A well-known architectural critic writes an article
full of jargon words that only a few fellow theorists would understand. When
the editor of the journal for which the article was written translates the
words into prose most readers comprehend, the author demands that the editor
reinstate several words to signal that he has read the current theory. The
editor has to decide whether to acquiesce to the author’s wishes or to stand up
for the reader’s comprehension.
Every discipline has its
own jargon: words that have specialized meaning to those in a field. Jargon can
enhance people’s productivity by increasing the efficiency of conversation
among those who understand it, encapsulating in a single word or phrase a
complex theory or body of knowledge. In that sense, jargon increases
communication by saving us time. But jargon also diminishes communication by
decreasing the ability of others outside a field to understand the lingo of
those on the inside, placing a wall between those in the know and those who are
not.
We may take some comfort
in the jargon of others. If we have an illness or an injury needing immediate
attention, we may welcome the argot of medical personnel as they attend to us,
speeding up the delivery of the treatment we need, even though we may also worry
about what their conversation portends in terms of our prognosis. In situations
like this, we can find ourselves torn between a desire to understand a
specialized terminology and a desire not to know.
In most cases, though,
jargon becomes an unnecessary barrier between people. While it may save time,
words comprehensible to only a few mainly serves to enhance the prestige and
power of some over others, a gambit that has gotten so out of control that many
disciplines now have sub-fields with their own terminology that even fellow
professionals do not understand. Technical language, in other words, has begun
to raise ethical issues, evident in the dilemma of the editor described here.
Nietzsche once described
architecture as “the will to power by means of form,” and we might call jargon
the will to power by means of words. Power relations, be they architectural or
linguistic, bring us immediately to the question of who has power over whom, by
what means, and to what end? If the power that professionals wield has, as its
goal, improving the lives of others – as in the case of attending physicians
or, one hopes, in the case of architects looking after the public’s health,
safety, and welfare – then we happily grant them that power through their
license to practice. But it quickly becomes an abuse of power if professionals
simply want to show, through their actions or their words, that they know or
possess something others do not.
Ethics panels look for
such abuses of power when it comes to the actions of professionals, and editors
have the responsibility to do so when it comes to words. Audience matters here.
If the readership of a publication understands the jargon, then editors should
allow its use in order to save readers’ time and the journal, space. If there
exist, however, a number readers who may not understand what a particular
writer has written, the editor has a responsibility to translate the jargon
into words that most, if not all, will comprehend.
A follower of Nietzsche
might call this simply a matter of the editor’s will to power over that of the
writer, and that may be true. But if we resist the temptation to reduce every conflict
down to a question of power and instead take a more nuanced view of ethics, the
editor here has an obligation, contra Nietzsche, to defend the interests of
those with less power – the readers in this case – against a writer who wants
to use jargon to assert his power over them and to elevate himself in the eyes
of a few peers. When writers knowingly use arcane words to impress others with
what they know, all it really shows is how little such writers know.
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