PARISH BULLETIN: MORAL ISSUES
The Limits of Language
James F. Keenan |  Summer 2009

Hurtful words can never really be taken back, but a sincere apology may help repair the harm they cause.

My Dad used to say, “A written word can always be erased, but a spoken one can never be retracted.” He said it on many occasions, at home and at work, among family, friends, neighbors, and colleagues. Whenever someone regretted something said rashly, my Dad would cite his proverb. Few things were predictable about my Dad, but whenever anyone said, “Boy, I wish I hadn’t said that,” my Dad was ready to share his lesson within five seconds of the penitent’s confession.

As I get older, I realize it is a pretty good lesson to keep in mind. Many times I stopped myself from saying something that I really wanted to say, but kept telling myself, “You’re going to regret this. You’ll never be able to retract it."

Still, sometimes we let it rip, and it is not just that what we said cannot be taken back, but the harm that accompanied it cannot be undone. We may have said something stupid, unkind, unthinking in the heat of anger or resentfulness. Words came out of our mouths that should have remained unspoken. We jeopardized a relationship that matters a great deal. When we said what we said, words flowed. When we try to take back what we said, we are often at a loss for words. We accused, judged, or ridiculed another with rhetorical finesse, but when we try to undo what has been done, words fail us.

Explanations are fine, so long as they come with an apology. We learned the effect of an apology as children, because parents teach their children to apologize many times over. We learned that a simple “I’m sorry" is usually fairly effective.

Often we want to avoid making an apology; we want instead to simply “explain.” These explanations are usually lame; the words we use seem void and shallow. Until we take ownership for what we did and apologize, the explanation is really not effective. In these instances, we encounter the limits of language: as we begin to offer a reason for our lamentable conduct, we usually discover, right in the middle of our attempts, that our offer just does not do it. Our lame explanation is nothing more than a poor excuse. Held hostage by the limits of our words, we capitulate and say, "I'm sorry."

Stories of Humor and Suffering

Whenever we aim to entertain by story, we find easily the words that we want. When we tell a comic story, we add all sorts of accessories and make the act of telling it longer and the hearing of it worthwhile. The funnier the story is, the lengthier it becomes, and the more we add all sorts of ironic insights along the way. The story may not be true, but that is beside the point.

Like humorous stories, the narratives of gossip, the purported account of what a third party said or did, look for an audience as well. In these accounts, language becomes a constructive tool to amuse others, even at another’s expense. We add more and more particulars to our revelations, and as we continue our claims, we find we talk easily and are hardly at a lack for words. When it comes to gossip, the devil is indeed in the details. And God knows we can generate enough of them.

Often, when we want to tell more serious stories, especially those of sorrow, suffering, or grief, our entire way of telling the account is different. A sad story moves at a much slower pace, with plenty of pauses, and each word becomes weightier as we proceed. We do not want to compromise the integrity of the account; we are as exacting in our telling as the evident sadness that exudes from the story. A narrative of sadness generally has an economy to it, which comic tales do not have. When the account is regretful, tragic, or pathetic, our words are more carefully chosen and the story itself is starker.

Sharing sadness and pain and suffering is not an easy task, and language often does not make it any easier. As we encounter the limits of life or human happiness, we often encounter frustration in the limits of language. As we experience loss, we are often slow and sometimes even unable to express the suffering. The Catch 22 of human life is that often words fail us when we are most in need of them.

Memory and Loss

In stories of sorrow, we want to remember the details. We try to hold onto a part of our history that, though lost, now lives only in our memories. Our memory is very affective, but often it is not terribly effective. It does not retain everything it once witnessed and cannot remember what it has already forgotten. In fact, it does not even recognize what it has not remembered. We tell a tale that may actually be considerably mistaken, but unless another witness challenges our account, we remain unknowingly the tellers of tales that never happened. Still, other times our memory may not fully serve us and we know it. On those occasions, if the narrative is entertaining, we do not mind making something up along the way. When telling stories of sorrow, we mourn the details lost.

It is hard not to find the words and details of a story long ago lived out. For memory, the Italians use the word ricordare, to bring back to the heart, but sometimes what we bring back is not all that accurate. Listen, for instance, to someone telling a story from an event that you shared with the narrator. Have you ever walked away from hearing it told only to say to yourself, “That is not how I remember it.”

Plans and Imagination

Language has a deep orientation to the future. We make promises and pledges and think and dream of what may be. When we think of tomorrow, we hope for something better, and through language we entertain many of the possibilities that lie ahead. Let us go out for dinner, let us take a trip, let us go shopping, etc. Making plans often generates a positive stance of friendship, solidarity, and fellowship, and words are helpful tools toward realizing them.

With family or friends, we allow our imagination to take over, making our hopes specific, attainable, and tangible. When we plan for the future, our language is pregnant with thick and ready expectations.

Imagining the future prompts us to find the words that embody our dreams. That might be a struggle, but often enough we find them. Interestingly, when we are not beset by challenges or feeling loss, when instead we are happy, hopeful, or just plain chatty, the words come. It is as if, in moments of sadness, language knows enough to stand outside the door of the inner self, giving it time to get its bearings; when there is joy, however, the words rush right in.

Listening and Responding

Listening to narratives of humor or achievement is easy and enjoyable. Listening to those of pain, betrayal, grief, or loss is a challenge for each of us. We are often awkward as we try to attend to each word being spoken, while thinking at the same time, "How will I possibly respond?" The listening alone requires considerable skill, but finding the right words is truly daunting. "I know how you feel," may seem to the sufferer terribly dismissive; "Don't worry," may provoke a resentful silence or an angry string of words. Sometimes we admit, however, "I don't know what to say." "I'm at a loss for words." "I'm speechless." These phrases actually can help both of us understand the sometimes limited ways we honor one another.

Sometimes, however, the teller of the narrative has to give the listener a sign of what he or she wants and needs to hear. I learned this recently. Often when a friend or colleague asked me how I was, I would say, "fine." Fine? Since last September, I have had two surgeries, a month of daily infusions, fevers, shakes, hives, and I am now into the fourth of eleven months of taking injections of interferon three times a week. Still, having lost fifteen pounds and having great color, I actually look better than I did before September! Since no one sees the stocking compressing my leg, the eczema all over me, or the nightly sweats, I look as "fine" as I say I am.

A wise friend heard me responding to a colleague's concern about my health. Later my friend stopped me, "You know, you're going to be completely well, but not until you finish the treatment. Why do you say 'fine'? If you want people to ask you something more specific or offer something consoling, you have to give them an opening." "What should I say?" "When they ask you how you are, say, "I'm OK." The modesty and ambiguity of it conveys, I think, exactly how you are. But don't walk away after you say 'OK.' From there on in, it is up to them."

Language has its limits, but it has its meanings, too, and sometimes that meaning is found when we replace "fine" with an "OK.” From phrases as simple as “OK," "I'm sorry," "I'm at a loss for words," we can communicate a whole range of honest insight, because language, like knowledge, has its limits, and the humanity of acknowledging those limits makes our words and our awkward conversations honest and promising.

James F. Keenan, SJ, is Founders Professor in Theology at Boston College, Massachusetts.