Talking terrorism (TT) is not the kind of book typically reviewed in this journal. It is not explicitly about the analysis of language; rather, it is an illustration of the way language can persuade, manipulate, and corrupt. Nor is it written in the expository form expected of scholarly discourse, but instead emulates the form (if not the function) of a dictionary: an alphabetized series of entries, many followed by cross-references.

For these reasons, readers of Language in Society might at first glance not see TT as a book they would read as linguistic scholars or use in linguistics classes. But I would argue that the content of this book is important to us in both of those capacities, and that the very eccentricity of its format strengthens the arguments its author is making.

A conventional dictionary offers succinct and authoritative definitions. TT presents instead essays of varying length (from a paragraph to nine pages or so). A conventional dictionary's organizing principle is “all the words in Language X”; TT's could be expressed as “all the ways contemporary Americans speak and hear about terrorism and allied concepts: fear, aggression, xenophobia, stereotyping, killing … and much more.” Where a conventional dictionary enhances its authority through the appearance of neutrality and objectivity, TT's entries are explicitly political and polemical. Written from a left-of-center political perspective, much of TT is apt to enrage or at least irritate conservatives, although not all of it gives comfort to liberals either – all the more so, in both cases, if readers are beguiled by the dictionary format into an expectation of bland neutrality.

A conventional dictionary “defines” words: tells the reader what they mean, with the presupposition that a word has a distinct and agreed-upon meaning. But one of Herbst's points is that, especially with highly politicized language, it does not work that way. A word's meaning depends on who is using it, to whom, with what purpose, and how much power the speaker has. As he says in his definition of “terrorism” (p. 163): “The word terrorism defies precise, complete, objective definition.”

By way of contrast, we might look at a conventional dictionary's treatment of the same word (American Heritage Dictionary 1992:1854): “The unlawful use or threatened use of force or violence by a person or organized group against people or property with the intention of intimidating or coercing societies or governments, often for ideological or political reasons.”

The contrast between TT and the conventional dictionary should encourage the reader to consider not only the politics of the lexical item terrorism, but also the politics of dictionaries and other apparently “objective” scholarly implements, and finally, the politics of objectivity – actual or purported – itself. A dictionary gives us authoritative treatments of lexical items: definitions, spellings, usage notes. We consult the dictionary as a prescriptive source: It is there to tell us how to talk. We accept its prescriptions with gratitude, and usually without argument. But are dictionary definitions as objective and apolitical as they appear? Or are they more closely related than one might think to Herbst's tendentious and clearly polemical discussions of terrorism and other “loaded” words than at first glance the reader of both might imagine?

Consider the American Heritage definition given above. It sounds unbiased and apolitical. Yet how many of the words have presuppositions built in and therefore beyond examination? What, for instance, is “unlawful” behavior? Who decides what the laws are? What exactly is “force or violence,” as opposed to friendly persuasion? Where does one draw the line between the kinds of persuasion that the First Amendment legitimizes and behavior that can be considered “intimidating” or “coercive”? And who decides? You and I? The Supreme Court? Congress? Does this definition include the events of 9/11? I think so, but others might not. Does it include many provisions of the Patriot Act? I think so, but others might not. These are thorny issues, questions that come before trial and appellate courts in various guises all the time. Yet the very preciseness of the dictionary definition lulls the reader into the belief that terrorism has a clear, authoritative, and consensual definition. That lulling action is in itself a political act, and yet one that we are encouraged not to recognize as such.

Once we begin to think about dictionaries and their definitions in this way, we have to recognize that the dictionary is, in its way, a political tool – not merely a source of unbiased information, but a means of persuasion or even manipulation. Discourses that are defined as informative (not only in dictionaries but also in newspaper articles and school textbooks, among many others) are all the more problematic because their biases are hidden.

That is one reason that Herbst has couched his discussion in dictionary form. By imitating a dictionary in form, yet using that form for the explicit expression of political content, he forces the reader to reflect on the nature of objectivity and its opposite, and to contemplate the existence of hidden agendas in many of our trusted forms of discourse. The language we are offered by media and governments as normal or inevitable may be no such thing, and may incorporate presuppositions that we would reject if we were willing and able to think clearly about the words we encounter.

Many of the entries in TT cover the broad areas of euphemism and dysphemism, as examples of the way consent and consensus are achieved. As an example of euphemism, there are the names the U.S. government gives to its military campaigns (Infinite Justice, Enduring Freedom) and to questionable legislation (e.g., the Patriot Act). Another kind of euphemism is the non-mention, seen in the U.S. government's refusal (as of May 2004) to use the word torture to describe the events at Abu Ghraib prison. As dysphemisms, think of the terms we use to convince ourselves that the other side is less than human, irrational, and scary: They are “animals” (TT has entries under “dog,” “snake,” “worm, and “ape”); they are “crazy,” “madmen,” “lunatics,” “cranks,” and many more (again, all annotated in TT). Or, notes Herbst, we dispose of our enemies by changing the connotations of words that originally were purely descriptive: We call them “medieval,” and ourselves the bearers of “civilization,” where they are “barbarians.”

By the use of this loaded vocabulary, the powerful manipulate the powerless – there is no need for coercion. Governments become able to use words like terrorism in a weaselly way, implying that the word has a clear and precise “dictionary” definition, then extending it until it can be used to refer to anything and anyone they wish to bring into obloquy and destroy. Terrorism and terrorist have been used by the current U.S. government and its allies to describe providers of abortion. Is it any wonder that there are “patriots” willing to take the law into their own hands, since we all agree that fighting “terrorism” and destroying “terrorists” is patriotic and virtuous?

At the end of many of his definitions, Herbst has included cross-references, which not only strengthen the book's allusions to the conventional dictionary but also create “texture” – that is, cohesion – by encouraging the reader to construct a connected narrative. Thus, after Massacre, we find cross-references to Collateral damage, Genocide, Murder, 9-11, and War, some of which might seem to follow naturally from the theme of “massacre,” others more tendentiously so. (Collateral damage might bring us back to “euphemism,” though this topic is not discussed in its own right in the text.)

The value of the book does not lie only in its explicit injunction to beware of governments bearing verbal gifts. Academics need to look closely at our own habits of language and thought. Most of the readers of this review are academics – scholars and teachers. Traditionally we consider “objectivity” both a requirement of our research and a desideratum in our teaching. We think, moreover, that we know it – or at least its opposite – when we see it. But the discussion in TT should make us suspect ourselves as objective persons, and even the possibility – and desirability – of pure objectivity. To think is to take sides, to prefer one perspective to another, to express our biases, whether explicitly or by tacit avoidance. We can operate like the conventional dictionary, and by using a deliberately vague and emotionless vocabulary, pretend to objectivity and absence of bias. Or we can operate like TT: recognize our biases and bring them into the open with full disclosure.

In short, this is in many ways an unconventional book, and a book of great courage and insight. While it is not the usual fare of linguistics courses, I can certainly see using it in a lot of the work we do. Its definitions can make for lively class discussions in semantics and pragmatics courses, and many of its themes and terms have bearing for sociolinguistics as well. As linguists and sociolinguists, we need full awareness of how we deform language and how it, in turn, deforms us. Talking Terrorism is an invaluable wake-up call.