On (Conversational) Britishness
Recently I had lunch with a well-known British writer who told me a sad story about another friend of his who had recently died of breast cancer. He said she had been a dear friend even though she talked and talked and talked, hardly allowing him to get a word in edgewise or any other-wise. He told a moving story about her determination to stay alive until she herself had a book published, and asked for his help in that regard. And he did help her. And she was published. And she died not long thereafter. He said again how fond he had been of her even though, as he put it, “She rattled on until you wanted to scream–sort of like me!”
Here, I interrupted, and said, “That is not true of you, at all. You are one of the very few people I know who can talk as long as you want and never be boring.” And I meant it. This guy finishes his sentences, which he confines largely to the simple declarative form. He has a wonderful sense of narrative pace. He is observant of his listener. That is, you can tell that he is aware of the slightest indication of boredom, and will speed things up or change “modes” to adjust. If he sees interest in your eyes about a secondary detail, he will digress in order to address that interest. He makes comic remarks without “indicating” them–without saying “This is hysterical” or “You’re going to love this!” The straighter the face, generally, the wittier the witty remark will be. Except, maybe, for Chris Rock, with that alarming constant rictus-like smile of his.
This friend’s conversation also receives considerable assistance from his Britishness. Somehow, in England, a sense of verbal economy permeates the atmosphere, from Cockneys to Royalty. So even when they go on for a while, many Brits somehow manage to sound concise, just as the French always sound elegant. It can be a vice–a sort of brittle wittiness in film and theater dialogue, for instance–but in conversation is a usually a blessing. We can learn from them.
