On American Words

IN his review of Buckley: The Right Word (NR, Dec. 23), James Jackson Kilpatrick planted the false assumption that WFB’s interest in verbal exotica is an aberration, nigh unique on this continent. That has long been a knee-jerk attitude among people who should know better. Back when I lived in Baltimore, regarded by the Washington Post as an accessible D.C. suburb, I would get occasional calls from one or another Post reporter in quest of comments on “Why Americans Have No Interest in Language.”

One time I was able to riposte with an anecdote. Harper’s had asked if I’d review some word-books they had had trickling in. I would? OK, they’d send them. And it took two men to lift the box of books off the mail truck. Books about words are an American sub-genre. No interest in language among the populace? Nonsense. Authors in this field even command personal publics, for whose pleasure publishers commission book after book.

HK

About the Author

Hugh Kenner

IN his review of Buckley: The Right Word (NR, Dec. 23), James Jackson Kilpatrick planted the false assumption that WFB’s interest in verbal exotica is an aberration, nigh unique on this continent. That has long been a knee-jerk attitude among people who should know better. Back when I lived in Baltimore, regarded by the Washington Post as an accessible D.C. suburb, I would get occasional calls from one or another Post reporter in quest of comments on “Why Americans Have No Interest in Language.”

One time I was able to riposte with an anecdote. Harper’s had asked if I’d review some word-books they had had trickling in. I would? OK, they’d send them. And it took two men to lift the box of books off the mail truck. Books about words are an American sub-genre. No interest in language among the populace? Nonsense. Authors in this field even command personal publics, for whose pleasure publishers commission book after book.