Go ahead, it’s OK to boldly split that infinitive

Any grammar treatise about the rights and wrongs of splitting an infinitive arrives at some point at the introduction to the legendary TV series Star Trek.

Since such a destination is inevitable, let’s start our own grammatical journey there.

Star Trek – the original, not the myriad derivatives that followed it – ran on NBC from 1966 to 1969 and told of the adventures of the U.S.S. Enterprise, a “starship” in service to an Earth-centered federation of planets dedicated to peaceful space exploration and doing good.

The beginning of every episode began with a voice-over by actor William Shatner, who portrayed the captain of the Enterprise, the brave and dashing James T. Kirk. “Space, the final frontier,” he intoned with the gravity of Saturn. “These are the voyages of the starship Enterprise. Its five-year mission: to explore strange new worlds. To seek out new life and new civilizations. To boldly go where no man has gone before.”

Deep thicket

As a full-fledged science fiction geek, that mission statement never failed to send a shiver of delight up my spine as I sat in rapt anticipation of a primetime network TV show that didn’t treat its subject matter as campy fluff suitable for the Saturday movie matinee and nothing more.

But it never occurred to me that the inspiring boilerplate that framed every Star Trek episode had wandered unwittingly into a deep thicket of grammar controversy.

Purists – and by this I mean the brainwashed minions of long-dead arbiters of grammar righteousness – insist that it’s incorrect to split an infinitive. That is, to place an adverbial modifier between to and the infinitive or base form of a verb.

They would argue, damn them, that Star Trek creator Gene Roddenberry should be excoriated for inserting a reckless “boldly” in the middle of “to go.”

To their delicate ears, the phrase would sound oh-so-much-better as “boldly to go” or “to go boldly where no man has gone before.”

I stand with my grammar hero, Random House copy chief Benjamin Dreyer. He says, “If either of those sounds better to you, be my guest. To me they sound as if they were translated from the Vulcan.”

Another nonrule

The edict against split infinitives stands as one of Dreyer’s Top 3 Nonrules of Grammar. (FYI, the others are never begin a sentence with “and” or “but” and never end a sentence with a preposition [see previous Grammar Goat entry].)

Martha Kolln and Robert Funk, authors of the definitive Understanding English Grammar, also don’t equivocate.

“Although the adverbial between to and the verb may not be the most effective placement in some cases, it is not a grammatical error,” they write. “And, in the case of single-word adverbials, it is a rather common structure.”

The example they use to illustrate their latter point? You guessed it: “To boldly go where no man has gone before.”

Here are a couple of others:

When I go to a restaurant, I like to carefully peruse the menu to see if I can afford to eat there.

In order to adequately prepare for life, one must at some point confront the possibility of death.

There are other ways to compose either of the sentences above, of course. But why should you? Is “I like to peruse carefully the menu…” any more cogent or graceful? Does it deliver the desired message any more effectively? I’d argue no to both questions. The fact of the matter is that the unsplit example is a bit clunky so best to stick to the original.

Ditto for the “to prepare adequately for life,” which avoids the split but subtly changes the meaning by placing more emphasis on the life rather than the preparation.

A catchy name

Unlike some of the curious grammar “rules” we have explored on Grammar Goat, splitting an infinitive only became a contested subject rather recently.

“The term first is attested in 1897,” says Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary of English Usage, “when the construction had already been under discussion for about half a century.”

Merriam-Webster suggests, only half in jest, that the dispute over split infinitives has endured because of the catchy name. It allows American writer Ambrose Bierce to make its point.

“Condemnation of the split infinitive is now pretty general, but it is only recently that any one seems to have thought of it,” he is quoted as saying in 1909. “Our forefathers and we elder writers of this generation used it freely and without shame – perhaps because it had not a name, and our crime could not be pointed out without too much explanation.”

H.W. Fowler, as rock-ribbed a conservative grammarian as you’ll find this side of the Harvard English Department, divided the English-speaking world into five groups: those who neither know nor care what a split infinitive is; those who do not know but care very much; those who know and condemn; those who know and approve; and those who know and can distinguish when to split or not to split.

