For those of you who don’t know, I am finishing up my time with Sierra Vista Child & Family Services and at the first of the year will take a position with the Association of Fundraising Professionals.
At a goodbye luncheon I shared with fellow fundraising professionals (who asked for a word of the day) the word eleemosynary, and said that we might be guilty of being eleemercenaries (a word that I am hereby coining – look for it at a charity near you).
Eleemosynary is an interesting word; I am unaware of another word in English that has a double e where each e is its own syllable. (While the primary pronunciation has the double ee pronounced as a short i as in is, the secondary pronunciation – and the one I prefer for some unknown reason – is with the double e pronounced as a long e and the second one as the a in ago.) Eleemosynary is an adjective that means of or for charity or alms. A synonym would be charitable. It also refers to those supported by charity or that which is given as charity.
Eleemosynary came to English in the 1610s from the Middle Latin word eleemosynarius, which meant pertaining to alms. The word came to Middle Latin from the Late Latin eleemosyna, which got it from the Greek word for pity: eleemosyne. I have no idea where I happened upon the word, but have used it in Rotary to refer to my category of membership (…Larry Hostetler, classification Eleemosynary…). It sounds like a word W.C. Fields would have used.
A word I remember hearing W.C. Fields use is emolument. Emolument is a noun for gain from employment or position, payment received for work, salary, wages, fees, etc. It is older in English than eleemosynary, having entered the language in the mid-15th century. We get the spelling from the Middle French émolument, which they took directly from the Latin word emolumentum, meaning profit or gain. It may have originally meant payment for a miller of grain, because the Latin word emolere means to grind out, having been formed from ex-, which means out, and molere, which means to grind. Molere is the word from which we get our word mallet, I’m told. But that’s a story for another day.
While my new position doesn’t qualify as a sinecure (see 1/3/10), I must admit I feel a little like a parvenu. Parvenu is a noun that refers to a person who has suddenly acquired wealth or power, especially one who is not fully accepted socially by the class into which he has risen (I'm confident I will be accepted); a person considered an upstart. It came to English directly from the French in 1802, which got it from the Latin word pervenire, per- meaning through and venire meaning “to come” (and from which we get the word venue, again through French.)
The new position is a wonderful opportunity and I’ve received numerous congratulations and great support, so I look forward to a new chapter in a new year with a new organization. And no longer will I be an eleemercenary.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Windows and Basements?
Today begins a second year of this blog. When I began, I wasn’t sure if I’d have enough words to last a year. My initial list was shy of 50, and today’s words finish the first 53 sets of words. I now have a list of 96 groups, of which 16 remain to do, with a number of words still not grouped. So I will continue on for a while yet. I will not hold the blog in abeyance but will instead pay obeisance to my blog muse and continue.
Which takes us to our words for today: abeyance and obeisance. I grouped these two together not because they are often used erroneously one for the other, but because they have the [vowel]-b-[long a sound]-ance formation to them.
These are also words associated with Christmas in different ways. Often conflicts and wars are held in abeyance for the observance of Christmas. In some wars the opposing sides actually shared festivities during the Christmas truce before resuming the battles the next day. Abeyance (which didn’t even make it on the first two pages of my dictionary) is a noun that means temporary suspension, as an activity or function. It also is used in law to mean “a state of not having been determined or settled, as of lands the present ownership of which has not been established.”
Abeyance comes to English in the 1520s from Anglo-French (abeiance) which came down from Old French where it was spelled abeance, when it meant expectation. That meaning came from the prefix a- that meant to or at, and bayer (sometimes spelled without the y) that meant to gape, be open, or wait expectantly. The Old French (and you know who you are) got it from Gaulish which we think was batare (although etymonline.com says batare is Latin).
The root word in Old French, baer or bayer, is the source for our usage in describing a window that allows someone to sit on a window box and wait expectantly for the arrival of someone – a bay window.
Obeisance is most easily understood in connection with Christmas by saying the Magi came to pay obeisance to Jesus. Another noun, it refers to a gesture of respect or reverence, such as a bow, curtsy, etc. It also means the attitude shown by this, as in homage or deference. I used this at work once and neither of two very intelligent people I greatly respect had heard of the word.
It comes from the Middle English word obeisaunce, which came from Old French in the late 14th century where it was obeissance, a form of obeissant which is itself the present participle of obeir, which meant obey. The Old French got it from the Latin word oboedire, from which we got the word obey. It was at one time spelled abeisance, which was confused with the French word for abasement (not a basement), so the spelling with an initial o became preeminent. It wasn’t until its arrival in English that its sense of paying respect or bowing was included.
So I hope you were obeisant yesterday and for the future I will not keep this blog in abeyance.
Which takes us to our words for today: abeyance and obeisance. I grouped these two together not because they are often used erroneously one for the other, but because they have the [vowel]-b-[long a sound]-ance formation to them.
These are also words associated with Christmas in different ways. Often conflicts and wars are held in abeyance for the observance of Christmas. In some wars the opposing sides actually shared festivities during the Christmas truce before resuming the battles the next day. Abeyance (which didn’t even make it on the first two pages of my dictionary) is a noun that means temporary suspension, as an activity or function. It also is used in law to mean “a state of not having been determined or settled, as of lands the present ownership of which has not been established.”
Abeyance comes to English in the 1520s from Anglo-French (abeiance) which came down from Old French where it was spelled abeance, when it meant expectation. That meaning came from the prefix a- that meant to or at, and bayer (sometimes spelled without the y) that meant to gape, be open, or wait expectantly. The Old French (and you know who you are) got it from Gaulish which we think was batare (although etymonline.com says batare is Latin).
The root word in Old French, baer or bayer, is the source for our usage in describing a window that allows someone to sit on a window box and wait expectantly for the arrival of someone – a bay window.
Obeisance is most easily understood in connection with Christmas by saying the Magi came to pay obeisance to Jesus. Another noun, it refers to a gesture of respect or reverence, such as a bow, curtsy, etc. It also means the attitude shown by this, as in homage or deference. I used this at work once and neither of two very intelligent people I greatly respect had heard of the word.
It comes from the Middle English word obeisaunce, which came from Old French in the late 14th century where it was obeissance, a form of obeissant which is itself the present participle of obeir, which meant obey. The Old French got it from the Latin word oboedire, from which we got the word obey. It was at one time spelled abeisance, which was confused with the French word for abasement (not a basement), so the spelling with an initial o became preeminent. It wasn’t until its arrival in English that its sense of paying respect or bowing was included.
So I hope you were obeisant yesterday and for the future I will not keep this blog in abeyance.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Dr. Livingston, I Presume?
Sometimes I have no idea where I came across a word, and today is one of those days. Add to it that I’ve paired two words together that don’t on the face of it seem related and I begin to wonder about my planning process. So, let’s see if we can find out why I’ve paired recrimination and presume/assume.
We are more familiar with the words presume and assume. Now if you had asked me, I would have guessed that presumption is a later-developing form of the word presume. And I would be wrong. The word presumption came to English in the 13th century, presume entered a century later.
Presumption, in the sense of seizure and occupation without right, or taking upon oneself without warrant, is based on the Late Latin word praesumptionem (no, I’m not making that up). It means confidence or audacity, and also has a sense of anticipation to it. Pre-, as we would expect, means before, and the sume comes from sumere, which means “to take.” There is also a connection with the word exempt (the –empt and –umpt have a common Latin root word association with taking or buying). So in English, the word presumption, with its connotation of taking (without right or warrant) is the older use. The meaning of “taking for granted” didn’t appear in English until about 1300, and then it’s almost another 100 years before the word presume comes into English. It stopped for a visit in Old France, where the word was presumer (and had been there since the 12th century). There is always a little sense of seizure that remains with the word in any of its forms, a sense that one has overstepped boundaries.
Assume, on the other hand, while it still has the sense of seizure (assume control), doesn’t have the unwarranted sense that presume does. It also makes a later appearance in English, not arriving from the Latin until the middle 15th century. It was formed by the use of the prefix ad-, which means “up” or “to” with the aforementioned sumere. There is a Latin word assumere from which we can make the leap to English.
What’s interesting is that the Feast of the Assumption, the August 15 celebration of the departure from this life of the Blessed Virgin Mary, has attestation from about 1300, so the celebration long precedes the entry of the word into common English usage.
It took almost 100 years for the meaning to include not only seizure but supposition. Presume is the expression of the belief of the “presumer”, whereas assume has more of an opportunity for clarification and correction from the non-presumer.
Recrimination is a word that means “counter-charge” (as in “no, you did!”). It is used in the noun form more often than the root verb recriminate. Recrimination came to English very specifically in the 1610s, from the French word recrimination, which they got from the Middle Latin word recriminationem, a form of the word recriminari. Recriminate came from the past participle form of recriminari, recriminatus. It means “to make charges against,” and is formed from “re-“ (meaning back or again) and criminari, meaning “to accuse”. Yes, criminari or a form thereof is where we get the words crime and criminal.
So why did I pair these words together? I can only assume it is because they all refer to statements made without substantiation. You may have presumed as much. In any case, you’re welcome to express your recriminations.
For an account of the source of the quote in the title, see http://www.wayfarersbookshop.com/Biographies/Stanley_Biography/Stanley_-_Dr__Livingstone_I_Pr/stanley_-_dr__livingstone_i_pr.html
We are more familiar with the words presume and assume. Now if you had asked me, I would have guessed that presumption is a later-developing form of the word presume. And I would be wrong. The word presumption came to English in the 13th century, presume entered a century later.
