Most of us feel comfortable with the form “used to + verb” when using it to mean a past condition or habitual practice, as in these two sentences: “They used to be very close friends.” “She used to jog early in the morning.” In the first sentence, of course, “used to” conveys the idea of an activity or condition in the past that’s no longer true; in the second, on the other hand, “used to” conveys the idea of an old habit that had already stopped. In both cases, however, we’re hardly in any danger of tripping in our grammar because “used to” is clearly functioning as it should—as an auxiliary verb affirming the sense of a past action or state of affairs that had already ceased.

But using “used to” in negative and interrogative statements, which both require the form to take the auxiliary verb “did,” raises serious questions about its grammatical validity. Indeed, how should the two “used to” sentences above be rendered in their negative form? For the first, do we say, “They didn’t used to be very close friends” (“used” with the “d”) or “They didn’t use to be very close friends” (“use” without the “d”)? And for the second, do we say, “She didn’t used to jog early in the morning” or “She didn’t use to jog early in the morning”?

Then again, how do we put the two “used to” sentences in question form? For the first, do we say, “Did they used to be very close friends?” or “Did they use to be very close friends?” And for the second, do we say, “Did she used to jog early in the morning?” or “Did she use to jog early in the morning?”

The American English prescription is straightforward: take out the “d” from the verb in “used to” every time this form works with the auxiliary verb “did” in negative and interrogative statements. The correct usage for negative “used to” statements is therefore this: “They didn’t use to be very close friends.” For questions, it’s this: “Did they use to be very close friends?” This is an odd and puzzling prescription, for it actually contravenes the supposedly past-tense character of “used to,” but a good thing going for it is that it’s consistent with the standard grammar rule that auxiliary verbs, not main verbs, should take the tense (“They didn’t wish to be identified” rather than “They didn’t wished to be identified,” and “Did they want to live in Manila?” rather than “Did they wanted to live in Manila.”).

Some grammarians, however, frown on the American English prescription. They argue that since “used to” exists only in the past tense, its negative and interrogative forms can’t possibly take the auxiliary verb “do.” To them, therefore, both the negative constructions “They didn’t used to be very close friends” and “They didn’t use to be very close friends” are unacceptable, and both the interrogative constructions “Did she used to jog early in the morning?” and “Did she use to jog early in the morning?” are unacceptable as well.

For negative “used to” constructions, these grammarians prescribe this form instead: “They used not to be very close friends.” For interrogative “used to” constructions, they recommend these two forms: “Used she not to jog early in the morning?” “Was she not used to jogging early in the morning?” Take note that all these alternative constructions take pains to retain the “d” in “used to” and avoid using the contraction “didn’t,” yielding sentences that don’t have the odd look and sound of their American English counterparts.
Of course, American English is the Philippine standard, so we have to follow its prescription for “used to”—but we need not turn a blind eye to the virtues of the contrary prescription.

We will now proceed to three much more lethal grammar trippers than the form “used to,” namely “the reason… is because,” “the reason why…is because,” and “the reason…is due to.” See what awful and unsightly sentences they make: “The reason she’s absent is because she’s sick.” “The reason why he went out is because he was hungry.” “The reason for the poor attendance is due to the strong rain.”

The three forms give rise to flagrant redundancies, or needless repetitions of the same idea, so we need to methodically root them out: “The reason she’s absent is that she’s sick.” (Even better: “She’s absent because she’s sick.”) “The reason he went out is that he was hungry.” (Even better: “He went out because he was hungry.”) “The reason for the poor attendance is the strong rain.” (Even better: “The poor attendance is due to the strong rain.”) (September 19, 2005)

From the weekly column “English Plain and Simple” by Jose A. Carillo in The Manila Times, September 19, 2005 © 2005 by the Manila Times Publishing Corp. All rights reserved.

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Part I

We can invest feeling and emotion in what we say by using such figures of speech as the simile, metaphor, and hyperbole. These are not new forms of expression at all. As early as 2,000 years ago, in fact, the Greeks had already made such a fine art of their language by cultivating as many as 80 rhetorical devices—“the flowers of rhetoric,” they called them. The figures of speech, of course, derive their power by unexpectedly comparing a subject to things already familiar to us, while rhetorical devices can stir our emotions with the surprisingly felicitous ways they arrange words in a sentence or passage.

Let’s now take a closer look at wordplay, or the witty, clever, malicious, insidious, or cruel manipulation of words themselves as phonemes or carriers of meaning.

The most common form of wordplay, of course, is punning. This is the often humorous play on a word’s different meanings or on the similar meanings and sounds of different words—with the requisite mild touch of mischief or malice, of course. The more razor-sharp and wounding the pun is to the target, the better and more satisfying it is to the third-party listener. For instance, if a club chair, unable to stop a talkative but incoherent member from dominating a meeting, tells all and sundry, “Blessed are they who have nothing to say and who cannot be persuaded to say it,” how do we react? We feel good not only at the wounding of the target’s ego but at the insult—at the power of the words to inflict the wound.

But puns fall flat if the speaker and listener don’t have a common referent and depth of understanding of the language. Many of Shakespeare’s puns, for instance, mean little now except to the most studious ears. In Hamlet, for example, Hamlet accuses Ophelia of unfaithfulness and verbally savages her: “Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny. Get thee to a nunnery, go.” Hamlet built his pun around the word “nunnery” to wound Ophelia’s self-esteem and give vent to his rage. Yet up to now, over 400 years later, scholars, dramatists, and English professors still argue over what Shakespeare had really meant when he used “nunnery.” Some take it at face value: a place where disgraced women can take refuge from the jeers of society. Some take it on the figurative level to mean “Get out of here!” Others interpret it on the relational level as “You disgust me!” Researchers of Shakespearean English, however, have found that “nunnery” was a contemptuous allusion to “brothel” or “whorehouse.” This verbal cruelty, of course, is all but lost to the modern reader of Hamlet.

