an postrophe War d

the direction and perhaps save the life of our innocent apostrophe.

Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party (and by that I mean the ‘P party). It is time for the thousands of Burns scholars around the world, the Burns Societies, the poets and the artists, the etymologists, the literati from the Groves of Academe et al to enter this affray.

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If that sounds a trifle grandiose, it’s not; this is bloody important; we are not talking about some minor scribbler nor even, as P.G. Wodehouse’s sagacious butler, Jeeves, would have it, “a poet who wrote in the North British dialect;” we are talking about Robert Burns, one of the greatest poets of his, or any other, century.

To the assembly of experts, I would pose these questions: is there in existence an original manuscript, in his own hand, of this poem? Did he, personally, correct the proofs when A Man’s A Man... first appeared in print?

Nor may we dispense with the Kilmarnock first edition. It is inconceivable that Burns, seeing his work come to life in print for the very first time, at the tender, ambitious age of 27, would not have pored over every line of the proofs. And if he did, he most certainly would have approved every last word and punctuation mark – he was a poet; that’s what poets do.

And what of more secondary sources: are there in existence any poems or leters, in his hand, where he uses the “apologetic” apostrophe? If there are, then the case for retaining the apostrophe is proven. The ‘P party will brook no argument on that.

It was Oscar Wilde, that doyen of leters, who once remarked to his hostess that he’d had an exhausting day. When asked why, he replied that he had been reading a proof of his latest poem. “All morning I pondered about a comma, and put it in,” he is reported to have said. “In the aſternoon, on further reflection, I took it out.”

We may smile at the witicism. But I believe he was speaking no more than the sober truth; to a poet, a misplaced word or punctuation mark would grate on the inner ear like the sound of broken glass. Robert Burns would have been no different; poet that he was, he could not have helped himself.

There is another thing, of course: words are not static, sterile instruments of communication; they are living, breathing entities; aſter music (which is the world’s universal language), they are the single most powerful force in existence. I include in that statement nuclear weapons.

Words have the power to move us, to enrich, inspire and ennoble our very existence; they also have the power to debase, subjugate, terrorise and ignite and inflame our baser selves; there are two sides to every coin. Words also change.

Sometimes, indeed, surprisingly oſten, the change is so great that a word’s modern day usage is now the exact opposite of its original meaning. But in the realm of poetry, words are immutable;

Follow this debate online at www.iscot.scot August 2015 21 The Terry Houston Column

Yes, I know; auld Scots is a vibrant, wondrous dialect that warms both the heart and the head. But we need no-one painting a moustache on the Mona Lisa in their enthusiasms.

there is a permanence to them that cannot change. They are gems in a jewel-encrusted diadem of thought, hand chosen, each placement and each colour flawless, a distillation of perfection. To remove one – just one, mind – is to watch the whole, gossamer- frail edifice crumble. So, too, with the humble apostrophe.

As for the gent who suggested, in our moto, replacing “independent mind” with “independent thoct,” I say: Pshaw. Shame on you. In this bowdlerised, sanitised, Orwellian new speak world that we inhabit, where the joyless PC brigade caper over the ruins of a once great language, like baboons disporting themselves on the last vine- covered remnants of a lost civilisation, you are perilously close to joining their number, although approaching them from a different (and highly laudable) vantage point.

We do not require a sub-editor for Robert Burns’s works near 230 years aſter the event; what we do require is

humility in the face of genius.

Yes, I know; auld Scots is a vibrant, wondrous dialect that warms both the heart and the head. But we need no-one painting a moustache on the Mona Lisa in their enthusiasms.

Forgive my passion; it is honestly held. Who would have thought a tiny apostrophe could wreak such ardour in a heart?

That said, to business: we in the ‘P party expect our apostrophe to be restored to its rightful place on the front page of iScot.

© 2015 Terry Houston. All rights reserved.