“Those who neither know nor care are the vast majority, and are a happy folk, to be envied by most of the minority classes,” he said in his landmark Dictionary of Modern English Usage.

Pedantic bogey

The Harper Dictionary of Contemporary Usage calls the controversy over split infinitives “another pedantic bogey, carried over from the Latinate prescriptions of the 19^th century.”

There’s no such thing as a split infinitive in Latin simply because all Latin infinitives are single words. In Latin, “to hold” is written as “tenere.” So it’s impossible to state in Latin, “to fully hold the water.”

“Therefore, the pedants reasoned that both elements of an English infinitive should be considered as fused into one – unsplittable and sacrosanct,” Harper says. “Only that’s not the way English works.”

Theodore Bernstein, author of The Careful Writer, approaches split infinitives cautiously – as he does all things grammatical.

“There is nothing wrong with splitting an infinitive except that 18^th- and 19^th-century grammarians, for one reason or another, frowned on it,” says Bernstein, a longtime editor of The New York Times. “And most grammar teachers have been frowning ever since.”

As a result, he cautions writers not to blithely split infinitives with nary a care and to pay heed to the influence of those moldering grammarians.

 “For better or worse, their taboo against the split infinitive is a linguistic fact of life,” Bernstein said, “which a writer ignores at his own risk.”

Slavish devotion

We’ve traveled this road before on Grammar Goat. A slavish devotion to a long-dead language – the accursed Latin – has created a grammar rule where none should exist. And because of a widespread acceptance of the nonrule – implanted and nurtured by generations of well-meaning but hidebound English teachers – modern writers are stuck with the damned thing, lest we be considered uneducated boobs by many of our readers.

And yet, even the staunchest opponent of split infinitives acknowledges that there are instances when doing the dirty deed is the right and proper thing to do.

n  When avoiding the split infinitive introduces uncertainty and imprecision to the sentence.

I believe any person who lives a good life is required sincerely to consider the consequences of global warming.

Does sincerely modify “required” or “consider”? Hard to tell. And yes, it’s a minor point, but the world turns on minor points, doesn’t it? All confusion, minor or otherwise, is removed by simply writing “is required to sincerely consider.”

n  When you can’t avoid it without injuring yourself (or your writing).

What’s wrong with the construction of either of the following sentences? Nothing.

When Trump opens his mouth, I refuse to so much as listen to a word he says.

I have decided to all but give up my plans to move to Oregon in retirement.

n  When avoiding it interrupts the flow and rhythm of the sentence.

The Republicans in Congress didn’t expect the deficit almost to double because of their tax break for the rich, but they should have.

Ugh. To allow such a herky-jerky of a sentence to stand just to avoid a split infinitive is writing malpractice. Don’t do it.

The President of the University proceeded to praise warmly the accomplishments of his research scientists.

Its reads awkwardly. If you say it out loud, its sounds awkward. Do the write thing: “…proceeded to warmly praise…” You’ll be glad you did.

Bryan Garner says in Garner’s Modern American Usage that “knowing when to split an infinitive requires a good ear and a keen eye.” He's right, of course. Good writers will always choose the needs of the sentence over the dictates of 19^th century grammarians. They know when to hold ’em, when to fold ’em and when to walk away.

 To be fair, however, devotees of the split infinitive also understand that there are instances when it should be avoided like a coiled rattlesnake on your front porch.

Long slog

Take the following sentence, for instance, in which the adverbial element inserted after to forces the reader into a slog to the infinitive long enough to make them yearn for the final period.

In his fiery speech, the candidate sought to forcefully, fully, firmly and systematically expose his opponent as a neo-fascist.

This is a case where avoiding the split infinitive results in a stronger sentence. In his fiery speech, the candidate sought to expose his opponent as a neo-fascist – forcefully, fully, firmly and systematically. This approach highlights the deliberate alliteration and puts full focus on the totality of the takedown.

Interesting, many armchair grammarians who staunchly rail against split infinitives are much less adamant about a related grammatical issue – splitting verb phrases.

