We’re talking about distinctions today, and we begin with emigrant/immigrant. This was the lead on a story from The Associated Press:

“An eight-day journey at sea to escape their poverty-stricken homeland ended for more than 200 illegal Haitian immigrants when their freighter ran aground off Miami …”

Two months later, The New York Times carried a story about the artist Christo and his partner, Jeanne-Claude. Their forte is to wrap buildings and bridges in gauze. “They have been pondering something big in New York since the mid- ’60s, shortly after immigrating from Paris.”

Very well. Were the desperate Haitians “immigrants” or “emigrants”? Did the far-out artists “emigrate” or “immigrate” from Paris? I believe the Haitians were escapees and the artists were wacko, but in my view all of them were more emigrant than immigrant.

In theory the choice is absurdly simple. To emigrate is “to leave one’s place of residence or country to live elsewhere.” To immigrate is “to come into a country of which one is not a native for permanent residence.” Thus, we generally emigrate FROM, and we immigrate TO. In his “Modern American Usage,” Bryan Garner remarks that “the terms can be almost interchangeable.” It’s the preposition that controls the meaning.

What about “flammable” and “inflammable”? When we’re talking actual combustion, one adjective is as alarming as the other. Gasoline is both flammable and inflammable – capable of being easily ignited. The distinction arises chiefly in the context of metaphor. Prima donnas are inflammable. So is the situation along the Gaza Strip. “Flammable” should be reserved for things that literally burn.

Another distinction worth observing lies in the verbs “assure,” “ensure” and “insure.” The first of these, assure, is semantically related to removing doubt and relieving fears. We assure a tentative horse that it really can make a jump. We assure a gullible child that Santa really will be coming. The villainous Rudolph Rassendale assured the fair Belinda that he really would do her no harm. Then he tied her to the railway tracks.

The verb “to ensure” is stronger. The arrival of Hairbreadth Harry ensured Belinda’s rescue. Howard Dean’s disappointing run in Iowa ensured a closer race in subsequent primaries. The meaning of “ensure” is close to “promise” or even to “guarantee.” The presence of Jack Nicholson ensures a pleasant evening at the movies.

That leaves “insure,” which ought to be reserved for specifically financial contexts. We insure our personal property against theft or damage. We insure Jimmy Durante’s nose and Dolly Parton’s bosom. The verb is married to the noun: We buy life insurance, fire insurance, medical insurance. We are “the insured,” a comforting place to be.

Here’s another tricker: “partially” and “partly.” In The New York Times, a novelist remarks that she has never been interested in autobiography, “partially because nothing in my past seemed to demand representation, and partially because I’d never been comfortable exploring my personal life in a public forum.” In “the small voice,” that delightful bimonthly from Fargo, N.D., Jerome Lamb recalls that in praising the ladybug, “I was partially right.”

I would recommend “partly” in each of these instances. The trouble with “partially” is that it instantly evokes the sense of “partial,” that is, inclined to favor one party more than another; biased, markedly fond of someone or something; not impartial or even-handed. If we mean “in part,” let us say so.

To be sure, some very good writers have equated “partially” with “incompletely,” so that a remodeling was “only partially finished.” Many writers have treated the adverbs as interchangeable. James Joyce wrote of a “partially nude senorita” and a “partly clothed female religious.” At one point in “Jane Eyre,” Charlotte Bronte had a woman’s figure “partly enveloped.” At another point, “her hat brim partially shaded her face.”

One of the many differences between good writers and ordinary writers is that good writers avoid infinitesimal hesitations. They do not fret, for example, over “immigrate” and “emigrate.” They would say of Christo not that he immigrated or emigrated, but that he left Paris and moved to New York. We can skid around many a pothole if we try.

James Kilpatrick is a syndicated columnist.

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