Adam Pendleton If the function of dada, 2017 Galerie Laurent Strouk
Good Lord! First they came for delve, and now they are coming for tapestry. Will constellation be next? I just read an article titled “ChatGPT is changing the way we write. Here’s how – and why it’s a problem,” once again casting aspersions on the use of delve, insinuating that its presence in prose—whether in an essay, school or employment application, or other work—suggests AI involvement. This article also raises suspicions about the word tapestry and other “stylistic” and “scholarly” words.
At this point, I cannot help but take deep offense, as it seems that any vocabulary beyond a third-grade level—essentially, a rich and varied vocabulary—is now suspect. As I have noted before, delve is not uncommon in my writing, and I often employ tapestry and constellation metaphorically. For example, I might refer to “a constellation of factors” when carefully considering a complex issue, or speak of “the tapestry of life,” as I did in a poem where tapestry appeared in both the title and the refrain.
Moreover, I have long used multisyllabic words such as verity, prodigious, exigency, modicum, sundry, and laborious in both my writing and speech, along with Latin and other foreign language phrases—all well before AI ever became a tool available to assist anyone in writing anything. Assuredly, those words would all be marks of suspicion today, if for no other reason than that they are uncommon to those less familiar with an extensive vocabulary—who seem to prefer the vocabulary and style of Hemingway (though this observation is not to disparage Hemingway’s vocabulary or style itself).
The frequency of these articles has become so overwhelming that the suspicions they plant have now ingrained themselves in my mental landscape—so much so that, while recently re-reading a delightful book from 1983, Daniel J. Boorstin’s The Discoverers, I found my equilibrium disturbed upon encountering a form of one of these now-verboten words—delve—used in a quote from Marie Jean Antoine Nicolas de Caritat, Marquis de Condorcet (1743–1794):
“Generally speaking, people have a very erroneous idea of the type of talent proper to the ideal mechanician. He is not a geometrician who, delving into the theory of movement and the categories of phenomena, formulates new mechanical principles or discovers unsuspected laws of nature ….”[1]
I momentarily pondered whether Boorstin or the Marquis had engaged with AI.
I fear that the article’s call to “write clearly” and to eschew all “stylistic language” contributes to the growing pressure to purge one’s writing of any and all suspect words, lest one be accused of literary fraud. This trend will ultimately impoverish poetry, prose, and language as a whole. The insistence on reducing language to its barest bones under the guise of simplicity and her sister clarity threatens to strip away not only the beauty and nuance that more expansive language brings but also the intellectual rigor it offers—more the pity.
Perhaps, if this trend continues, we will soon see an officially approved dictionary—quite slim, of course—purged of all offending words, especially those that are multisyllabic, scholarly, or carry any hint of flourish. Most certainly, this dictionary will exclude anything exceeding two syllables or requiring a moment of deeper thought. The end result? A homogenized language, stripped of depth and elegance, where the richness of expression once celebrated is replaced by a narrow, minimalist vernacular that leaves little room for imagination or creativity. Thus do the times conspire against us.
[1] Boorstin, D. J. (1983). The Discoverers: A History of Man’s Search to Know His World and Himself (p. 67). Random House.
The act of writing for others is often fundamentally narcissistic, driven by the desire to impress or profit. Academic scholars and artists are cited as examples of this tendency, with their use of language and prose serving to elevate their own status rather than effectively communicate with diverse audiences. This points to a broader issue within academic and artistic discourse, reflecting a deeper narcissism that pervades all writing and creative work. The challenge lies in balancing inherent self-focus with a genuine commitment to clarity and accessibility, ultimately creating works that are intellectually enriching and broadly impactful.
Writing for others is, except in the most exigent of circumstances, a fundamentally narcissistic act. The words we compose for others may be necessary, convenient, expedient, pleasing to the reader, and otherwise desirable. However, ultimately, writing for others is an act of narcissism, akin to all creative endeavors by which we seek to express ourselves, profit, or impress others.
If one writes with style, erudition, clarity, and aplomb, while simultaneously instilling a semblance of humility within that writing, one has grasped a technique that few have contemplated and fewer still have mastered. In a previous posting, it was noted that the Ursuline sisters early on admonished me and the other students at St. Luke Elementary School to avoid the perpendicular pronoun, and other first-person personal pronouns, at or near the beginning of sentences. Thus, contemplation of humility in writing persists, though I am fairly confident that I have not grasped this technique with any modicum of success.
The above is a precursor to commentary on some academic writing that I have observed in the past several weeks.