Presumption, in the sense of seizure and occupation without right, or taking upon oneself without warrant, is based on the Late Latin word praesumptionem (no, I’m not making that up). It means confidence or audacity, and also has a sense of anticipation to it. Pre-, as we would expect, means before, and the sume comes from sumere, which means “to take.” There is also a connection with the word exempt (the –empt and –umpt have a common Latin root word association with taking or buying). So in English, the word presumption, with its connotation of taking (without right or warrant) is the older use. The meaning of “taking for granted” didn’t appear in English until about 1300, and then it’s almost another 100 years before the word presume comes into English. It stopped for a visit in Old France, where the word was presumer (and had been there since the 12th century). There is always a little sense of seizure that remains with the word in any of its forms, a sense that one has overstepped boundaries.
Assume, on the other hand, while it still has the sense of seizure (assume control), doesn’t have the unwarranted sense that presume does. It also makes a later appearance in English, not arriving from the Latin until the middle 15th century. It was formed by the use of the prefix ad-, which means “up” or “to” with the aforementioned sumere. There is a Latin word assumere from which we can make the leap to English.
What’s interesting is that the Feast of the Assumption, the August 15 celebration of the departure from this life of the Blessed Virgin Mary, has attestation from about 1300, so the celebration long precedes the entry of the word into common English usage.
It took almost 100 years for the meaning to include not only seizure but supposition. Presume is the expression of the belief of the “presumer”, whereas assume has more of an opportunity for clarification and correction from the non-presumer.
Recrimination is a word that means “counter-charge” (as in “no, you did!”). It is used in the noun form more often than the root verb recriminate. Recrimination came to English very specifically in the 1610s, from the French word recrimination, which they got from the Middle Latin word recriminationem, a form of the word recriminari. Recriminate came from the past participle form of recriminari, recriminatus. It means “to make charges against,” and is formed from “re-“ (meaning back or again) and criminari, meaning “to accuse”. Yes, criminari or a form thereof is where we get the words crime and criminal.
So why did I pair these words together? I can only assume it is because they all refer to statements made without substantiation. You may have presumed as much. In any case, you’re welcome to express your recriminations.
For an account of the source of the quote in the title, see http://www.wayfarersbookshop.com/Biographies/Stanley_Biography/Stanley_-_Dr__Livingstone_I_Pr/stanley_-_dr__livingstone_i_pr.html
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Possibly Panjandrums, Certainly Cynosures
Our blog begins today in 1753 in Covent Garden, where retired actor Charles Macklin is lecturing on memory. Claiming that his memory enabled him to repeat anything he had read the writer Samuel Foote quickly composed the following nonsense paragraph in an attempt to prove Macklin wrong:
So she went into the garden to cut a cabbage-leaf to make an apple-pie; and at the same time a great she-bear, coming up the street, pops its head into the shop. “What! No soap?” So he died, and she very imprudently married the barber; and there were present the Picninnies, and the Joblillies, and the Garyulies, and the grand Panjandrum himself, with the little round button at top, and they all fell to playing the game of catch as catch can till the gunpowder ran out at the heels of their boots.
Macklin refused the test, for reasons unknown.
What is known is that the story is likely an invention. While no less a source than the Oxford English dictionary quotes the tale, the first appearance of the story in print didn’t take place until 75 years later, when it was included in a book of children’s stories written by Maria Edgeworth. (See http://www.worldwidewords.org/weirdwords/ww-pan2.htm for a more complete recounting.) Copies of a children’s book title The Grand Panjandrum (attributed to Samuel Foote) can be found on the internet, including free for download from the Gutenberg site. Is it a later recreation of the Edgeworth story attributed to Foote or an original creation? You be the judge.
What we can be certain of is that the word has come to mean a pompous person, and there’s no reason not to attribute its creation to Foote.
Whether Foote or Macklin was a panjandrum we don’t know, but they may have been cynosures. (Don’t confuse cynosure with sinecure – covered in the blog of 1/3/10; but then why would you? It might be good to remember the two for a poem, though.)
Cynosure came to English in the 1590s from the Middle French word of the same spelling. The Middle French got it from the Latin word cynosura. In those times the constellation we now know as Ursa Minor (which contains the North Star) was known as the Cynosura. That title was taken from the Greek word kynosoura, formed from kyon, the genitive form of the word for dog (from which we get canine) and oura, which means tail. So the word literally means “dog’s tail” and has nothing to do with the Dog Star, or Sirius, which is part of the constellation Canis Major. Siriusly!
So it makes sense that it means something that strongly attracts attention because of its brilliance or beauty or interest, or provides guidance or direction for one of those reasons. Foote and Macklin may fit be cynosures, since those both evinced at least interest that compelled others to pay attention to them. But were they pompous, panjandrums? Possibly pompous panjandrums, and certainly sincere cynosures.
So she went into the garden to cut a cabbage-leaf to make an apple-pie; and at the same time a great she-bear, coming up the street, pops its head into the shop. “What! No soap?” So he died, and she very imprudently married the barber; and there were present the Picninnies, and the Joblillies, and the Garyulies, and the grand Panjandrum himself, with the little round button at top, and they all fell to playing the game of catch as catch can till the gunpowder ran out at the heels of their boots.
Macklin refused the test, for reasons unknown.
What is known is that the story is likely an invention. While no less a source than the Oxford English dictionary quotes the tale, the first appearance of the story in print didn’t take place until 75 years later, when it was included in a book of children’s stories written by Maria Edgeworth. (See http://www.worldwidewords.org/weirdwords/ww-pan2.htm for a more complete recounting.) Copies of a children’s book title The Grand Panjandrum (attributed to Samuel Foote) can be found on the internet, including free for download from the Gutenberg site. Is it a later recreation of the Edgeworth story attributed to Foote or an original creation? You be the judge.
What we can be certain of is that the word has come to mean a pompous person, and there’s no reason not to attribute its creation to Foote.
Whether Foote or Macklin was a panjandrum we don’t know, but they may have been cynosures. (Don’t confuse cynosure with sinecure – covered in the blog of 1/3/10; but then why would you? It might be good to remember the two for a poem, though.)
Cynosure came to English in the 1590s from the Middle French word of the same spelling. The Middle French got it from the Latin word cynosura. In those times the constellation we now know as Ursa Minor (which contains the North Star) was known as the Cynosura. That title was taken from the Greek word kynosoura, formed from kyon, the genitive form of the word for dog (from which we get canine) and oura, which means tail. So the word literally means “dog’s tail” and has nothing to do with the Dog Star, or Sirius, which is part of the constellation Canis Major. Siriusly!
So it makes sense that it means something that strongly attracts attention because of its brilliance or beauty or interest, or provides guidance or direction for one of those reasons. Foote and Macklin may fit be cynosures, since those both evinced at least interest that compelled others to pay attention to them. But were they pompous, panjandrums? Possibly pompous panjandrums, and certainly sincere cynosures.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Spoils of War
Here are two more words courtesy of those who follow in William F. Buckley’s footsteps and refuse to eschew words that require a dictionary. Both have come from the pages of National Review.
Irredentism is the collective noun form of the individual noun irredentist, and has nothing to do with dentists, but does have a connection to redemption. When referring to the Italian political party formed in 1878 it should be capitalized. That party sought to recover for Italy regions adjacent to its borders (Tyrol, Nice, Corsica, etc.) that were inhabited largely by Italians but were not under Italian control. An irredentist is anyone who advocates a policy of recovering territory formerly part of their country. Mexicans who want the southwest USA back would be irredentists. Those in the US who think we should take back the Panama Canal also fit this category.
In its broad usage, irredentism refers to any type of seeking of recovery of what was formerly owned – a business divestiture that is rued, the selling of personal property and trying to regain it, even a couple trying to work out their differences after the relationship has broken up (or down – interesting how both directions convey the same thing).
The Italian name of the political party, Irredentista, comes from the Italian word for unredeemed, which is irredenta.
Revanchism is a word related to irredentism in its concept. It refers to “the revengeful spirit moving a defeated nation to aggressively seek restoration of territories.” The individual form – revanchist – is not in my dictionary.
According to etymonline.com, the word is of French origin, having come to English in 1926 from the French word revanche, or the noun form revanchiste. Revanche is literally translated revenge, a much different emotion than redemption. Etymonline.com says its coinage related to the recovery of territory lost by Germany after World War I, but that doesn’t make sense to me. I prefer to accept the Wikipedia explanation, which attributes its origin to the movement in France after the loss of Alsace-Lorraine as a result of the Franco-Prussian war of 1870-1871. Alsace-Lorraine is a ping-pong ball of territory that went back and forth between French and German and Swiss and Hapsburg and independent and other territorial status 10 times between 1465 and 1945.
Revanchism is similar to irredentism, but where irredentism seeks inclusion of territory because of its continuing connections and is more positive in its motivation (at least on the surface), revanchism has a more negative motivation. Where irrendentism is the couple seeking to restore a relationship, revanchism is the scorned lover seeking through every means possible to “make them pay.” Where irredentism is the seeking to regain a business that shouldn’t have been sold off, revanchism is trying to get back a business lost in a hostile takeover.
So, the difference between irredentism and revanchism is not only one of tone but of intent. One could make the case that your irredentism would lead to my revanchism. The case could also be made that revanchism is a negative motivation for, and one type of, irredentism. They are close enough in definition to be interchangeable, as long as you knowingly use revanchism when you wish to convey a vengeful motivation.
Irredentism is the collective noun form of the individual noun irredentist, and has nothing to do with dentists, but does have a connection to redemption. When referring to the Italian political party formed in 1878 it should be capitalized. That party sought to recover for Italy regions adjacent to its borders (Tyrol, Nice, Corsica, etc.) that were inhabited largely by Italians but were not under Italian control. An irredentist is anyone who advocates a policy of recovering territory formerly part of their country. Mexicans who want the southwest USA back would be irredentists. Those in the US who think we should take back the Panama Canal also fit this category.