Some writers, myself included, believe that keeping the verb phrase intact – and placing any adverbial modifier either before or after it – makes for a stronger sentence. But not always. Take this example:

The dancer was carefully instructed not to land too hard on her injured ankle.

In this case, the split verb phrase reads naturally, its meaning clear and direct. In fact, keeping the verb phrase intact makes for a stilted construction.

The dancer was instructed carefully not to land too hard on her injured ankle.

It doesn’t work any better by placing carefully before the verb phrase because it leads the reader astray by linking the dancer too closely with the care in which they were instructed.

To split or not to split, that is the question. And the answer? It depends. (Alas, the Grammar Goat recognizes no hard and fast rules! Well, almost none.)

The last word goes to Raymond Chandler, mystery writer extraordinaire, as quoted by Dreyer in his entertaining and instructional Dreyer’s English.

Chandler, who could string words together as well as any novelist you’d care to name, took issue with a copyediting change in an article he wrote for The Atlantic Monthly. Imagine Humphrey Bogart as Phillip Marlowe reciting the response the author fired off to the editor.

“By the way, would you convey my compliments to the purist who reads your proofs and tell him or her that I write in a sort of broken-down patois which is something like the way a Swiss waiter talks, and that when I split an infinitive, God damn it, I split it so it will stay split.”

The Missing Pronoun Gap

One telltale sign of a novice writer is when they demonstrate confusion over the most simple of grammatical rules – the agreement of pronoun and antecedent.

What could be simpler? A wordsmith of any experience shouldn’t stumble when they are called upon to ensure all pronouns agree in number, gender and case to the preceding noun to which they refer.

What’s that, you say? Something’s amiss?

In fact, there is. In the previous paragraphs, I deliberately have hoisted myself with my own petard.

More precisely, I’ve been having a bit of what passes for grammatical fun to illustrate an example of English usage that I’ll call “The Missing Pronoun Gap.”

Old-school grammarians will have winched twice in reading the first three sentences of this post. In two of those sentences, I used the plural they to refer to the singular writer and wordsmith, a clear violation of the general rule. Or is it?

What to do?

Orthodoxy would argue that the corrective move is replace the errant they with a singular he or she. But which one? The writer in question could be either male or female. Or there could be a compelling reason to cloak the gender of said writer.

 Since English doesn’t have a singular third-person pronoun that can refer to either gender, what’s the responsible writer to do?

Once upon a time, the proscriptive course would have been to use he in cases where gender is not stipulated. Not anymore. Modern sensibilities – tempered and forged by the women’s movement and a growing general enlightenment – forbid it.

“That this practice has come under increasing attack has caused the single most difficult problem in the realm of sexist language,” says Bryan Garner in his Garner’s Modern American Usage. “Other snarls are far more readily solvable.”

Use of they or their as singular pronouns often come in sentences with such indefinite pronouns as someone, everyone or anyone. All are commonly mistaken as plural constructions.

For example:

Everyone knows how to mow their own grass, but anyone with a lick of sense will pay to have it done.

Everyone is singular, but many (most?) folks believe it’s plural so the use of their sounds correct.  The problem is everyone doesn’t specify gender. In fact, it literally means all of us: women and men. So it should be his. Or her. But which one?

Keep reading as I try to disperse the fog a bit.

The dilemma

Traditional grammarians, even as they express their distaste for the use of they as singular pronouns, acknowledge the dilemma.

“Our system of personal pronouns – or, to be more accurate, a gap in the system – is the source of a great deal of the sexism in our language,” admit Martha Kolln and Robert Funk in their Understanding English Grammar.

In spoken English, the problem already has been resolved by the common use of they, their or them as substitutes for the missing third-person, non-gender pronoun.

For example:

Teaching a child their ABCs is essential if they are to succeed in kindergarten.

The writer who ignores grammar will find they don’t have many readers.

Garner argues that the language should yield to the inevitable.

 “Speakers of American English resist this development more than speakers of British English, in which the indeterminate they is already more or less standard,” he says. “That it sets many literate Americans’ teeth on edge is an unfortunate obstacle to what promises to be the ultimate solution to the problem.”

