Winston Churchill – Andy Warhol – George Orwell Mark Twain and other likely suspects.
The other day I read a post written by a “media expert”.
It centered on typical advice from ‘grammarians’ whatever they are, of never ending a sentence with a preposition.
The post stated: Winston Churchill apparently agreed — until he didn’t.
It led to a Winston Churchill quote that read, “This is the sort of pedantry up with which I will not put.”
Allegedly in response to an ‘editor’ who corrected one of his sentences, that ended in a preposition.
There is no detail surrounding the context, where the sentence was uttered, written or who the editor was.
I’m not saying this incident didn’t happen—
The way I remember it was that Churchill was speaking in parliament when Wilfred Paling, MP confronted him concerning his use of a preposition at the end of his sentence.
To which Churchill responded, “This is the sort of pedantry up with which I will not put.”
And Paling, not to be outdone, said, “Sir, you are a dirty dog.”
Churchill replied, “Yes, I am a dirty dog. And we all know what dirty dogs do to palings.”
You see, a paling in England is the name of the temporary fence erected around constructions sites.
And, we all know what dogs do to fences.
The post goes on to explain that Churchill was making a joke about “…avoiding the preposition at the end making the sentence almost unreadable.”
The post continues:
Rules about writing exist to make communication clearer. But when following a rule makes your writing clunky, the rule is working against you.
“Who are you going to talk to?” is cleaner than “To whom are you going to speak?”
Both are correct. But one sounds like a human being.
Write the way people talk. Break the rule when the rule gets in your way.
That’s good judgment, not laziness.
And, as if the problem hadn’t started with:
- Winston Churchill apparently agreed — until he didn’t.—A statement that is never developed nor explained in the post.
- And, notwithstanding that the joke meant to mock Paling, and had nothing to do with prepositions.
- And the fact that the statement, “Both are correct.” is not correct.
- The equivocation of “Rules about writing…” with “Rules in writing….”
- Write the way people talk.—Apparently ignoring the fact that the rules for the written language differ than those for the spoken.
- Break the rule when the rule gets in your way.—Then why have ‘rules’ at all?
I wouldn’t categorize this as laziness. I would categorize this as the height of laziness, sloppiness, and lack of precision.
It’s all behavior up with which I will not put.
(Which despite all its clunkiness happens to be grammatically correct.)
Which brings us to:
“So what?” – Andy Warhol
There are rules about writing and there are rules in writing.
One learns rules about-writing, cadence, voice, rising action et al.
One learns rules in-writing in grammar school, and if wise, continues for a lifetime.
George Orwell wrote Politics and the English Language which was published in 1946. It’s an essay addressing the then terrible misuse of the language to twist meaning within politics at that time—which has since been raised to a high art form.
Here are the first few lines of his essay:
MOST PEOPLE WHO BOTHER with the matter at all would admit that the English language is in a bad way, but it is generally assumed that we cannot by conscious action do anything about it. Our civilization is decadent, and our language−−so the argument runs−−must inevitably share in the general collapse. It follows that any struggle against the abuse of language is a sentimental archaism, like preferring candles to electric light or hansom cabs to aeroplanes. Underneath this lies the half−conscious belief that language is a natural growth and not an instrument which we shape for our own purposes.
I think that that last sentence sets the stage for Orwell’s whole argument which develops in the balance of the essay with examples in the then current misuse.
It’s the declaration that context is the arbiter of the use of the rules, not the whim of the writer.
Someone like Mark Twain may write any way he likes, as may anyone, but when one crosses the line between Pudd’nhead Wilson and an essay meant to instruct writers on the rules, it should be abundantly clear which rules.
Pudd’nhead Wilson can ask for two pound of butter in the book, because within the context of the book; he’s saying it. It is correct within the confines of his vernacular, as a documentation of the spoken word within the confines of the book and the context of the story.
If he were to write a book about shopping; it would be correct only if written: two pounds of butter.
One can creatively pose this as Twain does in his essay: Fenimore Cooper’s Literary Offenses in which he claims:
Cooper’s art has some defects. In one place in ‘Deerslayer,’ and in the restricted space of two-thirds of a page, Cooper has scored 114 offences against literary art out of a possible 115. It breaks the record.
He makes it abundantly clear here that he is critical of the art. Among his criticisms, and there are many, the origin of his oft quoted line:
Use the right word, not its second cousin.
And he digs at the many improbabilities/impossibilities that occur in Deerslayer, but it’s clear it’s the ‘art’ he’s criticizing.
I used Twain’s quotes in a previous essay:
What did Mark Twain say,
“A half-truth is the most cowardly of lies,” or was it,
“Use the right word, not its second cousin?” Something like that.
Oh, I remember now: “When in doubt, tell the truth.”
That way there’s not so much to remember.
When someone puts their shoe on their head and calls it a hat—
it’s still a shoe.
If you take your hat to the shoemaker,
Or your shoes to the hatmaker,
You’re bound to be disappointed.
Written May 20 2026