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TO BE!
- lewd lude lover
- Supporter 2015
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Ha, English. As a language it feels sticky and in need of a wash in the mouth of most speakers nowadays.
Be they British or 'murican it seems the coolest thing is to see what contraction of language can be achieved next. Never realising that words hold ideas, concepts. You lose something ethereal in their debasement. You lose the ability to conceptualise if you cant describe a thing correctly. I tire of the times I use one correct word and then have to waste 20 or 30 explaining that correct word with a series of slightly incorrect ones.
Words have power, if you dont swallow your own tongue trying to articulate yourself. Most people seem to be able to muddle along with less words holding their minds together than I would think possible. They literally describe your existence and everything you will ever come into contact with. Trying to do this on 25,000 words seems absurd to me.
George Orwell knew this and showed us the future of a contracted language in his book 1984. Funny how so many of the ideas and concepts contained in those words have found real foot holds in todays reality.
Be they British or 'murican it seems the coolest thing is to see what contraction of language can be achieved next. Never realising that words hold ideas, concepts. You lose something ethereal in their debasement. You lose the ability to conceptualise if you cant describe a thing correctly. I tire of the times I use one correct word and then have to waste 20 or 30 explaining that correct word with a series of slightly incorrect ones.
Words have power, if you dont swallow your own tongue trying to articulate yourself. Most people seem to be able to muddle along with less words holding their minds together than I would think possible. They literally describe your existence and everything you will ever come into contact with. Trying to do this on 25,000 words seems absurd to me.
George Orwell knew this and showed us the future of a contracted language in his book 1984. Funny how so many of the ideas and concepts contained in those words have found real foot holds in todays reality.
6th gen Prelude please Mr Honda. RWD 2.4 turbo lude.
- lewd lude lover
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- wurlycorner
- Ye are glad to be dead, RIGHT?
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Yeah well, we all have a little rant every now and again. I was however wrong on this one being a modern dropping of words under the usual laziness/illiteracy proliferation, as it seems this had been a very long standing Scottish dialect thing - in which case fair enough of course that Scots use it and apologies if any offence caused (not the intention)!
The thing is it wasn't Scots that I had seen suddenly using it all over the place, hence why I hadn't picked up that it may be that instead of just the usual...
If @Donald had bothered to do his research properly in the first place instead of originally fobbing me off with bilge, that would have cleared it up yonks before
I should have known better than to trust something that came from his mouth
The other thing that surprises me is how no-one went down this line

The thing is it wasn't Scots that I had seen suddenly using it all over the place, hence why I hadn't picked up that it may be that instead of just the usual...
If @Donald had bothered to do his research properly in the first place instead of originally fobbing me off with bilge, that would have cleared it up yonks before






The other thing that surprises me is how no-one went down this line


--
Iain.
Iain.
Super Secret 1G (not really super secret!)
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- kordafish
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To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover’d country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.–Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember’d.
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover’d country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.–Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember’d.

BB2 H23A2
- wurlycorner
- Ye are glad to be dead, RIGHT?
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