Technical English for the dead
Unless we start having everything translated into technical English, there will always be doubts as to what a cod is doing in the middle of a painting. Observing a cod just for the lascivious pleasure of observing it, for example, although that remains the inalienable right of any citizen, is no longer enough. Contemplation on its own, that happy state of absorbed quietness – unparalleled for the development of intelligence – and perhaps the only human activity that does not demonstrably start ruining everything around it, has the serious problem of potentially leading to apathy. Instead of a cod there should, therefore, be a large, highly-faceted K, mobilising and understandable by all. K, in the clear-cut language of technical English, means a thousand; and, suddenly, the world becomes a much nicer place.
Technical English is the envy and ecstasy of concision and a joy for advertisers with a messianic bent. The salvation of the world, however, does not seem to lie in the concision of technical English – although it is hard to say precisely where the salvation of the world might be found. Wouldn’t it be wiser, and of greater use, to teach technical English to the dead – even though the initial reaction might not be terribly encouraging – than scramble to render everything in technical English, just because we don’t know exactly what a cod in the middle of a painting means? What is so exhilarating about recognising the word thousand in the letter K? The ever-fresh stupefaction of experiencing in situthe impossibility of teaching technical English to the dead might conceal something precious to which we ought to pay attention and, consequently, dissect. A cod, perhaps.