In its broad usage, irredentism refers to any type of seeking of recovery of what was formerly owned – a business divestiture that is rued, the selling of personal property and trying to regain it, even a couple trying to work out their differences after the relationship has broken up (or down – interesting how both directions convey the same thing).
The Italian name of the political party, Irredentista, comes from the Italian word for unredeemed, which is irredenta.
Revanchism is a word related to irredentism in its concept. It refers to “the revengeful spirit moving a defeated nation to aggressively seek restoration of territories.” The individual form – revanchist – is not in my dictionary.
According to etymonline.com, the word is of French origin, having come to English in 1926 from the French word revanche, or the noun form revanchiste. Revanche is literally translated revenge, a much different emotion than redemption. Etymonline.com says its coinage related to the recovery of territory lost by Germany after World War I, but that doesn’t make sense to me. I prefer to accept the Wikipedia explanation, which attributes its origin to the movement in France after the loss of Alsace-Lorraine as a result of the Franco-Prussian war of 1870-1871. Alsace-Lorraine is a ping-pong ball of territory that went back and forth between French and German and Swiss and Hapsburg and independent and other territorial status 10 times between 1465 and 1945.
Revanchism is similar to irredentism, but where irredentism seeks inclusion of territory because of its continuing connections and is more positive in its motivation (at least on the surface), revanchism has a more negative motivation. Where irrendentism is the couple seeking to restore a relationship, revanchism is the scorned lover seeking through every means possible to “make them pay.” Where irredentism is the seeking to regain a business that shouldn’t have been sold off, revanchism is trying to get back a business lost in a hostile takeover.
So, the difference between irredentism and revanchism is not only one of tone but of intent. One could make the case that your irredentism would lead to my revanchism. The case could also be made that revanchism is a negative motivation for, and one type of, irredentism. They are close enough in definition to be interchangeable, as long as you knowingly use revanchism when you wish to convey a vengeful motivation.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
All Clear?
The words evidence and evince can both be used as a transitive verb to mean to indicate or show. So why do we have the two words and what’s the difference and which is the good word for difference situations?
Let’s begin with evince, the less common word. Its definition is “to show plainly, indicate, or make manifest, especially to show that one has (a specified quality, feeling, etc.)” In fact, I have seen it used most in a phrase like “he evinces talent” or “she evinces regret”, as if to manifest a particular quality or ability. What’s interesting about this word is that it originally meant “disprove or confute”, quite a different meaning. But that was in about 1600, and was because when it came to English it was from the French word évincer, which had that meaning. The French got it from the Latin evincere, where it meant conquer, elicit by argument, or prove. It didn’t develop the meaning “to show clearly” until the late 18th century.
Evidence when used as a transitive verb (“it evidences a quality…”) is more general and often used of inanimate or non-human subjects. It came to English about 1300, from the identically spelled Old French word. They got it from the Late Latin word evidentia that means proof or clearness. In the 14th century it added the sense of “grounds for belief” and in the 1660s added the idea of obviousness. It was in the 1600s that it also developed its verb sense that we’re comparing today.
My dictionary has one of those wonderful elucidative paragraphs that differentiates several synonyms for evident (but not evince):
Evident and apparent apply to that which can be readily perceived or easily inferred, but evident implies the existence of external signs [his evident disappointment] and apparent suggests the use of deductive reasoning [it’s apparent he’ll win]; manifest applies to that which is immediately, often intuitively, clear to the understanding; obvious refers to that which is so noticeable or obtrusive that no one can fail to perceive it; palpable applies especially to that which can be perceived through some sense other than that of sight [palpable signs of fever]; clear implies that there is no confusion or obscurity to hinder understanding [clear proof]; plain implies such simplicity or lack of complexity as to be easily perceptible [the plain facts are these].
I used the word elucidate in its adjectival form above. The transitive verb elucidate means to make clear or explain, especially something abstruse (see 11/14/10 blog). We have a choice of etymologies for elucidate, which is counter-elucidative. It could be that it came from a Middle French word élucider, but élucider appeared in Middle French about the same time elucidate appeared in English (the 1500s). So did elucidate come through Middle French or directly from the Late Latin word elucidatus, the past participle of elucidare? Your choice. (And you thought you had no choice, eh?) Elucidare means to make clear, and yet it’s not clear exactly how we got elucidate in English. But then, it’s not something that will keep many people awake at night, either.
Let’s begin with evince, the less common word. Its definition is “to show plainly, indicate, or make manifest, especially to show that one has (a specified quality, feeling, etc.)” In fact, I have seen it used most in a phrase like “he evinces talent” or “she evinces regret”, as if to manifest a particular quality or ability. What’s interesting about this word is that it originally meant “disprove or confute”, quite a different meaning. But that was in about 1600, and was because when it came to English it was from the French word évincer, which had that meaning. The French got it from the Latin evincere, where it meant conquer, elicit by argument, or prove. It didn’t develop the meaning “to show clearly” until the late 18th century.
Evidence when used as a transitive verb (“it evidences a quality…”) is more general and often used of inanimate or non-human subjects. It came to English about 1300, from the identically spelled Old French word. They got it from the Late Latin word evidentia that means proof or clearness. In the 14th century it added the sense of “grounds for belief” and in the 1660s added the idea of obviousness. It was in the 1600s that it also developed its verb sense that we’re comparing today.
My dictionary has one of those wonderful elucidative paragraphs that differentiates several synonyms for evident (but not evince):
Evident and apparent apply to that which can be readily perceived or easily inferred, but evident implies the existence of external signs [his evident disappointment] and apparent suggests the use of deductive reasoning [it’s apparent he’ll win]; manifest applies to that which is immediately, often intuitively, clear to the understanding; obvious refers to that which is so noticeable or obtrusive that no one can fail to perceive it; palpable applies especially to that which can be perceived through some sense other than that of sight [palpable signs of fever]; clear implies that there is no confusion or obscurity to hinder understanding [clear proof]; plain implies such simplicity or lack of complexity as to be easily perceptible [the plain facts are these].
I used the word elucidate in its adjectival form above. The transitive verb elucidate means to make clear or explain, especially something abstruse (see 11/14/10 blog). We have a choice of etymologies for elucidate, which is counter-elucidative. It could be that it came from a Middle French word élucider, but élucider appeared in Middle French about the same time elucidate appeared in English (the 1500s). So did elucidate come through Middle French or directly from the Late Latin word elucidatus, the past participle of elucidare? Your choice. (And you thought you had no choice, eh?) Elucidare means to make clear, and yet it’s not clear exactly how we got elucidate in English. But then, it’s not something that will keep many people awake at night, either.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
I'm Sidiously Vidious
The word insidious is not an unfamiliar word to most people, who know it means something bad. Its actual definition is characterized by treachery or slyness (like Boris Badenov and Natasha Fatale from the Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons), or operating in a slow or not easily apparent manner; more dangerous than seems evident (like a slow-moving disease).
Insidious comes from the Latin word insidiosus, a form of insidiae, which means an ambush or plot. In case you wonder, insidiae comes from the two Latin words in- meaning in, and sedere, meaning to sit (and from which we get the word sedentary). They were combined into the word insedere, which meant to sit in or on, or (more insidiously) to lie in wait for, hence our meaning. Its first recorded use in English is in the 1540s.
Invidious is not as familiar, but is a good word that should get greater use. It is also an adjective, and can describe anything that excites ill will, odium, or envy. It also describes anything that gives offense, especially by discriminating unfairly. (And it IS possible to fairly discriminate, by choosing the best over the better or the better over the good. Otherwise, what good is an All-Star game?)
Invidious appeared in English about 1600, directly from the Latin word invidiosus, a form of the word for ill will or envy: invidia. In fact, follow invidia through Old French and in the late 13th century English adds the word envy. (In 10th century Old French it was written envie and included the meaning not only of jealousy but rivalry.)
Going back to Latin, invidia came from invidus, which meant envious, and was formed from the word invidere, the combination of in- (meaning in – weren’t you paying attention?) and videre, meaning “to see”. Which takes me back to Woodward High School’s motto Esse quam videre. It means “To be, rather than to seem to be,” a quote from Cicero used by many schools and on more than a few family crests. The motto was in Latin, but we spoke English in my high school days.
Since I mentioned it earlier, sedentary, which means remaining in one place, often in a sitting position, came to English in the 1590s. It came to English from the Middle French word sedentaire, which they got from the Latin word sedentarius. The meanings remained as sedentary as the word’s definition implies.
Speaking of mentioning earlier, odium (four paragraphs ago) is a stronger or more negative word than ill will or envy. It is hatred, especially of a person or thing regarded as loathsome. It can also mean the disgrace brought on by a loathsome action, but the synonym opprobrium would be better used for this meaning (in my estimation). And the former meaning is the more common use for odium anyway. Odium, like invidious, appeared in English in about 1600 and came directly from the Latin word odium that means ill-will, offense, or hatred.
Unfortunately, there are no English words sidious (which should mean loyal and honest) or vidious (loyal and true).
Insidious comes from the Latin word insidiosus, a form of insidiae, which means an ambush or plot. In case you wonder, insidiae comes from the two Latin words in- meaning in, and sedere, meaning to sit (and from which we get the word sedentary). They were combined into the word insedere, which meant to sit in or on, or (more insidiously) to lie in wait for, hence our meaning. Its first recorded use in English is in the 1540s.
Invidious is not as familiar, but is a good word that should get greater use. It is also an adjective, and can describe anything that excites ill will, odium, or envy. It also describes anything that gives offense, especially by discriminating unfairly. (And it IS possible to fairly discriminate, by choosing the best over the better or the better over the good. Otherwise, what good is an All-Star game?)
Invidious appeared in English about 1600, directly from the Latin word invidiosus, a form of the word for ill will or envy: invidia. In fact, follow invidia through Old French and in the late 13th century English adds the word envy. (In 10th century Old French it was written envie and included the meaning not only of jealousy but rivalry.)