Random House copy chief Benjamin Dreyer demurs, describing himself as “too old a dog to embrace” they as a singular pronoun. But he notes that “in speech most of us use the singular ‘they’ relentlessly and without a second thought.”

Hardliners, of course, consider the practice as yet another sign of civilization’s slide into anarchy and madness.

“In colloquial usage the inconvenience of having no common-sex personal pronoun in the singular has proved stronger than respect for the grammarians,” bemoaned the great Henry W. Fowler in his landmark A Dictionary of Modern English Usage.

Examine the possibilities

Theodore Bernstein, another traditionalist, grudgingly admitted that the use of they in such cases “is common enough in spontaneous, casual speech, and even occurs occasionally in the work of reputable writers.

“Yet,” he adds, and you can imagine him raising his index finger emphatically, “the writer of craftsmanship and taste” – dramatic pause – “will reject the grammatical inconsistency of the combination of a singular noun and a plural pronoun. He will examine the possibilities available.”

I count myself among the grammatical pragmatists who believe that the use of they as a singular pronoun is an imperfect, but acceptable, option in sentences where the gender of the preceding noun isn’t identified.

Most often, however, I find myself looking for a way, as Garner puts it, “to write around the problem.” In my mind, it’s better to spend more time building a better sentence than to be considered by some of my readers as a careless, slovenly writer.

Some alternatives

Perhaps like me you seek alternatives to the “anything goes” landscape in which the singular they thrives. If so, here are some options listed from worst to better.

n  Alternate the use of he and she throughout the article or passage. This deranged attempt at fairness – or at least parity – is confusing and disorienting to readers. Avoid it as you would a pit bull who just gnawed its way out of the backyard.

n  Try to please everyone. Use the phrase he or she, his or her to refer back to a non-gender-specific singular noun.

For example:

It’s not hard to imagine a teacher who hates his or her students but loves having summers off.

Who could blame a manager, when faced with downsizing his or her department, for wanting to run away and join the circus?

Although perfectly acceptable from a grammatical or political point of view, this usage amounts to writerly cowardice of the worse sort. It’s a clunky alternative that interrupts the flow and rhythm of the sentence and labels you a writer without conviction and spirit. You’ll hate yourself if you resort to it.

Exponentially worse is the typographical atrocity s/he or h/she. Mercifully, I’ve never actually seen this literary construction used, but a couple of reference books I consulted present it as a possible alternative. I’ve since burned them. (Kidding!)

n  Embrace the past and damn the torpedoes! Use he or him as non-gender singular third-person stand ins. After all, mankind is used widely to refer to all of us, male and female, although humankind is coming on strong. You’ll delight the traditionalists, who see themselves as the lone Gandalf, standing staff in hand and roaring, “You shall not pass!” Don’t be shocked, however, if you infuriate everyone else – and not just women – who will accuse you of being a lazy Neanderthal. Not me, you understand, just all of them.

n  Make the preceding noun plural. This is easily done, in most cases with little or no fuss. You then can employ the useful they or them, and no one can dare complain.

n  Rewrite the damned sentence! This, of course, is by far the best option. Yes, it requires more work, but sometimes the best approach to a problem is to avoid it altogether. And when you do, you discover the result often is better than the original.

While the venerable AP Stylebook says use of they/their/them as singular and/or nongender pronouns is acceptable, it clearly views the usage with distaste.

“Rewording usually is possible and always is preferable,” AP says. “Clarity is a top priority; gender-neutral use of a singular they is unfamiliar to many readers.”

Bernstein concurs, “The solution here is to recognize the imperfection of language and modify the wording.”

Try these modifications, which cause little or no disruption to the original sentence.

·       Delete the pronoun completely.

Original: The professor rushed out of the classroom as soon as confirmation of the $25 million inheritance was delivered to him by singing telegram.

Revised: The professor rushed out of the classroom as soon as confirmation of the $5 million NIH grant was delivered by singing telegram.

·       Change the pronoun to a or the.

