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Stanley stumbled toward him, wondering what to say. He suppressed a shout of victory. Wrapping himself in dignity for the occasion, he held out his hand. Then he said, "Dr. Livingstone, I presume."

Today's portentous question is, did Stanley use the wrong verb?

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Good puns are little jewels. They deserve a better reputation than critics have given them.
Some memorable puns require the storyteller's gift. There is one strung-out story about an Eastern monarch whose palace was guarded by two lions. Four legendary dolphins, thought to live forever, protected a moat. A lusty suitor for the monarch's daughter had to cross state lions for immortal porpoises. Another improbable tale involves a powwow among the wise old women of a tribe. At a meeting in the trophy room to settle the late chief's estate, two young men challenged the women's authority. As it turned out, the squaw on the hippopotamus proved equal to the share of the sons on the other two hides.

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In 1998, the Oxford University Press approved split infinitives in principle. At the University of Connecticut, professor Samuel Pickering reacted with remarkable hauteur. "I do not dine," he said, "with those who split infinitives."

The gentleman must stay hungry in literary circles, for the roster of fearless splitters includes some famous names: Pepys, Defoe, Burke, Coleridge, Lamb and Dr. Johnson himself. In the 19th century one could find "to fully appreciate" in Macaulay and "to really understand" in Oliver W. Holmes. More recently, we find "to really live" in Ernest Hemingway, "to cautiously avoid" in John O'Hara, and "to really bury the silver" in William Faulkner.

A few notables are remembered for their banana splits (infinitives with at least two scoops of adverb in the middle). Thus Mark Twain wrote of a river commission's scheme "to arbitrarily and permanently confine the channel." James Thurber recalled a moment when Harold Ross, longtime editor of The New Yorker, instructed him: "Tell Sayre to damn well and soon return those proofs." Fowler cites an English reviewer who said of a book: "Its main idea is to historically, even while events are maturing, and divinely -- from the Divine point of view -- impeach the European system of church and states." You could send that sentence out to be framed. Or shot.

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A couple of years ago, well before the invasion of Iraq, Rep. Sue Myrick spoke to the Chamber of Commerce in Matthews, N.C. The local News & Record covered the story:

"Asked about Iraq, Rep. Myrick said her hope is for an internal coo�Yes, dear friends, we are off on our annual rant about foreign words and phrases. "

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Today's nanopauses are the little optional adverbs, conjunctions and adjectives whose meaning may not be instantly apparent. Take "although" and "while." Both conjunctions carry the meaning of "in spite of the fact that" and "even though." We could phrase a declarative statement either way: "Although he was certifiably sane, he continued to support the Cubs" is not semantically to be distinguished from, "While he preferred a martini, he wouldn't turn down a cold beer."

The trouble here is that "while" carries excess baggage. Its first meaning is "during the time that," as in "While Ulysses was sleeping around, Penelope stayed home and knitted." But "while" also can mean "as long as," as in "While Uly-boy idled, Pen's suitors could live it up."

Horrid Example: In August, The New York Times warned investors: "While brokers are required to recommend investments suitable to a particular client, they are not subject to the broader obligations ..." etc. This spawned a Frumious Nanopause. When we begin a sentence with "while," we invite a nanosecond of surmise that we're talking about "during the time that."

Second Horrid Example: In Washington, D.C., a fashionable condominium retained consultants to analyze the building's security. Owners were advised, "While the scope of the engagement is comprehensive, it is not exhaustive." Question: Would the conjunctive "although" have been a better choice than "while"? Answer: You bet.

Next question: In such a context, would the monosyllablic "though" have been even better than "although"? Answer: It's your call. Does your sentence work better with two syllables or one? Listen to it! Cadence counts! The translators of Mark 14:29 liked two syllables: "Although all shall be offended, yet will not I." In Psalms 23:4, they liked one: "Though I walk through the valley of the shadow ..."

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Today we're talking about similes, metaphors and other such garnishes on our plates of prose. The experts say there are two secrets to fashioning such sprigs of parsley: A good simile depends upon (1) close observation, (2) familiar images and (3) compact construction. Other elements are important also, such as the supposed levels of taste, sophistication and tolerance of one's readers, but we put those aside for another time. Today the theme is, Less is more!