Now see how contemporary puns can elicit mirth or laughter (or our anger, if we ourselves are their targets) without having to go through the same analysis that we have done above: “Cole’s Law: Thinly sliced cabbage.” “Does the name Pavlov ring a bell?” “My accountant always writes religious phrases down the left side of the page. That’s his prophet margin.” “Shin: A very sensitive device for finding furniture in the dark.” “I used to think I was indecisive ... but now I am not sure.” Don’t they all have a delicious ring?

People also use wordplay simply for the sound of it, as in these juxtapositions of similar-sounding phonemes: “Is a sea of sequoias aqueous?” (William Waite). “Reverse errors to persevere” rearranged to “Errors prosper over beer” (Mike Rios). Then there is recreational linguistics, or “letterplays,” where words are manipulated by transposing their letters or syllables; the wordplay literature is full of them.

But an even more hilarious form of wordplay is taking any word from the dictionary and altering it by adding, subtracting, or changing only one letter, then supplying a definition for the newborn word. The Washington Post, which runs a “Style Invitational” on this type of wordplay, drew out from readers the following gems in the 2003 edition of the contest: “Intaxication. Euphoria at getting a tax refund, which lasts until you realize it was your money to start with.” “Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period.” “Glibido: All talk and no action.” “Arachnoleptic fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after you’ve accidentally walked through a spider web.” “Giraffiti: Vandalism spray-painted very, very high. “Sarchasm: The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn’t get it.” “Caterpallor (n.): The color you turn after finding half a grub in the fruit you’re eating.” Marvelous, marvelous!

To fully appreciate and enjoy these verbal pyrotechniques, of course, we must continually widen not only our grammar but our semantic grasp of English. Few can enjoy English-language wordplay at all unless they have already graduated from using English simply as a rickety pushcart for conveying information. (October 13, 2003)

Part II

Ever wondered how some people have moved us or inspired us to do great things their way, or mesmerized us, put blinders on our eyes, then made us do irrational things that we would never have dreamed of doing had we not been under their spell?

If so, then the speakers—unless they had recited great poetry—must have been using chiasmus. This figure of speech towers above all the other rhetorical devices in its ability to lower our built-in defenses and arouse our emotions. We could very well call chiasmus the linguistic incarnation of charisma—that rare and elusive power of certain people to inspire fierce loyalty and devotion among their followers.

The use of chiasmus dates back to antiquity. In the 6th century B.C., the extremely wealthy Lydian king Croesus went on record using it: “In peace sons bury their fathers, but in war fathers bury their sons.” Such wisdom in only 13 words! Is it possible that he became fabulously wealthy because he was so adept at chiasmus and—by implication—at compelling people’s obedience? Or did he become so good at coining chiasmus because his wealth had allowed him the leisure to craft it?

Now take a look at this familiar line from U.S. president John F. Kennedy’s 1961 inaugural address, on which so many English-language elocution students had labored investing their own vocal energies over the years: “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.” Just 17 words, but they give us the feeling of an immensely satisfying four-hour lecture on good citizenship. Then see chiasmus at work in this charming line by the English physician and author Havelock Ellis: “Charm is a woman’s strength; strength is a man’s charm.” And, one more time, hark to this timeless sage advice from Genesis 9:6: “Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed.”

By now you must have already discovered for yourself the fundamental structure and mechanism of chiasmus:  it reverses the order of words in two parallel phrases. Take this chiasmus by the legendary Hollywood actress Mae West: “I’d rather be looked over than overlooked.” “Looked over” is “overlooked” in reverse, making the speaker wickedly but deliciously imply that she enjoys being ogled at. Or take this arresting advertising slogan of a Philippine insurance company: “If someone depends on you, you can depend on Insular Life.” By some linguistic alchemy, the parallel word reversals arouse our senses, disarming us so we readily accept their claim as true. Chiasmus has this power because it heightens the sense of drama in language by surprise. It is no wonder that it holds the distinction of being mankind’s all-time vehicle for expressing great truths and, conversely, also great untruths.

Most types of chiasmus reverse the words of familiar sayings in a felicitously parallel way, as in the French proverb, “Love makes time pass, time makes love pass.” For chiasmus to succeed, however, the two insights offered by the word reversals should both be true and survive subsequent scrutiny. (They could also be untrue, and therein lies the danger in chiasmus in the hands of demagogues and charlatans.)

But chiasmus need not be an exact reversal of a familiar saying. Take what the English writer Richard Brinksley said on beholding for the first time the woman whom he was to later marry: “Why don’t you come into my garden? I would like my roses to see you.” This implied chiasmus cleverly reverses this usual invitation of proud homemakers: “I’d like you to see my roses.” And chiasmus also nicely takes the form of questions, as in this line from Antigone by the 5th century Greek dramatist Sophocles: “What greater ornament to a son than a father’s glory, or to a father than a son’s honorable conduct?"

If chiasmus is this pleasurable, does it mean that we should spend a lot of time composing it ourselves to impress people? Not at all! Chiasmus is meant to be used very sparingly, to be reserved only for those very special moments when saying them can truly spell a make-or-break difference in our lives, like preparing for battle, wooing the hearts and minds of people, ruing abject failure, or celebrating great success. In our everyday lives, it is enough for us to spot a good chiasmus so we can savor its wisdom, and to have the wisdom to know when we are simply being conned with fallacy or propaganda masquerading as great truth. (October 16, 2003)

From the weekly column “English Plain and Simple” by Jose A. Carillo in The Manila Times, October 13 and 16, 2003 © 2003 by the Manila Times Publishing Corp. All rights reserved.

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