Original: The professor rushed out of the classroom as soon as confirmation of his $5 million NIH grant was delivered by singing telegram.

Revised: The professor rushed out of the classroom as soon as confirmation of the $5 million NIH grant was delivered by singing telegram.

·       When the noun is included in an introductory prepositional phrase starting with “if,” rewrite the sentence using the relative pronoun who.

Original:  If a firefighter is afraid of fire, perhaps he should choose another line of work.

Revised: Perhaps a firefighter who is afraid of fire should choose another line of work.

·       Repeat the noun instead of using a pronoun, but only if there are enough words separating the two to avoid repetitiveness. 

Original: A writer must know the basics of grammar before embarking on any major writing project. If he doesn’t, the project will be compromised.

Revised: A writer must know the basics of grammar before embarking on any major writing project. If the writer doesn’t, the project will be compromised.

Never: A writer must know the basics of grammar before the writer embarks on any major project. (Beep, beep! Proximity alert!)

Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary of English Usage is sanguine about the rising popularity of they as a single pronoun, pointing out that the problem is not a 20^th century development.

“Although the lack of a common-gender third person pronoun has received much attention in recent years from those concerned with women’s issues, the problem, as felt by writers, is much older; the plural pronouns have been pressed into use to supply the missing form since Middle English,” it says.

 Merriam-Webster also helpfully reminds us that “the English pronoun system is not fixed.” For instance, thou, thee and ye all have been supplanted by the ubiquitous you.

 “They, their, them have been used continuously in singular reference for about six centuries, and have been disparaged in such use for about two centuries,” it says. “Now the influence of social forces is making their use even more attractive.”

So the general consensus is that the use of they will grow ever more accepted as a singular alternative to the chauvinist he when referring to preceding singular nouns of undetermined gender.

The ever-practical Dreyer says that day already has arrived.

“The singular ‘they’ is not the wave of the future; it’s the wave of the present,” he says.

A final thought

Before we leave the subject of pronouns and gender, let’s touch on the issue of how to deal with what AP calls “gender-nonconforming individuals” – that is, those who do not fit into the traditional view of two genders.

Such individuals could be transgender (those whose gender identity does not match the sex or gender they were identified as having at birth), intersex (those with genitalia, chromosomes or reproductive organs that don’t fit typical definitions for males or females at birth), nonbinary (those whose gender identity is something other than strictly male or female) or something else.

How should the responsible writer deal with the relatively rare occasions when such concerns arise?

The answer isn’t to stick their heads in the sand and hope the whole thing goes away. Because it won’t. In fact, I suspect it will become ever more common as time goes by.

The sensible course is to determine, when feasible, the pronoun preference of the people you’re writing about and follow it. In the rarest of instances, you may encounter folks who don’t want to be identified by gender-specific pronouns at all. In those cases, you can rely on some of the suggestions offered above.

I’m less sanguine about the use of alternative pronouns invented for those people who do not identify as either male or female. One of the more common constructs is ze/zir, but there are many others and the number is growing. At some point, presumably, there will be an attempt to settle on one system for universal adoption.

I dislike these alternatives, not out of any political or grammatical convictions, but for the practical reason that most readers aren’t familiar with them. Our job is provide clarity, not spew confusion so we should find a way to write around the problem.

If you can’t, or if your subjects insist on their use, then you have no choice but to include an explanation of what you’re doing, despite its clunky and disruptive impact.

The lesson here? Language usage evolves, as does the social and cultural environment in which it exists. As writers, we have no choice but to evolve with it.

The postponed preposition

Mrs. James, my uncompromising 7^th grade English teacher, had strong feelings about what she called, with a dismissive sniff, “dangling prepositions.”

“Never, ever, end a sentence with a preposition,” she declared firmly, glaring at us fiercely through her black, cat-eye rimmed glasses. “It’s the sign of a lazy, ignorant writer.”

Her upper lip curled upward in utter contempt as she delivered her decree – as irrefutable and final as Holy Scripture.

Mrs. James was Old School. When it came to grammar, rules were rules. There was no such thing as a difference of opinion. Individual choice didn’t exist. Writerly preferences must bend the knee, always, to The Rules.