Fourteen years ago, critic Andrew Ferguson panned Kitty Kelley's biography of Nancy Reagan. I've kept his review in the simile file ever since. Writing in The Wall Street Journal, Ferguson remarked that Father Time had dealt cruelly with the once pert and petite Ms. Kelley, "who looks like an ice cream cone trying not to melt."

Now suppose a less gifted writer had the same idea. In that event, we might have read that Ms. Kelley's hairdo looked like two scoops of vanilla pecan ice cream trying not to melt under a hot sun on a summer afternoon. Less is more!

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The Court of Peeves is in one of its recurring pouts. While we're abolishing the distinction between "who" and "whom," let us banish the nation that "none" always takes a singular verb.

The notion is unmitigated nonsense, but it enjoys amazing persistence. Not long ago, a columnist well- known to the court was writing about a case in California. He said of the several defendants that "none of them are likely to face prison time." A fastidious editor changed it to read, "None of them is likely ..." Aaarrgh!

In his "Modern American Usage," Bryan Garner observes sensibly that "none" means both "not one" and "not any," hence "not one is" and "not any are." Writers are free to play it either way, with a mashie or a niblick, but "none is" usually sounds more emphatic -- and more stilted.

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For the record, a homophone, according to my dictionary, is one of two or more words that (1) sound more or less alike, (2) are spelled differently, and (3) have different meanings. Our mischievous English language has bred hundreds of them.

Several years ago the AP carried a story about killer bees: "Experts say Arizona's drought-like conditions are exasperating an ongoing problem." A few months later the AP covered a basketball riot in Indiana: "A large-screen television set-up may have exasperated the situation." A columnist for Internet World contributed his view of a marketing problem that "will likely be exasperated."

Each of the writers wanted "exacerbated," a fine old verb dating from the 17th century, "to make more violent, bitter or severe."

Let us nod not! According to the AP, the mayor of Panama City Beach, Fla., warned coeds on spring break "not to bear it all." In Mount Airy, N.C., the News reported that bike riders would have to bare the cold to compete in a charity event. In Indiana, the local park board "asked that people bare with us," an interesting thought.

In Vero Beach, Fla., a paid obituary notice identified a dear lady as a bingo and bizarre worker. Surely the dear soul was merely odd�. Letters to the editor provide a verdant field for the romping homophone. A reader in Pensacola commented that prisoners in the local jail should thank God they're not in "a Third World penile system."

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What makes a perfect simile? We have discussed this off and on for years. A perfect simile must be packed as tightly as the inside of a watch. This is an area in which professor William Strunk's dictum applies absolutely: One of his many sound rules of English composition was to Omit Needless Words! He lectured to his students at Cornell:

"Vigorous writing is concise. A sentence should contain no unnecessary words, a paragraph no unnecessary sentences, for the same reason that a drawing should have no unnecessary lines and a machine no unnecessary parts. This requires not that the writer make all of his sentences short, or that he avoid all detail and treat his subjects only in outline, but that every word tell."�

Four years ago, a bichon frise, name of J.R., won best of show at the Westminster Dog Show. The New York Times' Douglas Martin wrote about the winner:

"J.R. is a dazzlingly white, 14-pound, intensely furry powder puff with sparkling black-currant eyes. But his attitude is his most distinguishing characteristic. When he won at Westminster, J.R. celebrated by jumping inside the sterling bowl he had just been presented, raising his front paws and beating them in the air like Rocky, his signature gesture. The next morning he cranked the charm to panda level as he made the rounds of the morning talk shows."

What were Martin's elements? Look at them: a powder puff, two black currants, a sterling silver bowl, Rocky the boxer, and charm at the "panda level."

In fashioning similes and metaphors, the writer's trick is to stick with familiar elements and then to pack them into a sentence as tightly as an egg in its shell. We must look intently and read insatiably. In time, with luck and hard work, we too may look at a champion dog and see a powder puff.

