Remembering Jim Quinn.
Our take
In the ever-evolving tapestry of language, few figures shine as brightly as Jim Quinn, a beacon for word enthusiasts and a linguistic trailblazer. Stephen Fried’s heartfelt piece, “Remembering Jim Quinn,” published in Philadelphia magazine on October 19, 2020, captures the essence of a man whose passion for language resonates with those who dare to dig deeper. Though this tribute surfaced over five years ago, its insights remain fresh and poignant, echoing the admiration I have for Quinn, a hero in my own linguistic journey. First celebrated in the early days of Language Hunters, and reaffirmed in 2004, 2007, and 2013, Quinn's unique approach to words inspires reflection and conversation. Join me as I share this treasure trove of reminiscence, a delightful exploration of a language lover's legacy that deserves to be revisited and cherished.
Jim Quinn, a name that might not immediately ring bells for everyone, is a linguistic treasure. Stephen Fried's homage to Quinn in his article “Remembering Jim Quinn” published in *Philadelphia Magazine* back in 2020, is a delightful reminder that some voices echo long after they’ve left the stage. Quinn was not just a food critic; he was a master of language, weaving words with the same finesse that a chef might employ to craft a dish. For those of us who revel in the nuances of language, his legacy is a feast worth savoring. It’s this intersection of food and language that makes Fried’s piece so compelling, especially for those engaged in the art of communication, whether through the culinary lens or beyond.
Quinn’s approach to criticism was both passionate and insightful, stirring the pot of public discourse just as effectively as any culinary creation. His unique ability to articulate the experience of food — to capture that ephemeral moment when taste and language collide — resonates deeply with anyone who has ever struggled to find the right words to describe their experiences. This notion of searching for the perfect word is at the heart of many discussions, not just in food critique but in our everyday communication. It links to broader themes, such as those explored in our article Just curious, what tools do you actually use to read/listen to content in your target language before you’re fluent?, where the challenge of language immersion is akin to Quinn's quest for linguistic precision.
Fried's tribute doesn't merely recount the events of Quinn's life; it delves into the language-related passages that reveal the heart of a man who understood that every word carries weight. Quinn’s reverence for the culinary arts and his ability to articulate that reverence in a way that felt accessible and relatable is something to aspire to. The way he challenged the status quo reminds us of the importance of questioning our assumptions, much like the discussions found in Interstitium, Apoplast., which encourages readers to explore the depths of language and science. This kind of exploration is vital; it keeps our conversations vibrant and our understanding expansive.
What makes Quinn’s legacy all the more poignant is his ability to connect with readers on a personal level. His words served as a bridge, inviting us to see food not just as sustenance, but as a narrative filled with culture, history, and emotion. This perspective is crucial in an era where food writing can often veer into the realm of elitism. Instead, Quinn made it inclusive, reminding us that the act of eating is a shared human experience. As we reflect on his contributions, it raises an intriguing question: How can we take Quinn's approach to language and apply it to our own fields, whether it be food, art, or any other passion?
As we look to the future, let’s keep Quinn’s spirit alive by embracing the beauty of language in our everyday lives, daring to burrow deeper into our conversations and experiences. In doing so, we honor not only his memory but also the dynamic world of communication that he championed. After all, who wouldn’t want to find a little more poetry in their lives — and perhaps even discover the hidden razor clam of meaning that lies just beneath the surface?
Stephen Fried’s fond reminiscence of Jim Quinn (Philadelphia magazine, 10/19/2020) came out over five years ago, but I just discovered it, and since Quinn is one of my language heroes (first touted just a few weeks into the existence of LH, reinforced in 2004, 2007, and 2013) I wanted to share it with y’all. I’ll quote the language-related passages, but he led an interesting life in general, so I recommend the whole thing:
Jim Quinn was one of Philadelphia’s finest, funniest, and smartest writers — of longform journalism, essays about food and language, and poetry for the first four decades of his career, and later of fiction as well. He was also, arguably, the city’s longest-living, longest-haired, and most prolific link to the best things about the 1960s, maintaining throughout his 85 years a sense of wonder and humor, political commitment, righteous indignation, and shrugging indifference to authority. […]
Quinn could write the most gorgeous sentences. But much of the joy of his reportage was his amazing attention to details that told the story better than he could. “He describes everything, yes everything, in most specific terms since euphemism is a word he has never heard,” said the New York Times Book Review in 1972 of his first major book, Word of Mouth: A Completely New Kind of Guide to New York Restaurants. […]
In his late 20s, Quinn was convinced by friends to return to college. In 1963 he enrolled at Temple University, where he got involved in campus politics and anti-war protests. […] He was, at the time, working toward his PhD in English literature — writing a dissertation on the Scottish poet Hugh MacDiarmid, and lots of his own poetry. But editors who were fans of his food writing started reaching out with assignments. […]
That same year, Quinn published his second major book, American Tongue and Cheek: A Populist Guide to Our Language, in which he argued that English was becoming more and more democratized, and lampooned those trying to hold on to old formal usages. Critic Christopher Lehmann-Haupt in The New York Times Book Review called the book “outrageous and delightful.” While he found some parts infuriating, he noted “as Mr. Quinn writes, ‘If this book doesn’t make you angry, it wasn’t worth writing.’”
In an interview about the book with Terri Gross on “Fresh Air” — when the show was in its local infancy, complete with call-ins — he defended words like “hopefully” that were coming into common usage despite the horror of the grammar police. He was astonished how worked up people could get about new words being accepted by the print media. “You can confess to the most horrible kind of sexual practices,” he joked, “and people will say ‘well, we have to understand that sort of thing’ [to] … show their tolerance. But say the word ‘irregardless’ and say you have no intention of dropping it from your vocabulary and they become utterly infuriated!” He preached “new words are new tools.”
He and Gross also had a funny conversation about the Philadelphia accent, which she was just learning and he was unlearning. “I can’t say ‘att-y-tude’ any more,” he explained. “But I remember we used to say ‘grat-y-tude, what a lovely at-y-tude for a ‘prost-y-tute’ to have.” Gross burst out laughing.
Among the language police Quinn criticized was William Safire, who at the time was two years into his “On Language” column for the New York Times Magazine. He not only appreciated the book by Quinn — whom he referred to as “a poet and food columnist” — but soon after reviewing it Safire invited Quinn to write the “On Language” column when he was on vacation.
“The idea that he could jump the gap from writing for alternative weeklies to writing Safire’s column for the Times, and stand in for the nation’s grammarian — amazing,” recalled bestselling author Steven Levy, who worked with Quinn at the Drummer and Philadelphia. “Such a renaissance guy, and also the ultimate free agent, always moving publication to publication.” Quinn also later wrote a language column for The Nation.
I continue to recommend American Tongue and Cheek, and I’m delighted to learn he was a fan of Hugh MacDiarmid, one of my own poetic heroes (whom I also touted back in 2002). And if I ever knew he’d written the “On Language” column when Safire was on vacation, I’d forgotten.
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