She rejected the idea, widely accepted these days, that sentences ending with a preposition are a natural way of talking and – in many cases – a natural way of writing, too.

In fact, avoiding terminal prepositions has never been a rule chiseled in stone, as Mrs. James suggested. Grammarians have wrangled for 300 years about the permissibility of such constructions.

The dispute started, as these things so often do, when playwright-poet John Dryden, a self-declared grammar expert, penned an essay in 1672. He argued that the English used by his generation of writers was superior to that of its predecessors – a group that included the then-not-so-revered Shakespeare.

In that screed, Dryden first declared the evil of sentence-ending prepositions, generously acknowledging he, too, had been guilty of the crime. He then proceeded to revise all his earlier works to eliminate the hell-bound construction, a dramatic move that only served to inject an elevated degree of awkwardness into his writing.

Greater elegance?

It’s unclear how Dryden developed his distaste for what Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary of English Usage calls the “postponed preposition.”

“But Latin is probably involved,” Merriam-Webster says. “The construction does not exist in Latin, and Dryden claimed to have composed some of his pieces in Latin and then translated them into English – apparently for greater elegance or propriety of expression.”

 Until Dryden poked his nose in, terminal prepositions weren’t an issue, says Merriam-Webster. They were, in fact, a regular feature of Old English.

“No feature of the language can be more firmly rooted than if it survives from Old English,” it notes wryly. (I don’t like the “than if” construction much, but we’ll leave that for another day.)

Winston Churchill, another renowned English writer, is famously associated with the dispute over terminal prepositions.

When an editor clumsily rewrote one of his sentences to eliminate an end preposition, Churchill, who won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1953, replied in a note, “This is the sort of bloody nonsense up with which I will not put.”

 It’s a great story, widely circulated, and has been used by terminal-preposition fans to end arguments for years. Unfortunately, it’s probably a fable. Scholars have failed to link the tale firmly to Churchill.

No less an authority than Henry W. Fowler, whose masterpiece A Dictionary of Modern English Usage was first published in 1926, dismissed the rule against dangling prepositions as a “cherished superstition.”

 And yet the battle still rages.

Writers who use the end preposition often are scolded for their temerity by readers who scrutinize newspapers, magazine articles and books for offenders. Grammatical purists, successors to the formidable Mrs. James, are out there, ever vigilant for miscreants who defile the hallowed tenets they were taught as children.

“Every time we try to dispose of the foolish superstition, we receive a barrage of letters crying, ‘Outrage!’” admits Harper Dictionary of Contemporary Usage’s William and Mary Morris.

In my own writing, I’ve followed the advice of editors who accept there are no legitimate rules against the use of terminal prepositions, but who caution that such constructions should be used with care.

“Ending a sentence with a preposition … isn’t always such a hot idea, mostly because a sentence should, when it can, aim for a powerful finale and not simply dribble off like an old man’s unhappy micturition,” says editor Benjamin Dreyer in Dreyer’s English.

Theodore Bernstein, late copy chief of The New York Times, agrees.

“It is well to consider that a sentence ending with a preposition is sometimes clumsy, often weak,” he declares in The Careful Writer.

With such warnings in mind, here are four circumstances that cover, in my opinion, most of the times when ending a sentence with a preposition is justified – and may damned well be imperative.

Let’s take them in order of ascending importance (as judged by me).

No. 4 – When the end preposition is part of a phrasal verb. That is, when a preposition and a verb come together to suggest an action different that the one suggested by the verb alone.

For example:

This brand of whiskey is more potent than the one I usually come across.

On such a fine spring day, the tedious Tobias is not the kind of person I wished to run into.

Both come across (the equivalent in this context of taste or buy) and run into (meet or encounter) function as phrasal verbs with very different meaning than the verbs come and run standing alone. Consider the result when you contort the sentence to eliminate the dangling preposition:

This brand of whiskey is more potent than the one across which I usually come. (Good lord!)

On such a fine spring day, the tedious Tobias is not the kind of person into which I wished to run.

