I avow not to vouch for anything I aver

Let’s see – a four letter word for state positively. Begins with av… it is aver or avow? Every time I get the clue, I have to wait until I have a cross word to find out which is the answer. What’s the difference? 

Aver is “to assert or affirm with confidence; declare in a positive or peremptory manner”. Now I can aver what aver is.

What’s avow? “To declare frankly or openly; own; acknowledge; confess; admit.

So President Clinton could at the same time avow that he had an improper physical relationship with Monica Lewinsky but aver that he never had sexual relations with her. To be honest, I would have expected the opposite definitions, so I will likely remain confused.

Why two words so similar in spelling and meaning?

Aver came to English from the Old French word averer in the 14^th century. The French got averer from Vulgar Latin (for explanation, see blog of )word adverare, which means “to prove to be true.” It is formed by combining the prefix ad- (menaning “to”) with verus (meaning “true”). 

Verus is also the root for the English word verity, which we adopted into English through the Anglo-French and Old French (verite) from Latin just before we latched on to its cousin aver. (The Modern French word vérité, replete with accents acute, means the same as our word verity: truth.)

Aver came to English from the Old French word averer in the 14^th century. The French got averer from Vulgar Latin (For an explanation of Vulgar Latin, see blog of November 3, 2010 - it's not what it sounds like.) word adverare, which means “to prove to be true.” It is formed by combining the prefix ad- (menaning “to”) with verus (meaning “true”).

Verus is also the root for the English word verity, which we adopted into English from Latin after passing it through the Anglo-French and Old French word verite. 

Avow came to English even earlier (in the 13^th century) from the Anglo-French word avouer. Those crazy Anglo-French took it from the Old French word avoer, which meant to acknowledge, recognize or accept, especially as a protector. The Old French took the word from the Latin word advocare (yes, we get the word advocate from the same word). According to etymonline.com (the avowed primary source of this blog’s etymological information) avow is a synonym to avouch, but avouch “tends to contain the more technical, legal aspect of the word”.

Now, avouch’s reference on etymonline.com (it’s arrival was in the early 13^th century from the Middle French avochier, which meant to call upon authority and came ultimately from the previously mentioned advercare)  has a quote from Fowler which says several interesting things:

Avouch, which is no longer in common use, means guarantee, solemnly aver, prove by assertion, maintain the truth or existence of, vouch for….Avow means own publicly to, make no secret of, ….Vouch is now common only in the phrase vouch for, which has taken the place of avouch in ordinary use.

How sad that we have relegated vouch  to use only paired with “for”. We should vouch more often, if we’re not going to avouch. But then we don’t aver much either, and Fowler states that avouch is a solemn averring. So be lighthearted in the use of aver, but be solemn about avowing (or avouching, or vouching.)

Gotta Write

In the 1952 movie “Singin in the Rain” Gene Kelly has a dance number called “Gotta Dance” that was an apt description of his career. I’ve heard it said that successful writers are those who must write (who cannot NOT write, if you want the emphasis of the double negative). But there is writing and there is writing.

Ernest Hemingway wrote “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at the typewriter and bleed.”

Maya Angelou wrote “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”

Anais Nin wrote “We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.”

Larry Hostetler wrote the following (now I can say that once in my life my name was in the same list as Hemingway, Angelou, and Nin) because he suffers from graphomania and sometimes is dithyrambic as he tries to limn.

Graphomania, as the suffix –mania indicates, refers to a compulsion, and the grapho- prefix (it’s usually a suffix, too, like in photograph or phonograph) refers to writing. The first time the two were put together was in 1827, in the word graphomaniac, referring to the person with a passion or morbid desire to write. It was adjusted to graphomania in 1840. It came to English through French or German from Greek, where the words graphia means “description of” and graphien means “write or express in written characters.”

Dithyrambic is the adjective of dithyramb, which means the dictionary’s primary definition is “pertaining to the nature of a dithyramb”. Don’t you love it when a dictionary is so limning? A dithyramb is described as a choral hymn that is “passionate”, “of vehement or wild character”, or “exalted or enthusiastic”.  In other words, Norah Jones would never be called dithyrambic. It was eventually applied to writing other than just hymns.   It came to English in the 1600s from the Greek word dithyrambos, but where that came from is unknown. It was originally associated with hymns to Dionysus, the god of wine and ecstasy. No wonder its origin is unknown. It was probably coined by a drunk person in ecstasy trying to say another word.

