Raymond Chandler and the Case of the Split Infinitive: A Linguistic Clash

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Raymond Chandler and the Case of the Split Infinitive: A Linguistic Clash

In the annals of literary history, conflicts often transcend plot and character to delve into the very fabric of language and its artistic application. In 1948, the renowned detective novelist and screenwriter Raymond Chandler found himself in an unexpected skirmish, not with the machinations of Hollywood's elite, but with a meticulous copy editor from The Atlantic magazine. The crux of this linguistic battle? A "split infinitive," a grammatical construction that, while often debated, became the focal point for a deeper divergence in philosophies regarding language, creativity, and the role of editorial oversight.

Chandler, preparing to submit an essay excoriating Hollywood's "mindless mediocrity" for The Atlantic, titled "Juju Worship in Hollywood" (among other suggestions like "Bank Night in Hollywood"), considered his prose a deliberate reflection of his unique voice. He described his writing style as a "sort of broken-down patois, something like the way a Swiss waiter talks." When an Atlantic copy editor, Margaret Mutch, dared to "fix" a split infinitive in his manuscript, Chandler felt a profound offense. He conveyed his indignation to Edward Weeks, The Atlantic's editor, instructing him to relay to the "purist who reads your proofs" that his grammatical choices were intentional. Chandler asserted, "when I split an infinitive, God damn it, I split it so it will stay split." He argued that these interruptions in the "velvety smoothness" of his syntax, often with "barroom vernacular," were conscious artistic decisions made with "eyes open and the mind relaxed but attentive."

Margaret Mutch, the copy editor in question, was a seasoned professional whose job entailed ensuring grammatical accuracy and stylistic clarity before publication. However, Chandler perceived her role as that of a "schoolmarmish villain" intent on imposing rigid rules. His response was a satirical poem sent back to Weeks, titled "Lines to a Lady With an Unsplit Infinitive." In this piece, Chandler championed language's vitality, arguing it thrives on bent rules and vernacular expressions – the "unruly stuff of life." He depicted Mutch as indifferent, even menacing, metaphorically "taking out one of Chandler’s eyes" and killing him with an "icy frown." The poem culminates in a grim, darkly humorous epitaph: "HERE LIES A PRINTER’S ERROR."

The specific instance that provoked Chandler's ire remains somewhat ambiguous. The final published version of his essay, "Oscar Night in Hollywood," contained precisely one split infinitive: "It is the only art... at which we of this generation have any possible chance to greatly excel." While some grammatical purists might object to "greatly" separating "to" and "excel," the evidence doesn't conclusively link this particular phrase to Chandler's poetic outburst. Furthermore, even H. W. Fowler, the influential author of "A Dictionary of Modern English Usage," acknowledged in 1927 that split infinitives could be contextually acceptable, even necessary, recognizing the unique demands of each linguistic situation.

Mutch, likely aware of Chandler's poetic retort as suggested by some biographers, remains a somewhat enigmatic figure. Little is known beyond her professional background: a Catholic upbringing outside Boston, a Phi Beta Kappa graduation from Radcliffe in 1920, and a career that included stints at prominent publishing houses like D. C. Heath, Little, Brown, and The Atlantic. Her role, like that of many women in the industry at the time, was often relegated to the supportive sphere of editing and proofreading. Chandler, while advocating for the "small-fry characters" in the film industry – the unsung technicians and writers – showed little such leniency towards the "small-fry characters" of publishing, viewing Mutch as an obstacle rather than a collaborator.

Chandler framed his grievances as those of an alienated artist battling arbitrary strictures. His critique of Hollywood's descent into mediocrity, driven by production codes and box-office pressures, mirrored his disdain for what he saw as the stifling rules of grammar. He argued that Hollywood's output, often characterized by "sentimentality" and "adeptness" that fell short of true humanity or style, was geared towards a "putty-minded" audience. His own work, he implied, possessed a "virile and plain-spoken" quality that might be too challenging for such tastes.

Ironically, Chandler's critique of Hollywood's award system, which he felt often favored mediocrity, saw a different outcome in 1948. While films like "Miracle on 34th Street" might have represented the kind of Hollywood product he disdained, the Best Picture Oscar went to "Gentleman's Agreement," Elia Kazan's serious examination of postwar anti-Semitism, based on Laura Z. Hobson's novel. This suggests that, on occasion, the very system Chandler distrusted could produce artistically significant results.

Margaret Mutch, in her own way, performed a form of "undercover work," diligently tending to the linguistic integrity of countless texts. Apart from her brief cameo in The Atlantic's lore and her posthumous role in Chandler's poem, her perspective remains largely untold. She passed away in 1997 at the age of 99, leaving behind only her marginalia as a testament to her meticulous craft. The story of Chandler's split infinitive dispute thus remains a fascinating footnote, illustrating the perpetual dialogue between the rigid structures of language and the boundless spirit of artistic expression.

Ekhbary News Agency