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Several months ago the Washington-Baltimore Newspaper Guild staged a two-day "byline strike" at The Washington Post. In this union action, "nearly every staff writer removed their name from articles appearing in the newspaper."

How's that again? Is something out of kilter in that sentence? How could "every writer" remove "their" name? Fifty years ago, every grammarian would have flinched at the usage. We were taught in our cradles -- or in our knickers, at least -- that neuter antecedents take masculine referents: Every writer removed his name. For some old-timers that is still the rule, but the times, they are a-changing. This is the usage note in Merriam-Webster's Tenth Collegiate:

"English lacks a common-gender third person singular pronoun that can be used to refer to indefinite pronouns (as 'everyone,' 'anyone,' 'someone.' Writers and speakers have supplied this lack by using the plural pronouns ("and everyone to rest 'themselves' betake" -- Shakespeare. "I would have everybody marry if 'they' can do it properly." -- Jane Austen) ...

"The use of they, their, them as pronouns of indefinite gender and indefinite number is well established in speech and writing, even in literary and formal contexts. This gives you the option of using the plural pronouns where you think they sound best, and of using the singular pronouns where you think they sound best."

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The Biloxi (Miss.) Sun-Herald sent a sportswriter to Memphis last year to cover a heavyweight title match between Lennox Lewis and Mike Tyson. Lewis won by a knockout in the eighth. It was a big win for him: "A jubilant crowd of 13,000 saw Lewis improve to 40-2-1 as he moved closer toward boxing immorality." It's a goal to think about�

Some lapses in attention involve more than errors in spelling. A sportswriter in Indiana described the skill of quarterback Antwaan Randle El: "Gliding with a dancer's grace, he eludes and exacerbates defender after defender." The rule used to be that exacerbation carried a 10-yard penalty, but maybe the rule has changed.

Equally puzzling is a quotation attributed to Dan Dible, city manager of Bullhead City, Ariz. Last January he provided a deposition in a suit brought against the city by the Mohave Electric Cooperative. When certain issues must be tackled, he said, an elected official "will have a prurient interest" in the outcome. Those officials are officials to keep an eye on�.

Let us sign off today with a classified ad from a weekly newspaper serving the area of Asheville, N.C. A prospective employer had the right idea: He advertised for a "Reliable Conscious Worker." Sure beats the alternative.

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When Newsweek defended their misleading use of "prone" as a synonym for "supine" they found a similar justification in Webster�s sanctioning of a semantic shift. So is it OK? "When," Safire asks, "does the frequency of error reach critical mass and transform the mistake into a �new sense�?"

His answer is a clear "Not on my watch." At the end of the prone vs. supine column he informs us of The New Yorker�s decision to never again confuse flaunt with flout. "The good usage fight," Safire concludes, "is always worth fighting."

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Sigh. This confusion shows up a lot on student papers and on the Internet.

The simplest way into the issue is, If you're going to do it, use "Affect." If it's something already done, use "effect."

Hmmmm...that doesn't look too simple after all.

How about:

"I can affect the effect." repeated aloud seven thousand and twenty four times while standing in the shower listening to a repetitious hip-hop song.

That will solve most of the problem because, you see, most often, "affect" is a verb--doing it--, and "effect" is the noun--the thing that resulted.

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Affect Vs. Effect
Affect and effect are two words that are commonly confused.

"Affect" is usually a verb meaning "to influence".
The drug did not affect the disease.

"Effect" is usually a noun meaning "result".
The drug has many adverse side effects.

"Effect" can also be used as a verb meaning "to bring about".
The present government effected many positive changes.

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Most of the problems of the upper squiggle involve the possessive form of nouns ending in "s." The Associated Press instructs us to add an apostrophe-"s" unless the next word begins with "s." For the AP, it's the "the hostess's bottom" and "the hostess' seat." If a proper name ends in "s," the AP's rule is to add only the squiggle: Achilles' heel, Dickens' novels, Kansas' senators.