Going back to Latin, invidia came from invidus, which meant envious, and was formed from the word invidere, the combination of in- (meaning in – weren’t you paying attention?) and videre, meaning “to see”. Which takes me back to Woodward High School’s motto Esse quam videre. It means “To be, rather than to seem to be,” a quote from Cicero used by many schools and on more than a few family crests. The motto was in Latin, but we spoke English in my high school days.
Since I mentioned it earlier, sedentary, which means remaining in one place, often in a sitting position, came to English in the 1590s. It came to English from the Middle French word sedentaire, which they got from the Latin word sedentarius. The meanings remained as sedentary as the word’s definition implies.
Speaking of mentioning earlier, odium (four paragraphs ago) is a stronger or more negative word than ill will or envy. It is hatred, especially of a person or thing regarded as loathsome. It can also mean the disgrace brought on by a loathsome action, but the synonym opprobrium would be better used for this meaning (in my estimation). And the former meaning is the more common use for odium anyway. Odium, like invidious, appeared in English in about 1600 and came directly from the Latin word odium that means ill-will, offense, or hatred.
Unfortunately, there are no English words sidious (which should mean loyal and honest) or vidious (loyal and true).
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Hands and Legs
Two words I’ve heard get confused are the words gambit and gamut. They are most often used in the phrases “opening gambit” and “run the gamut between…”. Because of their similarity in sound it poses problems for those who don’t see the words to know that they are two different words.
Gambit is a chess term that refers to a strategy where a pawn or other piece is sacrificed to get an advantage in position. It has come to mean any maneuver or action intended to create an advantage. What’s interesting about the word is that its etymology takes us on a tour of Europe. It came to English from the French, from the Old French word gambit, which came from the Spanish word gambito that means a tripping. The Spanish word was derived from the Italian word for leg – gamba – which is also the word in Late Latin. We get another word from this source word: gam, an American slang word for a woman’s shapely leg.
Gambit was first used in English in the 1650s, but the Spanish writer Ruy Lopez applied the word to the opening move as described above. It didn’t obtain its broader English meaning for two centuries, until 1855.
Gamut, on the other hand, means the entire range or extent, as in emotions. It came from music, from Guido “The Hand” D’Arezzo. Actually, I made up the appellation “The Hand”. It is a sad echoing of Mafia nicknames and I apologize to any Italians or Sicilians I offended. But there is a very well known musical history phrase “Guido’s Hand”.
Guido was a Benedictine monk born in the last decade of the 10th century. He died between 1033 and 1050. (It didn’t take him 17 years to die – there are differing opinions as to the year of his death.) Guido was the first person to develop musical notation, even developing what is the staff (although his had four lines and ours has five) and notes on the staff, and ledger lines for notes above and below the staff. He also used the hand to teach notes and scales, with the tips of the fingers corresponding to the top line of the staff and the lowest joint on the finger corresponding to the lowest line on the staff. He even developed words for the series of notes in a scale, deriving them from a hymn written a couple of centuries earlier. Like the song Do-Re-Mi from “The Sound of Music”, each line begins on a new note in the scale, the first syllables of each line being (in Latin) Ut, Re, Mi, Fa, Sol, La, and Sanc. By the 20th Century the Ut was changed to Do and the Sanc to Ti.
What does all this have to do with gamut? In the 1520s, the Middle Latin phrase that referred to the lowest note in the scale, Ut, was gamma ut. Its contraction formed the word gamut, and a century later the word gamut came to refer to the entire scale or range of any string of items, not just the lowest note in a scale.
And now we've done the ambit of gamut and gambit. But we're out of space, so ambit will have to wait for another day.
Gambit is a chess term that refers to a strategy where a pawn or other piece is sacrificed to get an advantage in position. It has come to mean any maneuver or action intended to create an advantage. What’s interesting about the word is that its etymology takes us on a tour of Europe. It came to English from the French, from the Old French word gambit, which came from the Spanish word gambito that means a tripping. The Spanish word was derived from the Italian word for leg – gamba – which is also the word in Late Latin. We get another word from this source word: gam, an American slang word for a woman’s shapely leg.
Gambit was first used in English in the 1650s, but the Spanish writer Ruy Lopez applied the word to the opening move as described above. It didn’t obtain its broader English meaning for two centuries, until 1855.
Gamut, on the other hand, means the entire range or extent, as in emotions. It came from music, from Guido “The Hand” D’Arezzo. Actually, I made up the appellation “The Hand”. It is a sad echoing of Mafia nicknames and I apologize to any Italians or Sicilians I offended. But there is a very well known musical history phrase “Guido’s Hand”.
Guido was a Benedictine monk born in the last decade of the 10th century. He died between 1033 and 1050. (It didn’t take him 17 years to die – there are differing opinions as to the year of his death.) Guido was the first person to develop musical notation, even developing what is the staff (although his had four lines and ours has five) and notes on the staff, and ledger lines for notes above and below the staff. He also used the hand to teach notes and scales, with the tips of the fingers corresponding to the top line of the staff and the lowest joint on the finger corresponding to the lowest line on the staff. He even developed words for the series of notes in a scale, deriving them from a hymn written a couple of centuries earlier. Like the song Do-Re-Mi from “The Sound of Music”, each line begins on a new note in the scale, the first syllables of each line being (in Latin) Ut, Re, Mi, Fa, Sol, La, and Sanc. By the 20th Century the Ut was changed to Do and the Sanc to Ti.
What does all this have to do with gamut? In the 1520s, the Middle Latin phrase that referred to the lowest note in the scale, Ut, was gamma ut. Its contraction formed the word gamut, and a century later the word gamut came to refer to the entire scale or range of any string of items, not just the lowest note in a scale.
And now we've done the ambit of gamut and gambit. But we're out of space, so ambit will have to wait for another day.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Finishing the Alphabet
After the last two posts this blog has a word starting with each of 25 letters in the alphabet. The only letter without one is y. There are a little more than six pages of y words in my dictionary, while x only has two. So to have several x words before a y word goes against mathematical probability. But since this is a word blog rather than a math blog, what does that matter?
To rectify this situation I did something I haven’t done before: looked through the dictionary to find a word to write about. There are a number of proper nouns beginning with Y, so those are eliminated. Then there are other very common words. To find a word that is useful in everyday conversation but not known well left me with no options.
What about a common word that sounds like it might have an interesting etymology? Aha (or Eureka! as the Greeks would – and Archimedes did - say). Yogurt! Well, maybe not the most intriguing etymology, but certainly one of the few words to come to English from the Turkish language. (A phrase that comes from Turkish is chock a block – meaning completely full – and comes from the Turkish words çok kalabalık.)
Yogurt, for those who don’t know, is a dairy product thickened by bacteria. Sound yummy? (Another y word that is also onomatopoetic – see blog of Nov. 17.) Yogurt, according to etymonline.com, came to English in the 1620s and “is a mispronunciation of the Turkish word yogurt, in which the -g- is a ‘soft’ sound, in many dialects closer to an English ‘w.’ The root yog means roughly ‘to condense’ and is related to yogun ‘intense,’ yogush ‘liquify’ (of water vapor), yogur ‘knead.’”
According to Wikipedia, it can be spelled yoğurt or with a tilde over the g (my Word version doesn’t have that option that I could find). Wikipedia also says that it wasn’t until the 20th century that the tilde appeared on the g, and that a few dictionaries don’t include the spelling yogurt. Instead, they have it spelled yoghurt, which is presumed by the Oxford English Dictionary (bow your heads in reverence) to be a better transcription of the sound. Perhaps the English retain the h, but I can’t remember the last time I saw the spelling yoghurt here in America.
So much for yogurt. I have space left, so let me share with you a word I find while searching the y section of the dictionary that should have more use: zaftig.
Zaftig is a Yiddish word that means tasty or yummy, although my dictionary uses the words juicy and succulent. But its use in English changed to refer only to the shapeliness of the female form. (My dictionary says “full, shapely form”.) Etymonline uses the words “alluringly, plump, curvaceous, buxom” and says that it came to English in 1937, although it doesn’t cite the source. According to http://podictionary.com/?p=1092 it first appeared in a book written by Meyer Levin called “The Old Bunch”. The podictionary episode also suggests that there are only about 200 commonly used words that came to English from Yiddish, which is about 198 more than came from Turkish.
So, enjoy a yogurt with a zaftig woman today.
To rectify this situation I did something I haven’t done before: looked through the dictionary to find a word to write about. There are a number of proper nouns beginning with Y, so those are eliminated. Then there are other very common words. To find a word that is useful in everyday conversation but not known well left me with no options.
What about a common word that sounds like it might have an interesting etymology? Aha (or Eureka! as the Greeks would – and Archimedes did - say). Yogurt! Well, maybe not the most intriguing etymology, but certainly one of the few words to come to English from the Turkish language. (A phrase that comes from Turkish is chock a block – meaning completely full – and comes from the Turkish words çok kalabalık.)
Yogurt, for those who don’t know, is a dairy product thickened by bacteria. Sound yummy? (Another y word that is also onomatopoetic – see blog of Nov. 17.) Yogurt, according to etymonline.com, came to English in the 1620s and “is a mispronunciation of the Turkish word yogurt, in which the -g- is a ‘soft’ sound, in many dialects closer to an English ‘w.’ The root yog means roughly ‘to condense’ and is related to yogun ‘intense,’ yogush ‘liquify’ (of water vapor), yogur ‘knead.’”
According to Wikipedia, it can be spelled yoğurt or with a tilde over the g (my Word version doesn’t have that option that I could find). Wikipedia also says that it wasn’t until the 20th century that the tilde appeared on the g, and that a few dictionaries don’t include the spelling yogurt. Instead, they have it spelled yoghurt, which is presumed by the Oxford English Dictionary (bow your heads in reverence) to be a better transcription of the sound. Perhaps the English retain the h, but I can’t remember the last time I saw the spelling yoghurt here in America.
