The Retro Encabulator

There’s a corporate communication video on YouTube that showcases the latest innovation from Rockwell Automation, a US-based industrial technology company. The presenter, standing in front of a wall of electrical panels, explains the process of product development:

Here at Rockwell Automation’s world headquarters, research has been proceeding to develop a line of automation products that establishes new standards for quality, technological leadership, and operating excellence. With customer success as our primary focus, work has been proceeding on the crudely conceived idea of an instrument that would not only provide inverse reactive current, for use in unilateral phase detractors, but would also be capable of automatically synchronizing cardinal gram-meters. Such an instrument – comprised of Dodge gears and bearings, Reliance Electric motors, Allen-Bradley controls, and all monitored by Rockwell software – is Rockwell Automation’s Retro Encabulator. 

The video, of course, is a parody. There’s no such thing as a ‘Retro Encabulator’, and no one has ever wanted to synchronize a cardinal gram-meter. The clip is funny because it blends puffed-up language (operating excellence) and inscrutable terminology (unilateral phase detractors), a hallmark of business bullshit. The clip spoofs corporate communication by exaggerating its standout features. 

Pay attention to the writing style, too. By design, the script lacks clarity and grace. It’s a smorgasbord of terrible writing, laid out for our delectation. The subject of each sentence is abstract (research, work, such an instrument). The main verbs are dull and repetitive (has been proceeding, has been proceeding, is). Prepositions clutter up the text (at, of, for, with, as, on, of, for, in, of). And the subclauses are painfully long-winded (that would not only provide, but would also be capable of). The script mimics the kind of pretentious nonsense corporations have been spouting for decades, and that’s what makes us laugh. 

We can rewrite the passage so it’s more digestible. But in doing so, we drain the script of humour. Listen to this: 

Rockwell Automation has recently developed a new line of automation products. In particular, the company has created the ‘Retro Encabulator’, an instrument comprised of Dodge gears and bearings, Reliance Electric motors, and Allen-Bradley controls. Monitored by Rockwell software, the Retro Encabulator performs two roles: it provides inverse reactive current, for use in unilateral phase detractors, and it synchronizes cardinal gram-meters. 

Not so funny now, right? In the revised passage, the subject of each sentence is more specific (Rockwell Automation, the company, the Retro Encabulator), and so too are the main verbs (has developed, has created, performs, provides, synchronizes). The number of prepositions has been halved (of, by, in, for, in) and the subclauses have been cut entirely. If the Retro Encabulator did exist, we’d be able to describe it with a straight face. Maybe we’d still raise a smile at the pseudo-technical jargon, but the passage would lose its satirical bite. 

There’s a lesson for academic writing here. It’s easy to make fun of scholarship that is pompous and verbose, scholarship that has become unmoored from everyday language. 

Consider the Bad Writing Contest, a tongue-in-cheek competition that awarded prizes to poor prose in philosophy and the humanities, which ran from 1995 until 1998. Winners included Judith Butler, Fredric Jameson, and Homi K. Bhabha – intellectual heavyweights whose work demands a lot from the reader. This type of writing has its defenders, and there is a compelling case for using difficult language in academic work. But the point remains: obscure writing invites ridicule. And no one wants egg on their face. 

In his 1946 essay ‘Politics and the English Language’, George Orwell parodies a style of writing he thinks has become all-too-common in his time, a style that prizes vagueness and vapidity: 

Objective consideration of contemporary phenomena compels the conclusion that success or failure in competitive activities exhibits no tendency to be commensurate with innate capacity, but that a considerable element of the unpredictable must invariably be taken into account. (1946/2004: 110) 

The passage is comically obnoxious. It ticks all the boxes for poorly written prose. The subject is intangible (objective consideration of contemporary phenomena), the verbs are imprecise (compels, exhibits, must be taken into account), the adjectives are unhelpful (objective, contemporary, innate, considerable), and the sentence is too long – just try saying it all in one breath.

Orwell is making a joke. The passage is a tongue-in-cheek version of a well-known verse from the King James Bible: 

I returned, and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favour to men of skill; but time and chance happeneth to them all. (Cited in Orwell, 1946/2004: 110) 

Today, we might be tempted to write a considerable element of the unpredictable must invariably be taken into account. In biblical times, we’d say time and chance happeneth to them all. And, to Orwell’s ears, that sounds way cooler.

Sure, but it’s not exactly easy reading. So here’s my own version of the passage from Ecclesiastes, in a style that’s more accessible:

I realized that the fastest runner doesn’t always win the race, and the strongest warrior doesn’t always win the battle. Being smart or talented doesn’t guarantee success, either. But luck and timing – that’s what really matters. 

The passage lacks the poetic heft of the King James original, but it works just fine. It’s certainly more palatable than Orwell’s parody version. The language is stripped down, the sentences are shorter, and the verbs move in one direction. No one is going to enter it into the Bad Writing Contest, although it might upset a few Christians or theology students. 

At the end of his essay, Orwell includes a list of writing tips. It’s the kind of advice we might reach for in an emergency, when our instincts fail to kick in. There are six rules of writing, he says. Avoid cliché. Prefer short words to long ones. Edit for brevity. Choose the active voice whenever possible. Forego jargon. And finally, crucially: ‘Break any of these rules sooner than say anything outright barbarous’ (1946/2004: 119). 

The last piece of advice is a good one. It reminds us that academic writing ought to strive for clarity, but also for something more – something like humanity. So don’t let your own writing ‘make lies sound truthful and murder respectable’ (1946/2004: 120). Use language as a source of light, not a blanket of darkness.