Their use in distinguishing time, order, or nearness is straightforward.

This is a pleasant meal.

That was a pleasant meal.

I prefer this to that.

But where this and that are demonstrative pronouns referring to an earlier sentence, matters can become more complicated. Consider this except from a piece in The Economist called “Time to buy.”

But neither government bond markets nor commodities can in any sense be described as being near a bottom.

In short, this does not look definitely like the kind of low from which very good long-term returns can be made. That may be because the market has a lot further to fall; Morgan Stanley suggests that, if the superbear argument is correct, equities could drop a further 50%. But that will surely require some kind of economic news of the kind seen in the 20^th century.

The present tense (does not look) governs the use of this in the first sentence. And present tense (may be) would indicate the use of This in the second sentence as well, but having already used this in the preceding sentence, the writer switches to That to avoid repetition and possible confusion over the antecedent. Future tense (will surely require) would indicate the use of this in the third sentence too, but distance in time (seen in the 20^th century) indicates that, overriding tense.

Here are a few more from a piece in The Economist on chemical sensors, “Gas, gas, quick boys.”

In this way the components of the sample separate from one another. Each component is puffed onto the nanotubes, where it sticks to the carbon atoms. This, in turn, causes the conductivity of the nanotubes to change—how much is a characteristic of each gas.

What is needed is a cheap way of detecting such gases and, having raised the alarm, of identifying which gas is involved so that anyone who has succumbed can be treated.

And that is what a team of chemical engineers at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, led by Michael Strano (pictured on the left), think they have created.

Present tense dictates the use of This in the first pair. It should also dictate the use of this in the second.

Perhaps the writer felt that that would be more demonstrative than this. Or perhaps the writer preferred the word with an abrupt finish over the one with a hiss, a preference I’m beginning to note.

For more on that, view http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zo1XFz0kac0.

Consider this pair of sentences from a recent Economist:

In a bid to salvage his reputation, Mr Badawi has belatedly started keeping the bold promises of reform that he made on coming to office in 2003. Foremost among these was curbing corruption within the government.

Here, these is the object of the preposition among, acting as a pronoun and standing for promises.

These can often stand alone as the subject of a clause, if it’s clear what these refers to (see below). But these works less well as the object of a preposition or of a verb form. I usually switch to the pronoun them, which for me works much better.

…the bold promises of reform that he made on coming to office in 2003. Foremost among them was curbing corruption…

If it’s not clear what these or them refers to, I insert the noun, switching these from a substantive to a demonstrative adjective (…Foremost among these promises…).

Another usage is as follows:

 The case studies come next. These are straightforward and require mainly copyediting.

My colleagues Meta, Elaine, and Chris would write they, because these implies the existence of those, as though there’s another set of book elements that are not straightforward. If there is another set, these would be acceptable, though I’d probably stick with they. Nick has another view (see his comment on this post).

One problem with the standalone substantive is that it usually forces the reader to stop and go back to look for the noun it refers to.

Less of a problem is announcing the noun:

These, then, are the reasons for taking the new threats seriously.

A nice rhetorical flourish.

But why not write those, then, are the reasons…? More on this next week.

 
The abuse is common with rates, such as those of GDP growth:

 
Brazil’s GDP growth increased by 2.5 percent in 2007.

 
If Brazil’s GDP growth had been 5 percent in 2006 and increased by 2.5 percent, the growth rate for 2007 would be 5.125 percent. But if growth increased by 2.5 percentage points, the growth rate for 2007 would be 7.5 percent. A big difference.

 
The differences between two percentages are thus measured in percentage points not in percent, used for ratios and shares.

 
Consider these differences in the shares of three categories of voters from Wednesday’s Washington Post:

 
An estimated 2 million Democrats voted, nearly triple the number who turned out in the past two presidential campaigns in the state. Clinton ran up big margins with her core constituencies, winning white voters with incomes under $50,000 by 32 points, voters over age 65 by 26 percent, and Catholic voters by 38 percent, more than countering Obama’s strong showing among black voters and higher-income whites in Philadelphia and its suburbs.

 
For the 32 points, the writer should have made it clear that they are percentage points (this wasn’t a basketball game that Clinton won by 32 points, with a score of 120-88).

 
And the 26 percent and 38 percent are plainly wrong. Both should have been percentage points, shortened to points if the first use had been 32 percentage points, specifying the kind of points.

 
If the margin among voters over age 65 had been 63 percent of the total to 37 percent, that would be 26 percentage points. But if Clinton had won those voters by 26 percent, her margin would have been 11.8 percentage points (0.37 x 0.32 = 0.118) and her share of the total 48.8 percent (0.37 + 0.118).

 
(Percent comes from the Latin per centum, by the hundred.)

Essentially tactical issues have overwhelmed the most important challenge a new administration will confront: how to distill a new international order from three simultaneous revolutions occurring around the globe: (a) the transformation of the traditional state system of Europe; (b) the radical Islamist challenge to historic notions of sovereignty; and (c) the drift of the center of gravity of international affairs from the Atlantic to the Pacific and Indian Oceans.

I won’t comment on the sentence’s length (67 words), on the use of two colons, or on the use of letters (a, b, c) to indicate the three (1, 2, 3) revolutions. I will stick instead to the use of historic. Kissinger may have used historic to avoid repeating traditional.

Historic’s seeming synonym is historical. The difference? Historical is history’s ordinary adjective, meaning of history. Historic means memorable or dramatic, but I don’t believe that Kissinger was thinking of memorable notions or dramatic notions.

Would anybody misread the second revolution? Yes. I would. Does distinguishing the two seeming synonyms make a difference? I believe that it does. So does Fowler in Modern English Usage: “the use of one in a sense now generally expressed by the other is a definite backsliding.”