So much for yogurt. I have space left, so let me share with you a word I find while searching the y section of the dictionary that should have more use: zaftig.
Zaftig is a Yiddish word that means tasty or yummy, although my dictionary uses the words juicy and succulent. But its use in English changed to refer only to the shapeliness of the female form. (My dictionary says “full, shapely form”.) Etymonline uses the words “alluringly, plump, curvaceous, buxom” and says that it came to English in 1937, although it doesn’t cite the source. According to http://podictionary.com/?p=1092 it first appeared in a book written by Meyer Levin called “The Old Bunch”. The podictionary episode also suggests that there are only about 200 commonly used words that came to English from Yiddish, which is about 198 more than came from Turkish.
So, enjoy a yogurt with a zaftig woman today.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
OZ Again
I realized, in trying to decide what words to blog about today, that I have waiting in line (queue for my British friends, “on” line for those in New York) that I have a very unusual coincidence. Wednesday’s words began with o and z, and I have another set of o and z words waiting for exposition. The very unusual thing about it is that zeugma was the first word beginning with the letter z (zed in Britain) that I’ve expounded upon. So, to have two in two successful blogs doubles the uniqueness of the situation.
So what are the words? Words that should be more familiar in Modesto (and Napa and France) than they probably are: oenophile and zymurgy.
An oenophile (pronounced ee – nuh – fahyl) is a person who loves wines, usually as a connoisseur (see blog of Nov. 14). The –phile suffix we covered in the blog of June 16, which only leaves us with the oeno- to discover. Etymonline.com says that the word itself was coined in the 1930s (after prohibition ended and at the time when Ernest and Julio Gallo started making wine in Modesto for worldwide enjoyment). It used the Greek word for wine, oinos, which had been used since 1894 in the word oenology, which my dictionary says is an alternate spelling of enology, the science or study of wine and winemaking. I am assuming (since my brief study of enology – the word, not the activity – didn’t reveal how the o was dropped) that since the o is silent it eventually was pruned from the word. Why it was spelled oeno- when the original language has the letter i instead of an e is still a mystery to me. And how it came to be pronounced with the hard e sound instead of the oy sound of the Greek is also lost to my sources. I suppose that the activity distracted students from the etymology. (I’m tempted to use oetymology, but then it would lead to a pronunciation like wet- omology, as opposed to dry- omology, which would be the study of prohibition.)
Before I get too far off the track (it sometimes happens with the over-consumption of wine) let’s look at the word zymurgy. It is the word for the branch (too many vine allusions?) of chemistry that deals with wine-making and brewing. Zymurgy is the last word in many dictionaries, including mine. It was first used in English in 1868 and comes from the combining of the Greek words for leaven (zymo-) and working (-ourgia). The word ourgia comes from ergon, which is also the source of our English words urge and erg.
The word erg coined in 1873 by the British Association for the Advancement of Science to describe the amount of work done by a force one dyne exerted for a distance of one centimeter. It is equal to one gram centimeter-squared per second-squared, which obviously makes it also equal to 100 nanojoules (or ten to the negative seventh power joules).
After all that, I need a drink.
So what are the words? Words that should be more familiar in Modesto (and Napa and France) than they probably are: oenophile and zymurgy.
An oenophile (pronounced ee – nuh – fahyl) is a person who loves wines, usually as a connoisseur (see blog of Nov. 14). The –phile suffix we covered in the blog of June 16, which only leaves us with the oeno- to discover. Etymonline.com says that the word itself was coined in the 1930s (after prohibition ended and at the time when Ernest and Julio Gallo started making wine in Modesto for worldwide enjoyment). It used the Greek word for wine, oinos, which had been used since 1894 in the word oenology, which my dictionary says is an alternate spelling of enology, the science or study of wine and winemaking. I am assuming (since my brief study of enology – the word, not the activity – didn’t reveal how the o was dropped) that since the o is silent it eventually was pruned from the word. Why it was spelled oeno- when the original language has the letter i instead of an e is still a mystery to me. And how it came to be pronounced with the hard e sound instead of the oy sound of the Greek is also lost to my sources. I suppose that the activity distracted students from the etymology. (I’m tempted to use oetymology, but then it would lead to a pronunciation like wet- omology, as opposed to dry- omology, which would be the study of prohibition.)
Before I get too far off the track (it sometimes happens with the over-consumption of wine) let’s look at the word zymurgy. It is the word for the branch (too many vine allusions?) of chemistry that deals with wine-making and brewing. Zymurgy is the last word in many dictionaries, including mine. It was first used in English in 1868 and comes from the combining of the Greek words for leaven (zymo-) and working (-ourgia). The word ourgia comes from ergon, which is also the source of our English words urge and erg.
The word erg coined in 1873 by the British Association for the Advancement of Science to describe the amount of work done by a force one dyne exerted for a distance of one centimeter. It is equal to one gram centimeter-squared per second-squared, which obviously makes it also equal to 100 nanojoules (or ten to the negative seventh power joules).
After all that, I need a drink.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Long Time Coming
Way back on June 22 I used the word onomatopoetic, then at the end of July I referenced the word onomatopoeia, with the comment “one of these days I’ll get around to that good word.” Today is the day!
I could have included it in the September 29 blog post that was about rhetorical devices, but it was more about William F. Buckley’s words, so it didn’t fit nicely there and I didn’t need to fill the space. But having come across another word that is a figure of speech (and the first word that begins with the letter z to be discussed on this blog) the subject is overdue.
Onomatopoeia (one of the few words in English that ends with four different vowels) is the formation of a word by imitating the natural sound associated with the object or action involved; echoism. For instance, “plop, plop, fizz, fizz” is onomatopoetic. (For those of you under the age of 46, that may be an obscure reference. The reference is to a commercial that appeared before 1965. A good read and explanation is found here.)
The word onomatopoeia first appeared in English in the 1570s. It came through Late Latin from its original Greek where it was spelled only slightly differently, onomatopoiia. In Greek onomatopoiia means “the making of a name or word”. It is derived from the Greek words onoma, name or word, and poiein, compose or make. We also get the word poet from poiein.
The “z” word is zeugma, and is a figure of speech in which a single word, usually a verb or adjective, in syntactically related to two or more words, with only one of which it seems logically connected. My dictionary gives as an example “The room was not light, but his fingers were.” Another example is “wage war and peace.”
Zeugma is only a decade more recent in usage than onomatopoeia, coming to English in the 1580s directly from the Greek. (Why involve those Late Latins? If they’re late, they can find their own words.) The word is derived (and you’ll be glad to find out it didn’t just get adopted in total) from the Greek word zeugnynai, which means “to yoke”. Try spelling that after only one reading.
A zeugma is similar to syllepsis (see the aforementioned Sept. 29 blog), but not identical. According to grammar.about.com “Rhetorician Edward Corbett offers this distinction between zeugma and syllepsis: in zeugma, unlike syllepsis, the single word does not fit grammatically or idiomatically with one member of the pair.” According to Wikipedia, “A syllepsis is a particular kind of zeugma, and there is a clear distinction between the two in classical treatises written on the subject.” You’re welcome to go looking for those classical treatises, but I don’t think you’ll get in trouble for making the wrong distinction. If so, blame me.
It is difficult to find clear examples of each, but my favorite of one or the other is the Alanis Morissette song “Head Over Feet” which has the line “you held your breath and the door for me.”
I could have included it in the September 29 blog post that was about rhetorical devices, but it was more about William F. Buckley’s words, so it didn’t fit nicely there and I didn’t need to fill the space. But having come across another word that is a figure of speech (and the first word that begins with the letter z to be discussed on this blog) the subject is overdue.
Onomatopoeia (one of the few words in English that ends with four different vowels) is the formation of a word by imitating the natural sound associated with the object or action involved; echoism. For instance, “plop, plop, fizz, fizz” is onomatopoetic. (For those of you under the age of 46, that may be an obscure reference. The reference is to a commercial that appeared before 1965. A good read and explanation is found here.)
The word onomatopoeia first appeared in English in the 1570s. It came through Late Latin from its original Greek where it was spelled only slightly differently, onomatopoiia. In Greek onomatopoiia means “the making of a name or word”. It is derived from the Greek words onoma, name or word, and poiein, compose or make. We also get the word poet from poiein.
The “z” word is zeugma, and is a figure of speech in which a single word, usually a verb or adjective, in syntactically related to two or more words, with only one of which it seems logically connected. My dictionary gives as an example “The room was not light, but his fingers were.” Another example is “wage war and peace.”
Zeugma is only a decade more recent in usage than onomatopoeia, coming to English in the 1580s directly from the Greek. (Why involve those Late Latins? If they’re late, they can find their own words.) The word is derived (and you’ll be glad to find out it didn’t just get adopted in total) from the Greek word zeugnynai, which means “to yoke”. Try spelling that after only one reading.
A zeugma is similar to syllepsis (see the aforementioned Sept. 29 blog), but not identical. According to grammar.about.com “Rhetorician Edward Corbett offers this distinction between zeugma and syllepsis: in zeugma, unlike syllepsis, the single word does not fit grammatically or idiomatically with one member of the pair.” According to Wikipedia, “A syllepsis is a particular kind of zeugma, and there is a clear distinction between the two in classical treatises written on the subject.” You’re welcome to go looking for those classical treatises, but I don’t think you’ll get in trouble for making the wrong distinction. If so, blame me.
It is difficult to find clear examples of each, but my favorite of one or the other is the Alanis Morissette song “Head Over Feet” which has the line “you held your breath and the door for me.”