The first example is the most recent I have encountered and served as motivation to write this post. The text reads as follows:
“Or consider Matthäus Schwarz of Augsburg, who while still a child, at the age when the young Dürer painted his first known self-portrait, conceived the ambition of writing an autobiography, an ambition that would become a reality fifteen years later, after he had become chief financier for the Fuggers at age twenty-five. At that time he wrote an account of his private life entitled The Way of the World and simultaneously painted watercolors of himself in various costumes. A more narcissistic project can hardly be imagined. This brilliant mind, this confidant of one of the most powerful men of his time, led a full life yet deliberately chose to indulge himself by concentrating his attention on appearances and frivolities. Having achieved success, the adult cast an eye back on his childhood. His sentimental and mordant commentary suggests what feelings the men of the Renaissance, after generations of self-absorbed literature, harbored toward their youth.” (Braunstein, P. (1988). Towards intimacy: The fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. In G. Duby & P. Ariès (Eds.), A history of private life: Revelations of the medieval world (A. Goldhammer, Trans., Vol. II, pp. 555-556). Harvard University Press.)
How extraordinary it is that Professor P. Braunstein, a Frenchman writing in an age dominated by photography, high couture fashion, vapid celebrities, and best-selling autobiographies of such celebrities, could pen such a paragraph while seemingly unaware that his own writing—signed, no less—in the liberal arts, particularly medieval history, could likewise be called a frivolous indulgence and a narcissistic undertaking. Today, many would label the good professor an unproductive idler while viewing Schwarz of Augsburg as critical to economic prosperity as the accountant for one of the most important merchant and financier families of the era.
The second example, in two parts from another professor, comes from the first volume of the work cited above. After noting the Roman urban nobility’s preference for idleness and its adherence to rigid class distinctions, the author observes:
“True, we believe that work is respectable and would not dare to admit to idleness. Nevertheless, we are sensitive to class distinctions and, admit it or not, regard workers and shopkeepers as people of relatively little importance. We would not want ourselves or our children to sink to their station, even if we are a little ashamed of harboring such sentiments.” (Veyne, P. (1987). The Roman Empire. In P. Ariès & G. Duby (Eds.), A History of Private Life: From Pagan Rome to Byzantium (Vol. I, pp. 118). Harvard University Press. (A. Goldhammer, Trans.).)
The same author, reflecting the peculiarities of his class and profession, later indulges in sweeping generalizations, as evidenced by this statement:
“Apart from this proverbial wisdom of the people, Rome had an oral tradition of common sense, a tradition shared by all classes of society and pertinent to every sort of problem. It was a veritable philosophy, like Marxism or psychoanalysis, the two varieties of common sense most prevalent in the West today.” (Veyne, P. (1987), p. 178.)
Professor Veyne displays remarkable narcissism in both extracted statements, presuming that the reader shares his class prejudices against shopkeepers and workers, and embraces his social biases favoring Marxism and psychoanalysis. He scarcely considers that the reader may come from a different class or social background than his own, which is likely the case for the volumes translated into English. This vanity is compounded further when these assumptions are inserted without thought or hesitation into a scholarly work, which should strive to reflect objectivity rather than the exclusivity of social and class status, bias, and prejudice.
The third, and final, example is of a different sort—academic jargonistic exclusionist vocabulary. Or perhaps it is just muddled, unedited writing. In any event, the Cleveland Museum of Art (CMA) issues Cleveland Art: The Cleveland Museum of Art Members Magazine quarterly to communicate information about its exhibits and calendar events. Curators with appropriate academic backgrounds write many of the articles. One such article recently caught my attention due to the density and near inaccessibility of its prose for the average reader. The article discussed an art project which will be exhibited in the CMA’s atrium, which has been “activated with contemporary art at various points.” The latest project, and the artist selected for it, was discussed by the curator:
“Her signature ceramic figures represent a bold intervention in colonial legacies of dependency, erasure, and assimilation. The influence of her identity as a Native woman is evident in her work, but she balances her deep rootedness in her heritage with modern methods, materials, and processes, incorporating elements like metal and Pumice-Crete along with clay.” (Fellah, N. R. (2024). Rose B. Simpson’s Strata. Cleveland Art: The Cleveland Museum of Art Members Magazine, 65(2), 9.)
Academic concepts such as dependency, erasure, and assimilation within colonial legacy are not self-explanatory, and those with different educational experiences than the curator or artist may not grasp the meaning of the above, though they could hope to understand it were the presentation less muddled. For my undergraduate honors thesis, I researched and wrote on the socio-political-economic theory of dependency, and I found myself tripping over the excerpt, rereading it at least three times to discern the intent.
Given that the Cleveland Museum of Art has among its organizational values the statement, “Build an audience-centered culture,” and it states in its summary of its strategic plan that, “We must continue to enhance the visitor experience, affirming the welcome we extend to everyone who walks through our doors and providing joyful and enriching encounters with art for schoolchildren, teens, college and university students, families, and older adults,” it is peculiar that it would use highly academic, almost inaccessible language in a general publication. How much more accessible would it have been to write the above in a more straightforward, less narcissistic “I am an academic with a degree” style, such as:
“Her unique ceramic figures make a strong statement against the negative effects of colonialism, such as making people dependent, erasing their cultures, and forcing them to assimilate. You can see her identity as a Native woman in her artwork, where she mixes her deep connection to her heritage with modern techniques and materials. She uses things like metal and Pumice-Crete, along with clay, to create her pieces.”