No. 3 – When the sentence is an idiomatic expression. If a sentence or phrase ending in a preposition has passed into the common vernacular, messing with it is asking for trouble. Bernstein offers a few examples:

It’s nothing to sneeze at.

Something to guard against.

You don’t know what I’ve been through.

No. 2 – When the verb it precedes is weak and the preposition itself provides the necessary ending punch.

When I started the garden, I didn’t know the work I was getting into.

I ran into a friend the other day, and I asked him, “Alfie, what’s it all about?”

No. 1 – When the sentence just reads better that way. Far and away, this is the strongest reason to use the terminal preposition.

Final sputter

“If by trying to avoid ending a sentence with a preposition, you have seemed to twist words out of their normal order and have created a pompous-sounding locution, abandon the effort,” Bernstein advises.

“Indeed, there is no reason to make the effort at all, unless the sentence sounds like the final sputter the engine has come to. Like that one.”

Dreyer, who earlier advised caution in using postponed prepositions, considers a total ban on the device one of his Big 3 Great Nonrules of the English Language. (The others are Never Begin a Sentence with “And” or “But” and Never Split an Infinitive.)

 “To tie a sentence into a strangling knot to avoid a prepositional conclusion is unhelpful and unnatural, and it’s something no good writer should attempt and no eager reader should have to contend with. If you follow me.”

Mrs. James no doubt would be uncomfortable with the slippery nature of our conversation about whether a preposition can properly serve as a sentence’s caboose. She believed in absolutes. Terminal prepositions either were allowed or they weren’t. To proceed otherwise was to invite chaos, both in writing – and in thinking.

 I sat in her class and diagrammed sentences in the mid-1960s, a time of turmoil, change and rancor. Perhaps she thought the young minds in her charge weren’t ready for the uncertainties of grammar or of life. I suspect she believed a disciplined, unambiguous approach was necessary for our development as good citizens. Regardless, she left us all to unravel the inconsistencies of language and usage on our own.

But if learning is hard, and it damned sure is, unlearning is even harder. You know?

Book critic Peter S. Prescott had someone like Mrs. James in mind, I suspect, when he defended end prepositions to Harper’s Morrises.

“Teachers don’t generally try to write,” he said, “but anyone who does knows that occasionally sentences will be ruined if terminal prepositions are forcibly bused to another neighborhood.”

Sportswriter and author Heywood Hale Broun sums it up nicely. “The object, after all, of purity is clarity and grace.”

That, brothers and sisters, is a thought up with which I WILL put.

Due to circumstances beyond our control

It’s been almost 50 years, but the sound still is sharp and clear – a distinctive SNAP! shooting across the room as C.E. Shuford opened the pages of the North Texas Daily to begin the weekly Slash session for student editors.

Shuford’s theatrical beginning to the UNT faculty’s weekly critique of the student newspaper always sent a shiver down the spines of Daily staff members as we huddled at the far end of the classroom and waited for the beatings to commence.

Slash sessions were aptly named. Faculty members were merciless in their criticism and sparing in their praise, using the mandatory gatherings as a teaching tool, certainly, but also as an opportunity to put a cap on the soaring egos of their young charges – to demonstrate that we weren’t quite as smart as we thought we were.

Keith Shelton, a hard-bitten political reporter for the Dallas Times Herald in a previous life, concentrated on reporting shortcomings. Junetta Davis, a pioneering woman journalist who had excelled in a male-dominated Associated Press before turning to teaching, drilled us for copy-editing mistakes. Smitty Kiker, a genial man with an easy laugh and a sharp bullshit detector, made occasional appearances to scold the photographers.

Fierce as a tiger

Then there was Shuford, known by generations of J-students as “Papa” and the epitome of the gracious Southern gentleman. But in the classroom and during Slash, he was fierce as a snarling tiger and an uncompromising champion of good grammar and clear, uncluttered writing.

We respected – and feared – him the most. When I was a senior, the student chapter of the Society of Professional Journalists gave him an engraved meat cleaver. No man deserved it more.

At least once during every Slash, and sometimes more, Shuford would sniff disgustedly, “Faulty due to in this story” or “Faulty due to here AND here.”