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Now You Know
As I said on Wednesday, it isn’t often that television uses words that are hard to understand. Any hard to understand or deep subject is abstruse. Or, to make sure you understand, abstruse means hard to understand, deep. (Deep is the word my dictionary used. It hardly seems abstruse enough for the definition of abstruse.)
Abstruse appeared in English in the 1590s, either from the Middle French word abstrus, which had come to Middle French in the 16th century, or perhaps directly from the Latin abstrusus, which is the past participle of abstrudere, which means conceal. It literally means “to push away”, because “ab-“ means away and “trudere” means to push or thrust.
Esoteric, for those in the know (the cognoscenti), is an adjective meaning “intended for or understood by only a chosen few, as an inner group of disciples or initiates.” It is used ideas, doctrines, literature, and other similar items. Those ideas, doctrines, literature, etc. are known as esoterica.
Having come to English in the 1650s from the Greek word esoterikos, which means “belonging to an inner circle”, it was originally associated with the mystic Pythagorean philosophic doctrines that started to develop about 500 B.C. However, etymonline.com says “according to Lucian, the division of teachings into exoteric and esoteric originated with Aristotle.” Esoterikos is formed from esotero, which means “more within” (the comparative adverb of eso, which means “within”) and is related to eis, which means “into” and en, which means “in”.
The plural noun esoterica (a Greek or Latin scholar will need to provide the singular form) appeared by 1807 as a Modern Latin form of the Greek word.
The word exoteric is an adjective referring to things external, like “the outside world”. It also is the opposite of esoteric in its application to ideas, etc. “not limited to a select few or an inner group”. It is something suitable for even the uninitiated, or that can be understood by the public or hoi polloi. It is formed by the changing of the prefix from inner (eso-) to outer (exo-). Which makes one wonder why we don’t have words like esoumbilical and exoumbilical, words I have just made up (see blog of 10/24).
A cognoscente, as used above, is a person with special knowledge in some field, especially one of the fine arts. The plural is cognoscenti. It has a sense of inside knowledge that the word expert doesn’t have. Cognoscente (pronounced koe-nyoe-shen-tay by the cognoscenti, the g being silent) is an Italian word adopted into English without spelling change in 1778. In Italian it means connoisseur, and came originally from the Latinized word conoscente, which literally means “knowing man”. It has the same root word, cognoscentum, as our words cognition, cognizant, and, believe it or not, connoisseur.
A connoisseur, by the way, is a person who has expert knowledge and keen discrimination in some field, especially in the fine arts or matters of taste. It came to English in 1714 from the French, who in Modern French spelled it connaiseur. In Old French it was spelled conoisseor, which was a form of their word for “to know”, conoistre. Conoistre came from the verb form of the Latin present participle cognoscentum, the verb form being cognoscere.
In the case of the initiated, all roads lead to Rome. Now you know, but don't tell anyone else.
Abstruse appeared in English in the 1590s, either from the Middle French word abstrus, which had come to Middle French in the 16th century, or perhaps directly from the Latin abstrusus, which is the past participle of abstrudere, which means conceal. It literally means “to push away”, because “ab-“ means away and “trudere” means to push or thrust.
Esoteric, for those in the know (the cognoscenti), is an adjective meaning “intended for or understood by only a chosen few, as an inner group of disciples or initiates.” It is used ideas, doctrines, literature, and other similar items. Those ideas, doctrines, literature, etc. are known as esoterica.
Having come to English in the 1650s from the Greek word esoterikos, which means “belonging to an inner circle”, it was originally associated with the mystic Pythagorean philosophic doctrines that started to develop about 500 B.C. However, etymonline.com says “according to Lucian, the division of teachings into exoteric and esoteric originated with Aristotle.” Esoterikos is formed from esotero, which means “more within” (the comparative adverb of eso, which means “within”) and is related to eis, which means “into” and en, which means “in”.
The plural noun esoterica (a Greek or Latin scholar will need to provide the singular form) appeared by 1807 as a Modern Latin form of the Greek word.
The word exoteric is an adjective referring to things external, like “the outside world”. It also is the opposite of esoteric in its application to ideas, etc. “not limited to a select few or an inner group”. It is something suitable for even the uninitiated, or that can be understood by the public or hoi polloi. It is formed by the changing of the prefix from inner (eso-) to outer (exo-). Which makes one wonder why we don’t have words like esoumbilical and exoumbilical, words I have just made up (see blog of 10/24).
A cognoscente, as used above, is a person with special knowledge in some field, especially one of the fine arts. The plural is cognoscenti. It has a sense of inside knowledge that the word expert doesn’t have. Cognoscente (pronounced koe-nyoe-shen-tay by the cognoscenti, the g being silent) is an Italian word adopted into English without spelling change in 1778. In Italian it means connoisseur, and came originally from the Latinized word conoscente, which literally means “knowing man”. It has the same root word, cognoscentum, as our words cognition, cognizant, and, believe it or not, connoisseur.
A connoisseur, by the way, is a person who has expert knowledge and keen discrimination in some field, especially in the fine arts or matters of taste. It came to English in 1714 from the French, who in Modern French spelled it connaiseur. In Old French it was spelled conoisseor, which was a form of their word for “to know”, conoistre. Conoistre came from the verb form of the Latin present participle cognoscentum, the verb form being cognoscere.
In the case of the initiated, all roads lead to Rome. Now you know, but don't tell anyone else.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Television Words
Most of the times, words come from my reading, but on rare occasions there is a word on television that attracts my attention, and even rarer on network television.
Incredibly, the show Two and a Half Men, a popular situation comedy that has degenerated into a puerile (and less humorous) show about sex and drugs, provided one of the words this week. A pedantic girlfriend of Alan’s teenage son Jake uses the word puerile, a surprisingly appropriate insertion into the script.
Puerile comes originally from the Latin word for boy, puer, and came to English from the French in the 1660s. The Latin word puerilis, meaning childlike, was (according to my dictionary) formed into the French word puéril. It was a short 20 years before the English word childlike developed the meaning of immature, juvenile or childish.
Another word, from the cancelled CBS show Numbers (now in reruns on cable), is constantly used by the central character in the series, Charlie Eppes. Charlie is a mathematician who often uses algorithms to solve cases for his FBI agent brother.
Algorithm is a mathematical term that my dictionary defines as “any special method of solving a certain kind of problem; specifically, the repetitive calculations used in finding the greatest common divisor of two numbers”, which is called Euclid’s algorithm. According to my dictionary, it is an altered form “(after ARITHMETIC) of algorism. An algorism isn’t something Al Gore said, it’s “the Arabic system of numerals; decimal system of counting, or the act or skill of computing with any kind of numerals.”
It came to English in the 1690s from the Middle English algorithme (those Middle English dolts are the ones who confused it with arithmetic) and the Old French word algorisme, which came from the Middle Latin word algorismus, which was formed (etymonline.com calls it a “mangled transliteration”) from the Arabic al-Khowarazmi, which literally means a native of Khwarazm, which of course you know is related to the surname of the 9th century “Baghdad mathematician Abu Ja'far Muhammad ibn Musa al-Khwarizmi…[who wrote the] famous treatise on equations ("Kitab al-Jabr w'al-Muqabala" "Rules of Reintegration and Reduction"), which also introduced Arabic numerals to the West.” Boy, what a knee-slapper of a treatise that was!
One other word I’ve heard on television, albeit from political commentators who are allowed to use bigger words, is iconoclast. An iconoclast was originally anyone who opposed the religious use of images or advocated the destruction of such images, specifically a member of the group in the Orthodox Eastern Church in the 8th and 9th centuries who denounced the use of icons. Later it was used of the 16th and 17th century Protestants in the Netherlands who vandalized Catholic churches and destroyed their icons. It has since broadened its meaning to refer to a person who attacks or ridicules traditional or venerated institutions or ideas regarded by him as erroneous or based on superstition.
The word came to English in the 1590s from the French word iconoclaste, which they took from the Middle Latin word iconoclastes, which they got from the Late Greek word (or was it Middle Greek? The jury’s out.) eikonoklastes, formed from the Greek words for image (eikonos) and breaker (klastes). So while it passed through multiple languages, the idea of an iconoclast being an image breaker remains intact, something that can’t be said for many images.
Who knew that television could provide such esoteric, recondite, and abstruse information?
Incredibly, the show Two and a Half Men, a popular situation comedy that has degenerated into a puerile (and less humorous) show about sex and drugs, provided one of the words this week. A pedantic girlfriend of Alan’s teenage son Jake uses the word puerile, a surprisingly appropriate insertion into the script.
Puerile comes originally from the Latin word for boy, puer, and came to English from the French in the 1660s. The Latin word puerilis, meaning childlike, was (according to my dictionary) formed into the French word puéril. It was a short 20 years before the English word childlike developed the meaning of immature, juvenile or childish.
Another word, from the cancelled CBS show Numbers (now in reruns on cable), is constantly used by the central character in the series, Charlie Eppes. Charlie is a mathematician who often uses algorithms to solve cases for his FBI agent brother.
Algorithm is a mathematical term that my dictionary defines as “any special method of solving a certain kind of problem; specifically, the repetitive calculations used in finding the greatest common divisor of two numbers”, which is called Euclid’s algorithm. According to my dictionary, it is an altered form “(after ARITHMETIC) of algorism. An algorism isn’t something Al Gore said, it’s “the Arabic system of numerals; decimal system of counting, or the act or skill of computing with any kind of numerals.”
It came to English in the 1690s from the Middle English algorithme (those Middle English dolts are the ones who confused it with arithmetic) and the Old French word algorisme, which came from the Middle Latin word algorismus, which was formed (etymonline.com calls it a “mangled transliteration”) from the Arabic al-Khowarazmi, which literally means a native of Khwarazm, which of course you know is related to the surname of the 9th century “Baghdad mathematician Abu Ja'far Muhammad ibn Musa al-Khwarizmi…[who wrote the] famous treatise on equations ("Kitab al-Jabr w'al-Muqabala" "Rules of Reintegration and Reduction"), which also introduced Arabic numerals to the West.” Boy, what a knee-slapper of a treatise that was!