The above rewrite may not fully explain the concepts of dependency, erasure, and assimilation, or the effects of colonialism, to readers not wholly familiar with them, but I suspect they would have a better sense of the meaning after reading the above than the original excerpt.
While scholarship and creativity inherently involve a degree of self-expression, they should not devolve into exercises in vanity that alienate the very individuals they purport to enlighten. If institutions like the Cleveland Museum of Art truly aim to build an audience-centered culture and enhance visitor experiences across all demographics, then it is incumbent upon them to adopt more accessible language. This shift would not only foster greater inclusivity but also ensure that the profound messages and insights contained within their works are appreciated by all, not just a select few.
The examples provided illustrate a broader issue within academic and artistic discourse: the propensity for language that obfuscates rather than clarifies, and for prose that serves to elevate the writer’s own status rather than communicate effectively with a diverse audience. This tendency reflects a deeper narcissism that pervades all writing, and much scholarly and creative work, where the desire to impress often overshadows the imperative to inform.
In revisiting the notion that writing for others is fundamentally a narcissistic act, it becomes evident that the true challenge lies in balancing this inherent self-focus with a genuine commitment to clarity and accessibility. The measure of effective writing lies in its ability to resonate deeply and universally, transcending the bounds of the page and embracing a shared human experience. By mitigating narcissistic tendencies, we can create works that are not only intellectually enriching but also broadly impactful and inclusive.
This short observation notes that professors and many others believe they can identify AI-assisted writing based on vocabulary use, such as “delve,” “interplay,” “intricate,” and “captivated.” The writer reflects on using such words since the 1980s, suggesting subconscious AI use and critiques modern educators for favoring simplistic writing over complex prose. Additionally, he discusses the modern tendency to overestimate individual abilities in various tasks, such as pandemic response and legal document writing.
Earlier this morning, I read an article asserting that many professors are confident in their innate ability to identify papers authored with the assistance of CHATGPT and similar artificial intelligence tools. The article’s comments section revealed widespread agreement among its readers that they could do the same. It appears that one of the primary indicators of AI-generated content in their collective minds is the use of certain vocabulary, including words such as “delve,” “interplay,” “intricate,” and “captivated.”
This conclusion struck me as somewhat amusing, as it suggests that I have been subconsciously employing artificial intelligence in my writing since the 1980s. It seems AI must have been implanted in my psyche at birth, only to be activated when I commenced my collegiate writing endeavors. Upon reviewing several of my papers from that era, as well as some recent compositions, I noticed the word “delve” frequently appearing, often within the introductory paragraph. By contemporary academic standards, it appears I would be accused of plagiarism frequently, and without merit, by today’s professors, whom I consider to be lacking in literacy, vocabulary, and style.
These modern educators seem to favor a style of writing that is monosyllabic and nearly without style, characterized by grunts and groans, rather than the intricate and complex prose that I believe leads to captivating reading and meaningful conclusions.
It further reminds me of the modern predilection of individuals to overestimate their ability to perform almost any task, whether it be land an airplane, conduct research on how best to respond to pandemics (as opposed to, say, listening to individuals who studied for years at University on the topic), or writing that complex legal document that attorneys labor for hours to write precisely to avoid unpleasant surprises later even if it seems like something anyone should be able to jot off in minutes.
It is incontrovertible that I abhor beginning a written sentence with a first person personal pronoun. This aversion was engrained in me by Sister Madeleine in the first grade when I attended Saint Luke Catholic School in Boardman, Ohio. As I vaguely recall, fifty years later, Sister explained in age appropriate terms that it was exceedingly narcissistic to begin a sentence centered upon oneself. Thus, to this very day, I twist a sentence to no end to avoid such a sin, though sometimes I cannot avoid such a transgression.
Curious as to whether I was remembering the source of my predilection correctly, I recently conferred with my older sister, who also attended St. Luke Catholic School, to inquire if she had been instructed as I had been, regarding the use of first person personal pronouns at the beginning of sentences by the Ursuline Sisters at St. Luke Catholic School. She quickly confirmed that she had been so instructed and that, like myself, she still avoided beginning sentences with a first person personal pronoun with the result that she often found herself twisting perfectly fine sentences into contorted jumbles for little reason. Laughter ensued as we both recognized the hilarity of the situation.
The Ursuline Sisters who taught us at Saint Luke Catholic School were excellent teachers and role models, and we both remember them fondly. Sister Mary and Sister Madeleine were kind and generous and exemplified the best of both the education profession and the Church. And if on occasion my writing is a bit convoluted because of their slightly misguided effort to teach children to avoid excessive self-centeredness, I can live with that.