Once, he dismissively thrust an entire sports page aside, grumbling irately, “Faulty due tos – everywhere.”

I endured this avalanche of “faulty due tos” for several weeks before my curiosity got the best of me. I was afraid to approach the sainted Shuford, so I sought out Shelton, who was the Daily’s faculty adviser.

“Mr. Shelton,” I asked, “what in the hell is a ‘faulty due to?’ Mr. Shuford talks about them all the time.”

“Beats me,” he said with a grin. “Let me see if I can find out.”

Sensible advice

A couple of days later, he called me over.

“As best as I can tell, it’s OK to use due to as an adjective, but you should never use it as a preposition,” he said.

“Huh?” I replied eloquently. “I don’t get it.”

“Neither do I,” Shelton admitted with a shrug. “My advice is that whenever you feel compelled to use due to, use because of instead. As far as I know, there’s no such thing as a ‘faulty because of.’”

Keith Shelton’s sensible advice no doubt would be viewed dimly by grammar’s high priesthood. But it has stood me in good stead for my entire career. As far as I know, I haven’t committed a “faulty due to” in several decades. Or allowed writers I edit to do so.

This is the Grammar Goat blog, however, so an expedition to unravel the mysteries of the “faulty due to” seems in order.

Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary of English Usage sums things up rather well.

“The basic argument is this: Due to is all right when it clearly has a noun or pronoun to modify or when it follows a linking verb,” it says.

For example:

The candidate’s landslide win was due to a superior get-out-the-vote campaign.

My fat belly is due to a fondness for chocolate donuts.

By contrast, because of is correct when there is no linking verb.

For example:

The candidate’s landslide was achieved because of a superior get-out-the-vote campaign.

My belly has ballooned because of a fondness for chocolate donuts.

“However,” notes Edward D. Johnson in The Handbook of Good English, “because of rather than due to is preferred with a verb in expletive constructions.” That is, when it or there represent a subject or object referred to later in the sentence.

For example:

It was because of a superior get-out-the-vote campaign that the candidate won by a landslide.

It was because of my fondness for chocolate donuts that my belly ballooned.

Technically wrong

Due to is commonly used without a verb, Johnson says, particularly when it begins a sentence. Technically, it’s wrong, but acceptance of that usage is growing. (More on this later.)

For example:

Due to my love of chocolate donuts, my belly has ballooned.

Due to a superior get-out-the-vote campaign, the candidate won by a landslide.

Many modern grammarians are tired of the centuries-old dispute over how and when due to should be used. They urge an end to the bickering, a position Shuford no doubt would have considered cowardice in the face of the enemy.

“There has never been a grammatical ground for objection (to the use of due to), although the objection formulated in the early part of this century persists in the minds of some usage commentators,” Merriam-Webster says.

The objection referred to by Merriam-Webster is the use of due to as a preposition.

For example:

Wrong The handsome bachelor raised the suspicions of his neighbors due to his irregular nocturnal habits.

Correct The handsome bachelor raised the suspicions of his neighbors because of his irregular nocturnal habits.

Wrong I hate Brussels sprouts due to the fact they smell like farts.

Correct I hate Brussels sprouts because they smell like farts.

(Sometimes recasting the sentence avoids the problem altogether and provides a better result. This is true of many grammatical dilemmas. When in doubt, rewrite!)

No solid reason

Merriam-Webster, in a definitive judgment that must have Papa Shuford rolling in his grave, states flatly, “There is no solid reason to avoid using due to.”

Theodore Bernstein admits in The Careful Writer that objections to due to are fading and predicts they eventually will disappear altogether. For the time being, however, he urges caution.

“The careful writer, who does not wish to be suspected of negligence, will in the meanwhile use because of, which has a less casual flavor and is above suspicion grammatically,” he said. “… Due to in the sense of because of still has not made the grade, though it will.”

I’ll only add this, with a tip of the hat to my mentor, Keith Shelton. In each of the examples above where due to is used correctly, because of works equally well.

I’ll stick to what works. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.