One other word I’ve heard on television, albeit from political commentators who are allowed to use bigger words, is iconoclast. An iconoclast was originally anyone who opposed the religious use of images or advocated the destruction of such images, specifically a member of the group in the Orthodox Eastern Church in the 8th and 9th centuries who denounced the use of icons. Later it was used of the 16th and 17th century Protestants in the Netherlands who vandalized Catholic churches and destroyed their icons. It has since broadened its meaning to refer to a person who attacks or ridicules traditional or venerated institutions or ideas regarded by him as erroneous or based on superstition.
The word came to English in the 1590s from the French word iconoclaste, which they took from the Middle Latin word iconoclastes, which they got from the Late Greek word (or was it Middle Greek? The jury’s out.) eikonoklastes, formed from the Greek words for image (eikonos) and breaker (klastes). So while it passed through multiple languages, the idea of an iconoclast being an image breaker remains intact, something that can’t be said for many images.
Who knew that television could provide such esoteric, recondite, and abstruse information?
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Short Words Found En Route
As I’ve written before, sometimes I see a word when I’m looking for another word, and keep track of the word for future blogging. Today’s short words are some of those.
I was probably looking up the word obfuscate or obloquy when I saw a word I’ve seen only in crossword puzzles, and another word above it I’d never seen: obi and obeah. These are actually two spellings for the same word, which in my dictionary is listed under obeah. Obeah is the form of witchcraft or magic by some in Africa and also in parts of the American South and in the West Indies. It is also the name of the talisman used in this witchcraft. Beyond being of West African origin, and coming to the U.S. with the slave trade in about 1760, there is no more certain etymology. It is comparable to the Efik word ubio (Efik is the language of southern Nigeria) which refers to a thing or mixture used as a charm to cause sickness or death.
A talisman, as used in the previous paragraph, is anything supposed to have magic power, although its primary definition is something like a ring or stone that has engraved figures on it, and is supposed to bring good luck or keep evil away. The word talisman is very much a product of the wars of the middle ages. Originally coming from the Greek word telesma used during the Byzantine Empire, the word became the Arabic word tilsam with the plural form tilsaman and was likely adopted by the Arabs during the Byzantine-Arab wars that occurred between the 7th and 12th centuries. It eventually entered French where it received the spelling we use and then was adopted into English in the 1630s.
Another word found on the way to another word is the word eft, which I noticed when looking up the word effete. Another common word in crossword puzzles, eft is like obi in that my dictionary says it is the same as newt. So why do we have two words so dissimilarly spelled with the same meaning? Usually it’s that they have sources from different languages but in this case it can be chalked up more to illiteracy or poor diction. Both words refer to any of the various small salamanders that can live on land or in water. (Some Democrats find this significant when referring to former Speaker of the House Newton Leroy “Newt” Gingrich.)
Eft comes from the Old English word variously spelled efte or efeta and is otherwise of unknown origin. But when you look at newt you find out that it is a mis-division of the phrase “an ewte” into "a newt" that occurred in the early 15th century. The word ewte came from the Middle English word evete, which to me is eerily similar to efeta. I can easily imagine the references to salamanders as an eft or an ewte, which would not have been a phrase used often, easily taking different paths with different accents and giving us two different words. Unfortunately, it’s not something of which we have evidence now.
So, short words are not easier to etymologize than long words. But they can still take us around the world searching for their origins.
I was probably looking up the word obfuscate or obloquy when I saw a word I’ve seen only in crossword puzzles, and another word above it I’d never seen: obi and obeah. These are actually two spellings for the same word, which in my dictionary is listed under obeah. Obeah is the form of witchcraft or magic by some in Africa and also in parts of the American South and in the West Indies. It is also the name of the talisman used in this witchcraft. Beyond being of West African origin, and coming to the U.S. with the slave trade in about 1760, there is no more certain etymology. It is comparable to the Efik word ubio (Efik is the language of southern Nigeria) which refers to a thing or mixture used as a charm to cause sickness or death.
A talisman, as used in the previous paragraph, is anything supposed to have magic power, although its primary definition is something like a ring or stone that has engraved figures on it, and is supposed to bring good luck or keep evil away. The word talisman is very much a product of the wars of the middle ages. Originally coming from the Greek word telesma used during the Byzantine Empire, the word became the Arabic word tilsam with the plural form tilsaman and was likely adopted by the Arabs during the Byzantine-Arab wars that occurred between the 7th and 12th centuries. It eventually entered French where it received the spelling we use and then was adopted into English in the 1630s.
Another word found on the way to another word is the word eft, which I noticed when looking up the word effete. Another common word in crossword puzzles, eft is like obi in that my dictionary says it is the same as newt. So why do we have two words so dissimilarly spelled with the same meaning? Usually it’s that they have sources from different languages but in this case it can be chalked up more to illiteracy or poor diction. Both words refer to any of the various small salamanders that can live on land or in water. (Some Democrats find this significant when referring to former Speaker of the House Newton Leroy “Newt” Gingrich.)
Eft comes from the Old English word variously spelled efte or efeta and is otherwise of unknown origin. But when you look at newt you find out that it is a mis-division of the phrase “an ewte” into "a newt" that occurred in the early 15th century. The word ewte came from the Middle English word evete, which to me is eerily similar to efeta. I can easily imagine the references to salamanders as an eft or an ewte, which would not have been a phrase used often, easily taking different paths with different accents and giving us two different words. Unfortunately, it’s not something of which we have evidence now.
So, short words are not easier to etymologize than long words. But they can still take us around the world searching for their origins.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Republicans and the San Francisco Giants
In light of last night’s election, in which many House seats changed parties (the exact number is still to be determined as I write), a couple of words come to mind. But since I brought up the degree of change, which is more than in any election since 1948, it doesn’t hurt to look at history. In 1948 the Democrats won 75 seats to take the house from the Republicans in the same surprising election that elected Harry S. Truman as President. In 1932 the Democrats had had an even bigger win, when they took 97 seats in the wave that elected Franklin D. Roosevelt and sent a message to the Republicans and Herbert Hoover. But even that pales in comparison to the election of 1894, when Republicans picked up 130 seats to go from a 124-218 minority to a 254-93 majority.
But this isn’t a blog about politics or elections, it’s a blog about words. What words did this election bring to mind? Hegemony and suzerainty.
With the word suzerainty we are treated to one of what I think is a lexicographer’s joke of a definition: “the position or power of a suzerain.” Ha, ha! Made you look! What’s a suzerain? A feudal lord, or a state in it relation to a semiautonomous state over which it exercises political control. So, while the Republicans took control of the House of Representatives last night, that is only one-half of control of the legislative branch of the government, which is only one of three branches of our government. The Republicans have new political power now in 1/6 of the government. (Or in an additional 1/6 of the government if you feel they have control of the Supreme Court.)
Suzerain is a word that came to English in the 15th century from Old French. The Old French word came from Latin, from sursum, which means upward or above, and vertere, which means a turning, and from which we get words such as verse or versus. Sursum, by the way, is a contraction of subversum (up from below). The French added the suffix from souverain, from which we get the word sovereign.
Sovereign (you’ll love this upcoming Latin word) came to English in the 13th century from that Old French word mentioned above (etymonline.com leaves out the v in souverain, with the explanation that Milton spelled it souran, as though it came from the Italian sourano). The Vulgar Latin word from which it came to Old French is superanus, and does not refer to a body part, even though some rulers would seem to warrant that description. Superanus is the Vulgar Latin word for chief or principal, and the super refers to having authority over others, a meaning that remains as the definition of sovereign. (Vulgar doesn’t mean the same in reference to Latin as it does in common usage now. In fact, it refers to common, spoken usage as opposed to literary language.)
The other word which came to mind, hegemony, is one of only four words in my dictionary that begin with heg- that are not proper nouns or an adjective of the proper noun. Hegemony means leadership or dominance, especially of one state or nation over others. (I dubbed my team in fantasy baseball the Hegemons. We made the playoffs but weren’t as hegemonic as the SF Giants, who are World Champions!)
Hegemony comes from the Greek word hegemonia, which means leadership. The word hegemony dates from the 1560s, and by the 1650s had spawned the adjectival form hegemonic. It wasn’t until 1904, however, that the form hegemon appeared in Enlgish. In my dictionary, only hegemony and hegemonic are given.
So now you know what the Republicans and SF Giants have in common.
But this isn’t a blog about politics or elections, it’s a blog about words. What words did this election bring to mind? Hegemony and suzerainty.
With the word suzerainty we are treated to one of what I think is a lexicographer’s joke of a definition: “the position or power of a suzerain.” Ha, ha! Made you look! What’s a suzerain? A feudal lord, or a state in it relation to a semiautonomous state over which it exercises political control. So, while the Republicans took control of the House of Representatives last night, that is only one-half of control of the legislative branch of the government, which is only one of three branches of our government. The Republicans have new political power now in 1/6 of the government. (Or in an additional 1/6 of the government if you feel they have control of the Supreme Court.)
Suzerain is a word that came to English in the 15th century from Old French. The Old French word came from Latin, from sursum, which means upward or above, and vertere, which means a turning, and from which we get words such as verse or versus. Sursum, by the way, is a contraction of subversum (up from below). The French added the suffix from souverain, from which we get the word sovereign.
