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The word “flautist” entered my vocabulary when I started listening to Sir James Galway several years ago. It did not seem right to me at the time, because “flutist” was elegant and to the point. Nevertheless I have consistently thrown the term around in conversations since then, owing to its uncanniness and an urge to sound intelligent. However, I must admit I have never felt comfortable using the term.

A few moments ago, I turned to Wikipedia for enlightenment. Apparently, both terms are indeed right, “flautist” being the preferred term in British English, and flutist is “by far the more common choice” in American English. While that still did not resolve it for me, this line put the matter to bed.

… James Galway summed up the way he feels about “flautist,” saying, “I am a flute player not a flautist. I don’t have a flaut and I’ve never flauted.”

As if that were not enough, the next line proved a slam dunk.

In the Flautist or flutist? section in his book Proper Flute Playing, Trevor Wye records the following conversation: “What do you do, young man?” “I’m a flautist”, he replied. A long pause, then… “What exactly is it that you do with floors?” He then observes “Perhaps we should try flutist; it’s simpler, self-explanatory and widely understood.”

Reminds me of an unrelated story…

Mongoose

A farmer in some remote village in England had some trouble with snakes. His many attempts to eradicate the problem resulted in failure. At this time, someone suggested that getting a mongoose might be the answer. That someone had also heard of someone else who had contacted a store in London to buy a mongoose.

So, our man decided to write a letter to the store in question.

Dear Sir,

My farm is infested with snakes, and I would like to control this problem. Would you please send me two mongooses from your store in exchange for the attached payment?

Somehow that did not sound right. He knew that the plural term for goose was geese, and not gooses. So he started afresh.

Dear Sir,

My farm is infested with snakes, and I would like to control this problem. Would you please send me two mongeese from your store in exchange for the attached payment?

No sooner did he write this than he realized that this didn’t sound right either. If anything, it sounded worse. He did not want to be thought of as lacking erudition, but felt he had exhausted his options. Surely, there wasn’t another plural term he could think of. But then it came to him.

His final attempt read:

Dear Sir,

My farm is infested with snakes, and I would like to control this problem. Would you please send me a mongoose from your store in exchange for the attached payment?

Sincerely

…

P.S.: Please send me one more mongoose.

Back when I was in high school, one of my favorite books was my mother’s old copy of High School English Grammar and Composition by H. Wren and P.C. Martin. I have lost count of the number of times I would have gone back to the book. It was a treasure trove; every time I delved into it, I came back with some nugget that I could put to ready use, which made me sound more intelligent than I really was.

The Composition section was filled with page after page of wonderful passages that it could have been a reference book in its own right. And that is where I first came across Cardinal Newman’s portrait of the gentleman, culled from The Idea of a University. The passage became an instant favorite, not just for the speaker’s (the book is actually a series of discourses delivered by the Cardinal) clarity of thought and his eloquence, but because it advocated that the most important characteristic of a gentleman was equanimity.

It is almost a definition of a gentleman to say he is one who never inflicts pain. This description is both refined and, as far as it goes, accurate. He is mainly occupied in merely removing the obstacles which hinder the free and unembarrassed action of those about him; and he concurs with their movements rather than takes the initiative himself. His benefits may be considered as parallel to what are called comforts or conveniences in arrangements of a personal nature: like an easy chair or a good fire, which do their part in dispelling cold and fatigue, though nature provides both means of rest and animal heat without them. The true gentleman in like manner carefully avoids whatever may cause a jar or a jolt in the minds of those with whom he is cast; — all clashing of opinion, or collision of feeling, all restraint, or suspicion, or gloom, or resentment; his great concern being to make every one at their ease and at home. He has his eyes on all his company; he is tender towards the bashful, gentle towards the distant, and merciful towards the absurd; he can recollect to whom he is speaking; he guards against unseasonable allusions, or topics which may irritate; he is seldom prominent in conversation, and never wearisome. He makes light of favours while he does them, and seems to be receiving when he is conferring. He never speaks of himself except when compelled, never defends himself by a mere retort, he has no ears for slander or gossip, is scrupulous in imputing motives to those who interfere with him, and interprets every thing for the best. He is never mean or little in his disputes, never takes unfair advantage, never mistakes personalities or sharp sayings for arguments, or insinuates evil which he dare not say out. From a long-sighted prudence, he observes the maxim of the ancient sage, that we should ever conduct ourselves towards our enemy as if he were one day to be our friend. He has too much good sense to be affronted at insults, he is too well employed to remember injuries, and too indolent to bear malice. He is patient, forbearing, and resigned, on philosophical principles; he submits to pain, because it is inevitable, to bereavement, because it is irreparable, and to death, because it is his destiny. If he engages in controversy of any kind, his disciplined intellect preserves him from the blunder.

Kathleen Parker on the importance of touch:

The tactile experience of reading is also crucial to my reading pleasure. Holding a book compares to nothing short of a baby’s contact with his favorite blankie. Consistent with Ackerman’s findings, a hardback is superior to a paperback precisely because it is more solid, weightier and, therefore, more permanent, more important, better.