There was what might have been a great piece of – not exactly “investigative” – let’s say “exploratory” journalism in last Saturday’s New York Times: “A Teen’s Death in Baltimore and a Family’s Search for Answers”, by Sabrina Tavernise. To the usual exercise of concerned pathos which is called for in articles like this, Tavernise adds setting, atmosphere, and context within the national framework.
       It might have been a great piece, but Tavernise has written it in the style of – in the voice of, actually – a twelve-year-old. Here is the opening:
 
       BALTIMORE — As soon as I heard Davetta Parker’s voice, I knew I had to meet her. Her grandson, Nook, was one of seven young people from one high school killed in the spasm of violence that swept the city in the two years after the 2015 death of Freddie Gray. I had cold-called her from New York. When she picked up, she was sitting at her desk in the Baltimore Public Library where she works.
 
       The main subject of this introductory paragraph is “I,” the reporter. The first sentence is an uncalled-for personal sentiment. Or does it mean something like “as soon as I heard Davetta Parker’s voice, I knew she would be a great source?” Either way, it is an expression of the kind of charming narcissism which usually is found in the columns of a Junior High School newspaper. It does not belong in The Times.
 
       Here are the next two paragraphs:

            I introduced myself. She said, “I think God sent you to me.”
             She said she had so many questions about her grandson’s death and she needed someone to help investigate, because the police never did. She said she had written letters to news channels and newspapers. But no one had written back. And there I was on the phone.
 
       Tavernise’s depiction of Parker’s reaction to her is well-put and informative. However, the first sentence and the last make clear that once again Tavernise, in the role of eager young reporter, has made herself the subject. Like a twelve-year-old journalist, Tavernise thinks that the reader will be interested in what she does – introducing herself, for example – and in how heroic she felt as the source of hope for someone.
       One paragraph would suffice:
 
             “I think God sent you to me.” She said she had so many questions about her grandson’s death and she needed someone to help investigate, because the police never did. She said she had written letters to news channels and newspapers. But no one had written back.
 
       The next paragraph:
 
          My colleague Lynsea Garrison and I spent four months investigating Nook’s death for The New York Times podcast, The Daily. We were drawn to his story because we wanted to understand the violence in Baltimore. Nook, whose given name was Lavar Montray Douglas, was shot on Dec. 13, 2016, by a police officer in an unmarked car who worked for Coppin State University. But the more we looked, the more we discovered that the story of Nook and his family reflected the broader experience of many African-Americans in the 20th century.
 
        How much time was spent researching a story is germane, and often is tucked into it with a phrase such as, “after a four-month investigation...” Again, Tavernise makes herself and her colleague  important personages, who “spent four months investigating,” who “looked,” who “discovered.”
       And what is the point of the following?
 
       We were drawn to his story because we wanted to understand the violence in Baltimore.
 
        The reader assumes either that that was the case or that they were assigned the story and became interested later. Either way, who cares? Tavernise evidently thinks the reader cares, and we’re back at the Junior High School news desk.
       Let me reiterate that, childish writing style aside, Tavernise’s article is a worthy one.
       But take a look at this:
 
        Nook died in the sharpest rise in homicides in the city in 25 years. When I first started reporting, I imagined this as random violence. But homicides in Baltimore are pretty tightly contained to the circle of people involved in drug crime. Here’s an amazing fact: The average number of arrests that homicide victims had in Baltimore last year was 11.
 
       Tavernise presents an important fact, meaningful, well-expressed – but bracketed by silliness.     
 
          When I first started reporting, I imagined this as random violence.
 
       That “I” again. No. It could have gone something like this:
 
          Homicides in Baltimore are not acts of random violence, but are pretty tightly contained to the circle of people involved in drug crime.
  
       And then – and this takes the cake!
 
         Here’s an amazing fact.
      
       “Here’s an amazing fact?” OMG, Sabrina, that is not only amazing, it’s awesome!
       What might have made the fact “amazing,” as unique, or even more “amazing” as not unique, would have been figures from some  other cities of arrests-per-homicide-victim. 
       What’s most amazing is that an editor passed on this cascade of juvenile lapses. Had Tavernise’s editor assumed the avuncular role of a Junior High newspaper’s indulgent faculty advisor? Or was he or she also, at heart, another twelve-year-old playing “Newspaper?” Or, creepiest of all, was Tavernise’s childish style condoned because someone thought it might lure a younger readership to The Times?  
       Especially egregious is that Tavernise’s breezy, jejune interjections trivialize the subject matter of “A Teen’s Death in Baltimore and a Family’s Search for Answers” – which is not food or dating or fashion, but murder.
 