Limn is the first of today’s words I came across.  It was originally used (in the 1500s) to describe the illustrations (illuminations they are called) in manuscripts. In Middle English the word used was luminen, the obvious true source of Eminem’s name (don’t believe all you read in the tabloids or on Wikipedia). The Middle English got it from the Old French word luminer which came from the Latin luminare, which meant to illuminate. From the artistic illuminations it is not a stretch to apply limn to written words that are damn illuminating.   (Mark Twain wrote “Substitute ‘damn’ every time you’re inclined to write ‘very;’ your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be.”

My Magic Dad

My father was a magician. I don't mean that metaphorically. He actually had an interest in legerdemain that grew to the extent that he performed at children's parties as a sideline. He often used the words hocus pocus as magic words, but was careful to let everyone know that he was performing tricks, not magic. What's the difference? In his mind tricks are something that make you think one way only to have a different result. My favorite trick was the one where black and white wood bunnies changed places from one box to another. You'd think you figured out how he did the trick only for him to reveal the bunnies at the end of the trick as red and yellow. How he did it was always a secret, but it was also always entertaining. 

Magic (the word, not the activity) is defined as the art (I don't know that my dad considered himself an artist, though) of producing illusions. The word came to English in the 14th century from the French word magique, which came from the Latin word magicus, which they got from the Greek word magikos. (The adjectival and noun forms have a slightly different etymology, but these three words are common to both.) Magikos comes from magos, which was descriptive of someone who was a Priest or highly educated. My dictionary uses the word legerdemain as a synonym. 

Legerdemain, however, has a slightly different connotation. The word came to English in the early 15^th century from the Middle French phrase léger de main, which meant “quick of hand” (literally “light of hand”). Modern magical acts often have both the sleight of hand, the small tricks that legerdemain refer to – often card tricks – as well as large production tricks that have no sleight of hand, merely misdirection and mechanical secrets.

Prestidigitation is probably a word adopted by magicians. It is adopted directly from the French word with the same spelling, which was created by combining the French word for nimble, preste, with the Latin word for finger digitus. It came to English in 1843, and is related to the French word for juggler, prestigiateur. 

In my opinion prestigiditation would refer more to a juggling trick than sleight of hand. If many card tricks are legerdemain, perhaps the even more nimble coin tricks are examples of prestidigitation. In most usage they’re interchangeable.

So where does hocus pocus come in? Its origin isn’t certain, but according to some (etymonline attributes it initially to an English prelate named John Tillotson) it may be a  perversion of the phrase Hoc est corpus meum (This is my body) used in the Latin Mass during the sacrament of Eucharist.

I also like etymonline.com’s citation of another early usage:

I will speak of one man…that went about in King James his time…who called himself, the Kings Majesties most excellent Hocus Pocus, and so was called, because that at the playing of every Trick, he used to say Hocus Pocus, tontus tabantus, vade celeriter jubeo, a dark composure of words to blinde the eyes of the beholders, to make his Trick pass the more currently without discovery. [Thomas Ady, “A Candle in the Dark,” 1655]

One can easily imagine the art of magic, including legerdemain and prestidigitation (and even juggling) being entertainment in castles and city squares throughout France and England. Or at a Renaissance Faire today.

Happy Belated Father’s Day!

I got as far as choosing three words and writing three words last week when other events conspired against getting a blog written. They weren’t great words for Father’s Day anyway, so a week’s delay doesn’t mean you missed using them in a timely manner.

The first word that came to mind was avuncular. Very simply, it means anything pertaining to or having the characteristic of an uncle. That’s assuming we all have the same idea what an uncle is, but that’s an entirely different blog. Proving that you can’t believe every online source, Dictionary.com lists it as coming to English somewhere between 1825 and 1835 while etymonline.com dates it specifically at 1789. Both say it came directly from the Latin avunculus, which means maternal uncle, although its literal translation is “little grandfather”.  While some languages (like Latin) distinguish between a maternal uncle and a paternal uncle (in Latin faedera) English does not.

However, there are several  axiomatic uses of the word uncle that may or may not be familiar to you. In North America, to “say uncle” or “cry uncle” is to indicate during a fight that you concede; it is still in wide use today. Since 1838 the phrase “Dutch uncle” has had currency, to refer to someone who gives stern but kind advice, and as far back as 1747 “Welsh uncle” indicated your parent’s cousin.