Historic also means assured of a place in history, as with historic accord or historic building. Grammarians also use historic as a technical term, as with the tense, historic present, the use of the present tense to relate events that occurred in the past..

Here are three other seeming synonyms routinely abused:

Comprise (embrace) and constitute (make up), as in “The whole comprises the parts, and the parts constitute the whole.”

Imply (suggest to the reader or listener) and infer (conclude from the writer or speaker), in “Are you implying that we should act on this? And may we infer from what you say that we should act on this?”

Masterful (domineering) and masterly (skillful), as in The Economist’s take on Saddam Hussein’s gulf war strategy: “more masterful than masterly.” True, some dictionaries have a second definition of masterful that is the same as that for masterly, reflecting the words’ early history as synonyms and the practice of most dictionaries of recording usage rather than pronouncing on proper usage. (I still shudder at the Merriam-Webster New Collegiate Dictionary’s including prioritize as a verb.)

There are countless others. See Edit Yourself and the ClearEdits compare function.

Note

My colleague Meta pointed me to Merriam-Webster, for the definition of masterful:

Some commentators insist that use of masterful should be limited to sense 1 in order to preserve a distinction between it and masterly. The distinction is a modern one, excogitated by a 20th century pundit in disregard of the history of the word. Both words developed in a parallel manner but the earlier sense of masterly, equivalent to masterful 1, dropped out of use. Since masterly had but one sense, the pundit opined that it would be tidy if masterful were likewise limited to one sense and he forthwith condemned use of masterful 2 as an error. Sense 2 of masterful, which is slightly older than the sense of masterly intended to replace it, has continued in reputable use all along; it cannot rationally be called an error.

Samuel Johnson's dictionary gave both meanings for masterly:

1. Suitable to a master; artful; skilful.

2. Imperious; with the sway of a master.

(He did not include masterful.)

And this is what Fowler (the 20^th century pundit?) writes in Modern English Usage for masterful, masterly:

Some centuries ago both were used without distinction in either of two very different senses: (A) imperious or commanding or strong-willed, and (B) skilful or expert or practiced. The differentiation is now complete, -ful having the (A) and -ly the (B) meaning, and is nicely observed in The presentation in each case was masterly (perhaps in a few rare instances a trifle too masterful) and always the playing was crystal clear.

I agree with Fowler (and Meta) that the distinction is useful (I won’t comment on his use of A and B). If someone were to write, Diana Vishneva’s performance was masterful, how would I to know whether it was an expert performance or an imperious performance?

Masterful in the (B) meaning may survive because of the clumsiness of forming an adverb from the adjective masterly: masterlily. Masterfully clearly is less clumsy.  

Only she is my wife.

She only is my wife.

She is only my wife.

She is my only wife.

She is my wife only.

Today’s post looks at only as an adverb.

In speech and informal writing only often appears earlier than the word, phrase, or clause it modifies.

Today’s post only looks at only as an adverb.

With only preceding looks, the readers’ first take is that the post only looks and does nothing else. Readers are unlikely to misunderstand this, but by putting only one position later, their first take is the correct one, that the post looks only at only as an adverb, the full and unbroken adverbial phrase.

Today’s post looks only at only as an adverb.

Fowler, in his Modern English Usage, writes that the first version is the normal way of speaking and, however illogical it may be, changing to the second version would succumb to pedants, who “If they are not quite botanizing on their mother’s grave, they are at least clapping a strait waistcoat upon their mother tongue, when wiser physicians would refuse to certify the patient.”

But especially in formal writing, I think placing only immediately before the word, phrase, or clause it modifies can improve clarity by making the writer reflect about what only is limiting.

Consider this, from a March 24 piece in The Atlantic by James Fallows, Nerds only: Firefox 3 beta is available:

I switch back to 2 only when I want to use that Chinese plug-in.

Compare that with:

I only switch back to 2 when I want to use that Chinese plug-in.

Readers will figure out what only is limiting, but they will start on the wrong scent with only switch. A look at some of Fallows’s other sentences shows the same care in placing only.

Where the placement matters most is when the part of the sentence modified is some distance from only.

Compare:

I only decided to arrange a trip to the Bahamas to do a bit of fishing when it struck me that I might not have another chance for some time.

With:

I decided to arrange a trip to the Bahamas to do a bit of fishing only when it struck me that I might not have another chance for some time.

So, when using only as an adverb, reflect on where best to place it.

For more on only, visit Dictionary.com. There you’ll see its many uses as an adverb and as an adjective (or conjunction). You’ll also see its origins, from Old English, as aenlic or anlic, or one-like to only.

Alliteration, repeating a consonant sound at the beginning of two or more words in a sentence, can add poetry to the ordinary. It usually combines words with the same first letter. Like all repetition, it strengthens the link between words and the attention to those words. (Indeed, it preceded rhyming in Middle English.)

Consider this example from an old issue of The Economist:

Fatter capital ratios, fancy risk management systems, and faster diversification: all of these things are undoubtedly creating a fitter banking system.

Note that the repetition need not involve consecutive words. Here, it binds the sentence by linking the attributes of the banking system. To be parallel, fancy might have been fancier.

Another example, this one from The Economist’s “Flooding the Grand Canyon”:

Those glorious inundations moved massive quantities of sediment through the Grand Canyon, wiping the slate dirty, and making a muddy mess of silt and muck that would make modern river rafters cringe.

This use is less ordered than the first, but the alliteration still brings poetry, leaving the reader reveling in the consecutive m’s.

But use alliteration sparingly—it can be annoying if overused. The “Flooding” passage, for example, could easily have gone too far:

Those glorious inundations moved massive quantities of sediment through the Grand Canyon, wiping the slate dirty, and making a muddy mess of mire and muck that would make modern mariners misdoubt.

The alliteration now overwhelms the sentence’s point.