For good or ill, the AP's rule is not everybody's rule. Two years ago, The Washington Post reported "Jeffords's decision" in one paragraph and "Jeffords's switch" in another. The Post's E.J. Dionne Jr. wrote of "Congress's will," "Congress's intent," "Congress's efforts" and finally of "Congress' legislative power."

My own rule on these sibilants is to spell them as they're pronounced. I would write of "the Times's rule" because we make an extra syllable out of the possessive apostrophe: "the Timesuz rule." By the same token, I would have (would've?) stuck with "Jeffords' switch" and "Jeffords' decision" because there is no extra syllable. It's plain old "Jeffords." Whatever became of the fellow?

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MOST people who bother with the matter at all would admit that the English language is in a bad way, but it is generally assumed that we cannot by conscious action do anything about it. Our civilization is decadent, and our language�so the argument runs�must inevitably share in the general collapse. It follows that any struggle against the abuse of language is a sentimental archaism, like preferring candles to electric light or hansom cabs to aeroplanes. Underneath this lies the half-conscious belief that language is a natural growth and not an instrument which we shape for our own purposes.

Now, it is clear that the decline of a language must ultimately have political and economic causes: it is not due simply to the bad influence of this or that individual writer. But an effect can become a cause, reinforcing the original cause and producing the same effect in an intensified form, and so on indefinitely. A man may take to drink because he feels himself to be a failure, and then fail all the more completely because he drinks. It is rather the same thing that is happening to the English language. It becomes ugly and inaccurate because our thoughts are foolish, but the slovenliness of our language makes it easier for us to have foolish thoughts. The point is that the process is reversible. Modern English, especially written English, is full of bad habits which spread by imitation and which can be avoided if one is willing to take the necessary trouble. If one gets rid of these habits one can think more clearly, and to think clearly is a necessary first step towards political regeneration: so that the fight against bad English is not frivolous and is not the exclusive concern of professional writers. I will come back to this presently, and I hope that by that time the meaning of what I have said here will have become clearer. Meanwhile, here are five specimens of the English language as it is now habitually written.

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Other terms that deal with good and evil -- especially evil -- seem to cause trouble. In a letter to the editor of The Greenville (S.C.) News, a reader urged voters to cast a ballot for Franklin Raddish, "a Christian of good moral turpitude." In The Charlotte (N.C.) Observer a few months ago, a business writer recalled the massive refinancing of home mortgages in 2001. The wave "set off a virtuous circle of economic transactions."

Virtuous circles are certainly not unknown in the business world, but good moral turpitude is hard to come by anywhere.

You sometimes wonder what the world is coming to. The Associated Press reported from Kingman, Ariz., a few years ago that Mohave County led the state in the number of deaths by cardiovascular disease. "Morality was 25 percent higher in Mohave County than in other regions of the state." Lots of virtuous circles in Mohave County.

The AP filed a feature story from Bogue Sound, N.C., about an old fellow who lives on a sand spit off the Carteret County coast. Headline in The Gaston Gazette: "Man has called uninhibited island home for 14 years." Ah, to be 66 and uninhibited!

That island is not to be compared to Hugh Hefner's famous Playboy mansion in California. The Los Angeles Times notes that "the mansion is seen by some as a den of inequity." No mortgages there.

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�What I am gradually discovering is that, in the writing, I come in touch with the Spirit of God within me and experience how I am led to new places.

Most students of theology think that writing means writing down ideas, insights, or visions. They feel that they first must have something to say before they can put it on paper. For them, writing is little more than recording a pre-existent thought. But with this approach, true writing is impossible. Writing is a process in which we discover what lives in us. The writing itself reveals to us what is alive in us. The deepest satisfaction of writing is precisely that it opens up new spaces within us of which we were not aware before we started to write. To write is to embark on a journey whose final destination we do not know. Thus, writing requires a real act of trust. We have to say to ourselves: "I do not yet know what I carry in my heart, but I trust that it will emerge as I write." Writing is like giving away the few loaves and fishes one has, trusting that they will multiply in the giving. Once we dare to "give away" on paper the few thoughts that come to us, we start discovering how much is hidden underneath these thoughts and gradually come in touch with our own riches.