I have never noticed in reading old books, but apparently the word uncle was used as a humorous and less embarrassing word for pawnbroker between the 1600s and 1900s (even before referring to your parent’s brother). It is easier to say “I left my ring with my uncle” than to admit you pawned it.

For some reason (and it has nothing to do with any of my uncles) I associate the word ursine with avuncular, probably because I learned them at about the same time, possibly from the same book. Ursine, for astronomers, is easy. The Big Bear and Little Bear are constellations known as Ursa Major and Ursa Minor. So astronomers would recognize that ursine means bearlike and comes from Latin. It has been used in English since the 1550s, and is generally used  to refer to a large, hairy man.  However, for large, hairy men who remember the first James Bond movie, Dr. No, you will remember Ursula Andress (in her role as first “Bond Girl” Honey Ryder) dramatically coming out of the ocean. Ursula means “she-bear”, but that isn’t the most descriptive word for Honey Ryder (she certainly wasn’t hairy).  The word vulpine comes more to mind.

Vulpine also comes from Latin, from the word vulpes, which is what those who spoke Latin called the fox. (Honey Ryder was in many ways foxy.) Because we associate foxes with being sly and cunning vulpine is a more obscure way of saying someone is sly and cunning. (“How very vulpine of you.”) It came to English at the same time that the Mayflower came to Massachusetts (1620).  

So whether they’re avuncular, ursine, or vulpine, it’s never too late to say “Happy Father’s Day” to a dad (which while first recorded in about 1500 is probably of much older usage as an informal word for father). 

Magdelene and Emma

Today begins with another word from The Catcher Was A Spy (see 5/27/12 blog post). It’s not an unusual word, but in reading the book I ran across the word maudlin and thought “that’s an unusual word construction”. (I’m sure such a thought occurs to you all the time.)

Maudlin has an interesting etymology, but first its definition: maudlin’s primary definition is foolishly emotional or tearful. Several dictionaries attach drunkenness to the cause of this condition, but usage I’ve seen doesn’t require this state. Another definition is just tearfully or weakly emotional. The most common usage (to the point of almost being a maxim or aphorism – you decide) is in the phrase “don’t be maudlin”, a rejoinder (no blog post yet) that has little meaning if you don’t know the definition of maudlin. Now you do.

But maudlin’s etymology is more interesting. The word came to English in 1607 (quite specifically, but the source is not mentioned) and meant “tearful”. The Middle English name Maudelen (which was adopted – the name, not the person – about 1320) is the source of the word maudlin, a nickname in essence and came from the name Magdalene. Many will recognize Magdalene as the surname to one of the Marys in the Bible. Forgiven by Jesus in a dramatic and mysterious scene in Luke 7:37, she became a favorite subject (one source used the word ubiquitous – another future blog post) of artists in the Middle Ages, and was often depicted as weeping in appreciation for her salvation.

But the other thing that intrigued me about the word maudlin was its unusual construction using “audl”. I could only find one other word in English with those four letters in order: caudle.

A caudle is a warm drink for someone’s who’s sick. It is usually wine or ale mixed with eggs, bread, sugar, and spices, although you can add other ingredients if you wish. It came to Middle English from the Old North French word caudel (which may have also been Anglo-French if you want to argue), which devolved from the Old French word chaudel, and is the origin of the modern French word chaudeau, which of course is a zabaglione.  Caudel also came from the Middle Latin word caldellum, a diminutive form of caldum, which is the neuter of the Latin caldus which means warm and from which we get the word calorie.

Caudle sounds very similar to coddle, and for good reason. Coddle, which most often means to treat tenderly or pamper also means to cook in water just below the boiling point (see the tie-in?), a use we can find in the 1600s. It was used in English in the 1300s to refer to any warm drink for invalids, and came originally from the Latin word calidium that referred to a warm drink or warm wine and water. Of course, calidium is the neuter of calidus, which means hot, and comes from the same Latin word, cadere, from which we get caudle.

The interesting thing about the word coddle is that its first recorded use as a verb to mean “treat tenderly”, the most common usage today, was in 1815 in Jane Austen’s novel Emma. The name Emma has no relation to the name Madeline, but it would be a nice way to close this blog if it did.

Lacuna Matata

Just finished reading the book The Catcher Was A Spy by Nicholas Dawidoff, and collected a number of words both from previous posts and for future posts. The book was a very interesting biography of Moe Berg, and would be of interest to aficionados of baseball, spy craft or psychology (Moe is part of a diagnosable family). I also collected (from page 248) a nice quote, mostly attributed to Moe: “poverty annihilates the future.”

