In perhaps the most niggling investigation of all time, the author Dr. Chris Riley and the forensic linguist John Olsson have analysed the latest digital transcription of the magnetic tape of a single sentence, uttered 40 years ago on the moon. They have established that the astronaut Neil Armstrong did, in fact—as had been long suspected—omit the indefinite article when he said, “One small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind.”
Or perhaps I exaggerate. On past experience, readers may now send me links to even more niggling investigations. I wait anxiously.
To be fair, more was established by the research of Riley and Olsson, although their other results will surely be challenged. They are further convinced, by Commander Armstrong’s continuous movement and body language while speaking, that his line was not rehearsed. This would mean it wasn’t “scripted by the White House,” as two generations of the mildly paranoid have earnestly believed. It was the genuinely spontaneous poetical effusion of an engineer from Ohio, rising to a historic occasion.
My own view—not the product of forensic linguistics, but rather of mere literary criticism—was, and remains, that this line was prosaic, even corny. I do not condemn it on this account, however. It was a humble attempt at the grandiose, of just the sort one might expect from such a speaker, stepping out on the lunar surface, with a billion souls watching on TV. And it was beautiful for that reason.
There was high poetry, too, but it had been delivered less self-consciously, a little earlier, as the vehicle containing Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin touched down. Paradoxically, that line gained all its poetry from being spoken, not in poetical language, but in mission jargon. It was:
“Tranquillity Base here. The Eagle has landed.”
In the daily newspapers of the morning after (I still have one of them in my possession), I could not for the life of me understand why this quote was not splashed in “double-deck banner.” Instead we had endless permutations of the obvious, “Man lands on moon,” with the “small step” quote often added in a subhead. “Have the editors no poetry in their souls?” I recall wondering. (I had plenty in mine at the age of 16.)
For those curious and not elsewhere informed, Riley and Olsson got their result by minutely examining the time sequence, tracing the trailing “r” from the preceding word “for.” They considered Armstrong’s native Ohio drawl, to eliminate the possibility
the “a” had been inserted just under the microphone’s range. There simply was not enough time for it to have been sounded. That the “a” was nevertheless understood, is indicated by the intonation of the whole sentence. Armstrong’s voice rises on “man,” politely allows the caesura, then proceeds to “mankind” on a (rather Shakespearean) dying fall.
He inserted, moreover, no linking conjunction—no “and” or “but”—between the two parts of his sentence. The scansion was further improved by omitting the “a,” as also the symmetry. Armstrong’s poetical instincts may thus be shown to have been greater than he knew, or than most of his audience were likely to appreciate.
It should also be mentioned that the result overturns the finding of an Australian inquiry, commissioned in 2006. The earlier study had concluded that there was enough time for Armstrong to have said “for a man”; and that the microphone perhaps didn’t catch it all.
So what have we learned from this?
That a wealth of detail lies in small things; how rich is the world, and how little of it we master.
I was myself so reminded, in the course of last week, during lunch on a park bench. I had packed some slightly glutinous white rice, to go with a thermos of curry. Bold sparrows demanded to be given their tribute. The flock took turns alighting on the bench top; I had plenty of rice, and the tribute was paid.
From this close range I witnessed a complex spectacle, for each sparrow is a special creation, with a personality of its own. Each strikes a balance of courage and prudence, has slightly more or less visual acuity, tactical cleverness, motor dexterity and rice-plucking skill. And each sparrow is its own quarrelsome realm of joy.
One forward customer was prepared to take grains straight from my hand. It was a big risk, but he survived it. Two of them realized they could collect more rice, before flitting, by using the first glob gathered in the beak as a tool to affix further sticky pieces. One took rice overflowing the beak of an uncomplaining neighbour. But when she tried that on another bird, she got a screeching for it. Two males tussled in a grudge match; a female flew off with what they’d been disputing.
Had I the acuity myself, I would have noticed much more, yet could not have monitored the whole performance. For no science can ever be complete.
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