Yesterday my sister told me that the favorite word of my niece, who has just turned one year old, is “uh oh”. OK, technically that’s two words, but I don’t think my niece cares about such distinctions yet.
I asked my sister whether my niece liked the word because it had only vowels (consonants can be a little tricky at that age). My sister said, no, in her experience, what little kids seem to like is the idea of “uh oh”. That precise concept amuses them greatly.
As I thought about this, I realized that “uh oh” is, in fact, the basis of all literature: The Montegues and Capulets don’t get along — “uh oh”. Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy find each other incredibly annoying — “uh oh”. King Lear is starting to lose it — “uh oh”. Anakin has gone over to the dark side — “uh oh”. Rachel is a Replicant — “uh oh”. The Cat in the Hat is making a mess — “uh oh”. Gregor Samsa is having a very bad morning — “uh oh”.
Without the “uh oh” there would be no literature as we know it. Most novels, plays and movies could not exist. The more I thought about my niece’s favorite word, the more clearly I realized that the pleasure of “uh oh” is something very deep within us, not so much a product of growing up in a culture where people tell stories, but rather the built-in biological precondition for story itself.