 
 
 
 

 
         Now here is a turn of phrase I’ve never seen before: “merely often.”
       I came across it in a Sanford Schwartz review of two shows of l’Art Brut – “In Their Own Worlds” (NYRB - June 7 issue). Schwartz was pointing out that the scroll form, which is seldom used by most artists, is a particular favorite of inspired crazies.  It’s a fresh idea – at least it was to me – so I’ll give you the entire paragraph (my italics):
 
      Wölfli and Darger are very different creators, but both worked with scroll-shaped formats. Darger did so regularly, with his horizontal spreads frequently eight feet wide. Wölfli used the shape merely often, and he could make his similarly long, narrow pictures go vertically or horizontally. This is how Ramírez, who also made long, narrow pictures at times, did it, too. The point may be a small one. Yet few other twentieth-century artists, whether professional or self-taught, employed this format with the same power and consistency.
 
       The idea that “often” is mere, compared with “regularly,” is peculiar. I suppose it might be true, technically. An action performed “regularly” may be performed more frequently than the same action performed “often.” On the other hand, an action performed annually on a regular basis might be performed less frequently than the same action performed often.
       Hmmm.
       For the sake of argument let’s accept that as a rule an action performed “regularly” is performed more frequently than one performed “often.” Still – “merely often?”
       Webster’s on-line defines “merely” as “only; nothing more than.”        “Merely” or “only” is an adverb which limits what it modifies – in our case, “working with scroll-shaped formats.” In Schwartz’ mind, “often working with scroll-shaped format” is limited, compared with “regularly working with scroll-shaped formats.”
       “Often” is quantitative modifier (an adverb, in our example) of high degree. (“Seldom” is its corresponding quantitative modifier of low degree.) In his NYRB article, Schwartz’ “regularly” is a quantitative adverb of a higher degree than “often,” so “merely often” – that is, “nothing more than often” – is logical. But is it idiomatic? That is, is “merely often” a phrase you might hear spoken, or might come across in your reading?
       The answer is yes. Occasionally one encounters “only” or “merely” or “nothing more than” in a comparison of things which are both rated extreme – above average – quantitatively or qualitatively.
       “An elephant weighs five tons; a rhinoceros weighs merely two tons.”
       “Mosquitos carry malaria; ticks carry nothing more than Lyme disease.”
       “Sidney drinks incessantly; Leslie drinks only often.”    
        But in all those comparisons, which are perfectly idiomatic, “only” is used ironically. You think Leslie drinks a lot? Not compared to Sidney!
       Can you wring the irony out of “only” in the above examples? I can’t. “Only” meant literally, without irony, in a comparison between things similarly extreme (heavy, harmful, frequent) is unidiomatic
       There is no irony in Schwartz’ “merely” in “Darger did so regularly... Wölfli [did so] merely often.” Where did that unidiomatic “only” come from?
       I have a theory, as follows:
       Schwartz originally wrote something like: “Wölfli and Darger are very different creators, but both worked with scroll-shaped formats. Darger did so often, with his horizontal spreads frequently eight feet wide. Wölfli used the shape merely on occasion.” Then Schwartz did some checking, took another look at Wölfli’s work, and amended his opinion. He found that Wölfli used the scroll shape often – not as often as did Darger, for whom scrolls were his regular format, but still well above the norm. He thus changed Wölfli’s “on occasion” or “occasionally” to “often.” That required replacing Darger’s “often” with an adverb denoting a higher level of frequency. Schwartz chose “regularly.” He retained “only” only because he was not, at the moment of writing, thinking as clearly as he was when he wrote the bulk of his essay; note his failure, also, to catch the problem with the definition of “regularly,” which can refer to a pattern of behavior, and not its frequency.
       (The above is only, merely, nothing more than, a theory.)
       “Merely often” is a quirky little glitch that in no way detracts from Schwartz’ essay. If any “blame” for it is to be assigned, it is on the head of the NYRB copyeditor who went over the piece for publication and didn’t catch it.
       I’m glad they didn’t, though. It gave me something to think about.