It has been dead for three centuries. It was the boundary sound of the English language. It was in "right." In "night." In "light." In "thought." In "through." It was strident. Harsh. Cutting. The sound of the edge. The sound of "this far, no further." It is gone. The spelling kept the letters. The mouth did not keep the sound. "Right" is pronounced "ryte." The boundary is not in the word. The boundary is in the book. The book is in the registry. The registry is in the building. The building is not your house. The /x/ was in your throat. It is not anymore.
Hand on your throat. Say "g." Like "go." Like "ground." Feel it. The vibration. The hit. The stop. That's the line. That's the boundary. That's the sound that's still alive in the language. Now say "gh." Like "night." Like "right." Feel your throat. Nothing. No vibration. No hit. No stop. The sound is gone. The letters are still in the word. The sound is not. You just felt the difference. The g is alive. The gh is dead. You don't need a book to tell you. You just felt it in your throat. The boundary sound is in the g. The boundary sound is not in the gh. The line is in the g. The ghost is in the gh. You felt both. One hit. One didn't. That's the whole argument. You just did it in your throat.
The /x/ was a voiceless velar fricative. A harsh hiss from the back of the throat. The same sound as the "ch" in German Bach. The "ch" in Scottish loch. The "ch" in Welsh cwm. You could hear it. You could feel it. It was the sound that made the word have a cut. A line. A limit. Old English "niht" was pronounced "nikht." Old English "riht" was pronounced "rikht." The /x/ was there. Spoken. Real. Strident. The boundary was in the pronunciation. The boundary was in the air. The boundary was in the throat.
Stage one: /x/ → /h/. The harsh hiss weakened. The cut became a whisper. "Nikht" became "niht." The boundary sound was still there but it was soft. A whisper. You can't hear a whisper in a courtroom. You can't hear a whisper over a registry. The whisper is where they buried it.
Stage two: /h/ → silent. The whisper died. The letters remained. The sound did not. "Niht" became "nite." The boundary was out of the mouth. It was still in the spelling. A scar. A ghost. A visual remnant of a sound that no longer exists.
Stage three: the book won. Caxton set up the printing press in Westminster in 1476. The spelling was frozen. The sound kept changing. The book locked the letters. The mouth kept dying. The standardization of English was not a natural process. It was a selection. Book English was selected. Folk English was not. The /x/ survived in the north. In the Scots. In the Welsh border. It did not survive in London. It did not survive in the courts. It did not survive in the law. The law speaks in book English. Book English has no /x/. The law has no boundary sound. The law is soft. A soft boundary is a boundary you can cross. A soft right is a right you can waive. A soft law is a law you can "interpret."
German "Nacht" is /naxt/. The /x/ is still there. Still strident. Still cutting. German "Recht" is /ʁɛçt/. The palatalized descendant. The edge is still in the word. The German kept the boundary sound. The English buried it. The German "right" still has its cut. The English "right" does not. The spelling is the same. The sound is not. The law is the same. The edge is not. The language that kept the sound kept the folk-right alive in the word. The language that lost the sound made the right a document. The word is the same. The blood is not.
/g/. Voiced. Impact. Stops. Holds. The line. The boundary. The plumb. In "ground." In "gavel." In "grant." Still speaking. Still hitting. Still holding. The sound that sets the line in the ground.
Was /x/. Voiceless. A hiss. A warning. Now silent. No sound. No vibration. No impact. A ghost in the spelling. In "night." In "right." In "light." In "thought." Buried. Silent. Three centuries.
The folk-right was a sound in the throat. A cut in the air. A line in the ground. When the /x/ died, the right lost its voice. A right without a voice is a right you can waive. A right you can surrender. A right you can "assert" in a filing. A right you can "claim" in a building. The folk-right was not asserted. The folk-right was spoken. The book-right is not spoken. The book-right is filed. The sound is the blood. The filing is the paper. Blood is not paper. Paper is not blood. The /x/ was the blood in the word. They bled it out. Three centuries. The word is still there. The blood is not.
The g is still in the language. In "ground." In "gavel." In "grant." The g hits. The g stops. The g holds. The gh does not. The g is the plumb line. The gh is the crooked wall. The plumb line is straight. The crooked wall comes down.
The plumb line is the g. The g is the sound that sets the line. The g hits. The g stops. The g holds. The gh was the sound that held the boundary in the word. The gh is gone. The boundary is still in the ground. The sound is not in the mouth. The line is not in the word. The word is in the book. The book is in the registry. The registry is in the building. The building is not your house. The folk-right is in the throat. The book-right is in the file. The throat is the blood. The file is the paper. The blood is the law. The paper is the illusion.