straight-forward words, short active sentences, clear layout, and good structure. Tone matters, too. Tone tells your reader what you think of them. Meredith and I saw a Sydney Buses sign that was a great example of what can happen when you don't get your tone right. It said:

"No smoking. No drinking. No eating. Security cameras are operating on this bus. Plain clothes policemen may be present on the bus."

Then, having made it clear that we weren't welcome, and weren't to be trusted, it went on:

"If you need any further information, please ask for a copy of our 'Welcome Aboard' brochure."

'Further'? 'Welcome Aboard'?  For more about what Sydney Buses thinks about its customers, see here.