A CLICHé BY ANY OTHER NAME
by Bruce GoldenEver since the first English phrase was uttered some millennia ago, certain expressions have had to bear the brunt of continual criticism. Not because of some dastardly definition or funky phonetic spelling, but because of the words they associate with. They've gotten mixed up with a bad crowd, so to speak.
Alone, the words that make up these locutions would pass unnoticed. However, when printed side by side with their connotative co-conspirators, they are the root of all literary evil, exorcized with abject terror by every editor and eagle-eyed English professor worth his salt. Yet, clichés are more than just quaint jargon. All things considered, clichés are convenient phrases on tap. At some point in history these colloquialisms must have been considered witty or precise, or they would not have grown so popular. So when, at the dawn of what new era, did they lose their narrative appeal? How did clichés become passé?
Clichés, though shunned, often find themselves thrust into the communicative fray. Is it mental laziness that makes us reach for a handy maxim from the bottom shelf of our minds, rather than bother a busy cerebral cell to build a new one? Any port in a brainstorm? Is there ever an instance when a cliché is justifiable? Some time or space in the continuum of the language where no other combination of words is quite right? What could possibly replace a baptism of fire or a bed of roses?
Shall the enormous collection of clichés we have stockpiled be purged from the language, lock, stock, and barrel? Sports fans would certainly be up that familiar creek without their proverbial cliché paddles. Politicians look upon the cliché as a friend indeed - a friend whose unemployment problem is easily solved.
While the amputation of some clichés might result in withdrawal symptoms, the fact remains that some clichés are inordinately inane. Who cries over spilt milk? When was the last time you saw someone walk on air? Who keeps lightning in a bottle, and how would you go about stealing someone’s thunder? Accidents will happen - who could disagree with that? On the other hand, you could find yourself in hot water for killing someone in cold blood. Not so simple anymore.
Still, before we come to any hasty conclusions, let's explore every avenue of approach. As every schoolboy knows, most things in life and language are balanced with opposites. Not clichés. Have you ever heard of hot as a cucumber or a right-handed compliment? What about the pepper of the earth or the stuff that nightmares are made of? Has your flesh ever been willing, but your soul too weak?
After asking myself these questions, I became determined to leave no stone unturned seeking out the missing link that would put all clichés into one basket. I knew before I set out that too much of a good thing is six of one and half a dozen of the other, and that a square deal is one in a thousand. I proceeded, well aware that the burden of proof lay with me, and troubled by the secret fear that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing.
Where was I to begin my search? There are many places in Clichéland. Fortunately, you can travel a far cry in only forty winks, or in one fell swoop. So I looked far and wide, off the beaten track, behind the scenes, and even in a nutshell. I didn't dare go into no man's land for fear I would vanish into thin air. I failed to find heaven on earth and the land of milk and honey. I traveled to the four corners of the earth, and then to the ends of the earth, but still the answer eluded me. I went out of this world to a place in the sun; I was here today and gone tomorrow; I roved here, there, and everywhere; but I found it neither here nor there.
Then, at last, I discovered the source of all clichés, far from the madding crowd. There, at the source, I discovered a whole new meaning. "It goes without saying" meant I'm going to say it anyway. "It stands to reason" really was I can't justify it. "I know for a fact" denoted I’m not really sure. "Be that as it may" was simply translated into I don’t really care what you said. "To cut a long story short" meant this is finally the end. "As much as I hate to" signified I'm going to anyway. A labor of love was still hard work, and the war to end all wars was only the worst one to date.
I felt like I was falling apart, but I pulled myself together. I had to remain in touch with reality. Nevertheless, I had to make a decision. Where next? I was between the devil and the deep blue sea, in between a rock and a hard place. Which would it be? The lady or the tiger? Scylla or Charybdis? When I leaped, I knew it would be from the frying pan into the fire.
Then it hit me like a ton of bricks. Were clichés merely pairs of words? There were certainly enough of them. Fair and square, high and dry, fast and loose, wear and tear, alive and kicking, null and void, pick and choose, tooth and nail, safe and sound, born and bred, first and foremost, sink or swim, spick and span. I wasn’t quite sure how neck and neck and through and through fit in. And there were others that seemed, somehow, strangely different. Slowly but surely, last but not least, gone but not forgotten, by hook or crook....
I realized this was getting me nowhere. So I kept a close eye out, and discovered an interesting connection between clichés and the human body. A sight for sore eyes can be seen in my mind's eye or in the public eye. An eye for an eye will result in the blind leading the blind. There's more here than meets the eye. I was close on the heels of some clue. I racked my brain and tried to keep a stiff upper lip. I ventured in one ear and out the other, trying to keep a civil tongue in my head. Still, I was beginning to lose my temper.
With my back to the wall, and armed to the teeth, I forged onward. When I thought I’d found what I was looking for, it made my mouth water, my blood boil, and my hair stand on end. Yet it saved my sanity by the skin of my teeth.
The bodily connection I was looking for was the heart. I found the heart of the matter, a heart of stone, and a heart of gold after my own heart. I found location was extremely important. Deep in your heart was different than from the bottom of my heart. You have your heart in the right place if you wear it on your sleeve. If you have a heart-to-heart talk, my heart bleeds for you.
I was finally getting somewhere, anatomically speaking, but what about Mother Nature’s other creatures? Birds of a feather can certainly travel as the crow flies, (unless it's raining cats and dogs). Sometime you cry wolf if you see a lone wolf in sheep's clothing. You can find a snake in the grass or a fly in the ointment, but if you smell a rat, take the bull by the horns and cut yourself a lion's share. I even found a horse of another color in a pig's eye. But, in truth, for the other creatures in Clichéland, it's a dog's life.
I felt like the pieces were coming together; the prepositional phrases were beginning to fall into place. All I needed was time. Fortunately, in Clichéland, there’s all the time in the world. Once there, time flies for hours on end, time and time again, and sooner or later the time is ripe for one fine day. Nevertheless, in one's hour of need, time marches on, and the march of time always begins on the spur of the moment, which takes less than no time or forever and ever, depending on whether you’re along in years or at the beginning of the end.
I finally came to the end of my road at the place where we all get our final reward - death. I discovered you can quietly pass away in the dead of night, or seal your doom knocking at death’s door. You can be stone dead or just dead and gone. Some people do or die right up until the bitter end, when they decide to make the supreme sacrifice. In Clichéland you can come to an untimely end, or you can suffer a fate worse than death.
Then another thought occurred to me. Now that I've entered Clichéland, how do I get out? The natural way would seem to be by uttering some sort of provincial cliché incantation. But then I realized clichés are only words, they have no magical powers. However, by the same token, they are a force to be reckoned with.
© Bruce Golden
At the turn of the century, Golden abandoned his long journalism career to devote himself to his first love - fiction. He has since published numerous short stories and completed three novels. Asimov’s Science Fiction called his first novel, Mortals All (http://shamanpress.tripod.com), a "fine blend of social satire and irreverent anti-establishmentarianism," adding "Golden writes with zest and good pacing." His second book, Better Than Chocolate (due out from Zumaya Publishing), is a science fiction mystery revolving around an alien conspiracy to take over Earth, a Marilyn Monroe celebudroid turned detective, and an assortment of quirky characters.