So, on to the words: the one word collected that has already had a post was recondite. I had a couple of words I’d already collected but hadn’t yet posted on – lacuna and caesura, and 13 words I thought should be added to my pending posts list.

Let’s begin with the two that I had already collected. Those words were caesura and lacuna, and are similar in meaning.  

Caesura is not an unfamiliar term for recovering musicians like me. In musical notation it is the double mark indicating “stop the music – don’t keep beating time” (or at least that’s my interpretation.) It is also a phrase used in writing verse, but it also means simply a break or pause in time. (Appropriate for this post, my first in several months.) It was adopted in English in the 1550s directly from the Latin, although the Latin probably had it as the ae “grapheme… a ligature representing the Latin diphthong” (Wikipedia) whatever that means. The Latin word caesura refers to a pause, and is literally translated as “a cutting”.

The second word is lacuna, and actually refers more to a missing portion of a written work. It also had the Latin grapheme in its plural form, but at the end. It came to English in the 1660s, and the Latin word refers to a hole or a pit (obviously into which letters, words, or sections of manuscripts can disappear.)

In my "waiting words" list for future posts I have another word associated with lacuna, and it is listed in the dictionary as a synonym for caesura. Hiatus is the word, and it also means a break or gap, but it can be in time or space. The definition of hiatus uses the word lacuna, so you see how nicely the three fit together. Also directly from the Latin, hiatus means an "opening, aperture, rupture, gap" and arrived in English in the 1560s. It took only 50 years for it to be applied to "an interruptions in events" (etymonline.com).

Stay tuned for more words from my The Catcher Was A Spy. Some (like maudlin, turpitude, and tatterdemalion) may be familiar, but others were completely new to me (scrofula and crepuscular).

By the way, in case you’re missing the reference, the title to this blog post is a reference to a song from the movie The Lion King entitled Hakuna Matata, which is a Swahili phrase meaning “no problem”. Its literal translation is “there are no worries.”

Toccata and Back Again

This upcoming month is a unique one on my schedule. While my wife is usually nidiculous, this next month will be one of those times when I will spend a week at home, then a week away, then a week at home. I don’t know the last time that happened. In addition, the two of us will be nidifugous while I have two appointments in southern California.

Nidify and its forms are one of the few words to not have etymology in the vast resource that is etymonline.com. But it is found in several dictionaries. Nidify is the verb form, and nidificate is another form of the verb. (Any time I see the –icate suffix I presume it to be a back-formation and prefer the simpler word, in this case nidify, but it could be a cognate.) Nidify is formed from the Latin word nidificare, which means to build a nest. Nidificare  is formed from the words nidus, nest, and facere, to make. Isn’t Latin grand? Nidify came to English from the Latin in the 1650s, and it apparently took until the 1810s for nidificate to arrive. (According to dictionary.com it was formed from the past participle of nidificare, which of course is nidificatus.)

It wasn’t until the 1900s that the adjective nidiculous was used. It means staying in the nest, because the Latin suffix –colere, the root of –culous, means “to inhabit.” The Latin suffix –fugere is the source of the word that means “leave the nest” (nidifugous), and –fugere has a meaning of “take flight”.

Fugere is also the root word for the musical term fugue, which makes fugue a cognate of nidify. Fugue is spelled the way it is because it came to English from “the French version of the Italian word,” according to etymonline.com. It arrived in the 1590s, when fugues were all the rage, showing up prominently on the Billboard charts of the day. Fugue refers to a composition where a melody is introduced in one part, then another part takes up the melody (often a 4^th or 5^th away from the initial statement) and sometimes continuing with multiple statements of the melodic theme in other parts. Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor, a most interesting form of which you can see and hear for yourself if the tune doesn’t come readily to mind:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=te4SqP-X8GA

Unfortunately, the most common and useful form of nidify would be one to describe the empty nest and I wasn’t able to find that word (anyone want to find it?)

I’ve used a word a couple times today that bears defining: cognate. Cognate also comes directly from Latin, from the word for “of common descent”: cognatus. Cognatus is formed by combining the prefix com-, meaning “together”, and gnasci, meaning “to be born”, from which we get the word genus. In other words, a cognate of genus is cognate. (So is nascent, by the way.) As etymonline.com so nicely puts it “cognates are cousins, not siblings”.

For those of you who misread the opening line and thought I called my wife ridiculous, get your eyes checked.