Sovereign (you’ll love this upcoming Latin word) came to English in the 13th century from that Old French word mentioned above (etymonline.com leaves out the v in souverain, with the explanation that Milton spelled it souran, as though it came from the Italian sourano). The Vulgar Latin word from which it came to Old French is superanus, and does not refer to a body part, even though some rulers would seem to warrant that description. Superanus is the Vulgar Latin word for chief or principal, and the super refers to having authority over others, a meaning that remains as the definition of sovereign. (Vulgar doesn’t mean the same in reference to Latin as it does in common usage now. In fact, it refers to common, spoken usage as opposed to literary language.)
The other word which came to mind, hegemony, is one of only four words in my dictionary that begin with heg- that are not proper nouns or an adjective of the proper noun. Hegemony means leadership or dominance, especially of one state or nation over others. (I dubbed my team in fantasy baseball the Hegemons. We made the playoffs but weren’t as hegemonic as the SF Giants, who are World Champions!)
Hegemony comes from the Greek word hegemonia, which means leadership. The word hegemony dates from the 1560s, and by the 1650s had spawned the adjectival form hegemonic. It wasn’t until 1904, however, that the form hegemon appeared in Enlgish. In my dictionary, only hegemony and hegemonic are given.
So now you know what the Republicans and SF Giants have in common.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Happy Halloween!
Today is Halloween, and an appropriate time to look at why we have so many words like ghost, specter, wraith, poltergeist, spook, and apparition.
Ghost is the word with the most etymology. We know it comes from the Old English word gast, which means “soul, spirit, breath, or life”. There are a lot of possible sources for gast, including the Proto-Germanic word ghoizdoz (which explains the Old Saxon word gest, the Middle Dutch word geest, and the German geist) and the Proto-Indo-European base ghois, which means to be excited or frightened.
The Old English word came to prominence as the Biblical translation of the Latin word spiritus, often used to refer to the Holy Spirit (Holy Ghost). By the end of the 14th century the word came to be used for a disembodied spirit. Most Indo-European words for spirit also refer to supernatural entities. Many have a sense of “appearance” (Greek phantasma, French spectre, etc.)
The gh- spelling was added in the early 15th century. It was probably influenced by the aforementioned Middle Dutch (and Flemish) word gheest. But it was rarely spelled with the gh- beginning until the mid-15th century. Various phrases have attached the word ghost to describe the subject, like ghost writing and ghost town (ghost town was coined in 1931).
The Greek word phantasma, two paragraphs ago, is the source of our word phantom, which came to English in about 1300, when it was spelled fantum, because the Old French word from which it came directly was fantesme. It took 200 years for the spelling to return to the Greek ph- rather than the French f- (for political reasons, I'm guessing.) Phantom has a sense of illusion that ghost doesn’t convey.
The word wraith was next to arrive, in the 1510s. It is Scottish, but beyond that its origin is unknown. It is defined as an apparition of a living person, portending his or her death. (Remember the Dickens story A Christmas Carol?)
A decade later, in the 1520s, is when apparition appeared. Apparition has a sense of supernatural rather than illusion. There was an Anglo-French word aparicion, which came from the Old French word apparition. The word originally referred to the revealing of the Christ Child to the Wise Men (called the Epiphany) and didn’t get the connotation of ghost until about 1600.
As mentioned above, the French gave us the word specter in about 1600, when it was spelled spectre. The word specter has a connotation of a fearful appearance of a spirit (as opposed to a ghost which may not be visible). The French word refers to an image, figure or ghost. The French got the word from the Latin word spectrum, which means appearance, vision, or apparition.
The word spook appeared in English in 1801. It has a sense of scare, and came from the Dutch word spook, which came from the Middle Dutch spelling spooc, from the German word Spuk, which means ghost or apparition. In Middle Low German it was spelled spok, the same spelling as the Swedish word for scarecrow. Norwegians spelled it with a j: spjok. (Go fjigure.)
Poltergeist came to English in 1838 from German. Literally translated, poltergeist means noisy ghost. (Poltern means make noise or rattle.)
So if you can see the spirit, it will be a phantom, wraith, apparition, specter or spook, and perhaps ghost. But a ghost might not be visible and a poltergeist will only be heard. And none of them involve a sheet with holes in it. So if you see someone in a sheet, it’s not a real ghost, it’s a trick-or-treater.
Ghost is the word with the most etymology. We know it comes from the Old English word gast, which means “soul, spirit, breath, or life”. There are a lot of possible sources for gast, including the Proto-Germanic word ghoizdoz (which explains the Old Saxon word gest, the Middle Dutch word geest, and the German geist) and the Proto-Indo-European base ghois, which means to be excited or frightened.
The Old English word came to prominence as the Biblical translation of the Latin word spiritus, often used to refer to the Holy Spirit (Holy Ghost). By the end of the 14th century the word came to be used for a disembodied spirit. Most Indo-European words for spirit also refer to supernatural entities. Many have a sense of “appearance” (Greek phantasma, French spectre, etc.)
The gh- spelling was added in the early 15th century. It was probably influenced by the aforementioned Middle Dutch (and Flemish) word gheest. But it was rarely spelled with the gh- beginning until the mid-15th century. Various phrases have attached the word ghost to describe the subject, like ghost writing and ghost town (ghost town was coined in 1931).
The Greek word phantasma, two paragraphs ago, is the source of our word phantom, which came to English in about 1300, when it was spelled fantum, because the Old French word from which it came directly was fantesme. It took 200 years for the spelling to return to the Greek ph- rather than the French f- (for political reasons, I'm guessing.) Phantom has a sense of illusion that ghost doesn’t convey.
The word wraith was next to arrive, in the 1510s. It is Scottish, but beyond that its origin is unknown. It is defined as an apparition of a living person, portending his or her death. (Remember the Dickens story A Christmas Carol?)
A decade later, in the 1520s, is when apparition appeared. Apparition has a sense of supernatural rather than illusion. There was an Anglo-French word aparicion, which came from the Old French word apparition. The word originally referred to the revealing of the Christ Child to the Wise Men (called the Epiphany) and didn’t get the connotation of ghost until about 1600.
As mentioned above, the French gave us the word specter in about 1600, when it was spelled spectre. The word specter has a connotation of a fearful appearance of a spirit (as opposed to a ghost which may not be visible). The French word refers to an image, figure or ghost. The French got the word from the Latin word spectrum, which means appearance, vision, or apparition.
The word spook appeared in English in 1801. It has a sense of scare, and came from the Dutch word spook, which came from the Middle Dutch spelling spooc, from the German word Spuk, which means ghost or apparition. In Middle Low German it was spelled spok, the same spelling as the Swedish word for scarecrow. Norwegians spelled it with a j: spjok. (Go fjigure.)
Poltergeist came to English in 1838 from German. Literally translated, poltergeist means noisy ghost. (Poltern means make noise or rattle.)
So if you can see the spirit, it will be a phantom, wraith, apparition, specter or spook, and perhaps ghost. But a ghost might not be visible and a poltergeist will only be heard. And none of them involve a sheet with holes in it. So if you see someone in a sheet, it’s not a real ghost, it’s a trick-or-treater.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Ya Know?
I am not famous. I’m not even infamous. If you think in terms of the two words, you won’t conflate fame with infamy. Fame is “the state of being well-known or talked about; renown.” Not that you didn’t know that. Its definition uses renown as a synonym, which always leads me to ask why we have two words for the same thing.
Renown is defined as “great fame or reputation; celebrity.” It originally was a superlative word for fame. I’ve tried to spell it reknown, but its etymology belies that spelling. It came to English in about 1300 from Anglo-French (my dictionary says Middle English then Anglo-French, but they’re conducing the verb used in Middle English to the noun form), where the word is renoun. In Old French it was renom, a form of renommer, which means to name again and is formed from the Latin prefix re- (meaning the same as our prefix re-) and nominare or nomen, which means name.
Fame also came to English in about 1300 from the Old French, based on the Latin word fama, which means “talk, rumor, or reputation.”
But there is a difference between renown and infamy.
Infamy has a very negative connotation. It is the opposite of fame (hence the in- prefix – see Dec. 26, 2009 blog). To say someone is “infamous” for a good thing is the wrong use of the word. It may seem to be a superlative, but it’s not – renowned is the word you’re looking for. My dictionary defines infamy as “very bad reputation, disgrace, dishonor, notoriety.”
So on a spectrum of being well-known, with bad reputation being first, the words would be: infamy, fame, renown. In common usage, renown and fame no longer have the relationship defined above. They are now more commonly used with renown referring to someone who has become known for a positive contribution to society, whereas fame is attached to celebrity, where the reputation is based merely on public awareness of the individual.
(I’ve used two words in the above portion of today’s blog that I have previously addressed: conflate and conduce. They are also sometimes misused. I explained these words in my June 9 blog.)
It was Andy Warhol who is quoted as saying “In the future, everybody will be world famous for 15 minutes.” The quote became so tied to him that he later tried to change it to “In 15 minutes everybody will be famous.”
It is the different shades of words that provide for me the color to language that is equivalent to the shades an artist gives to a painting. Whether or not that applies to Andy Warhol is for you to determine, but accuracy of use provides better clarity to the final image.
Renown is defined as “great fame or reputation; celebrity.” It originally was a superlative word for fame. I’ve tried to spell it reknown, but its etymology belies that spelling. It came to English in about 1300 from Anglo-French (my dictionary says Middle English then Anglo-French, but they’re conducing the verb used in Middle English to the noun form), where the word is renoun. In Old French it was renom, a form of renommer, which means to name again and is formed from the Latin prefix re- (meaning the same as our prefix re-) and nominare or nomen, which means name.
Fame also came to English in about 1300 from the Old French, based on the Latin word fama, which means “talk, rumor, or reputation.”
But there is a difference between renown and infamy.
Infamy has a very negative connotation. It is the opposite of fame (hence the in- prefix – see Dec. 26, 2009 blog). To say someone is “infamous” for a good thing is the wrong use of the word. It may seem to be a superlative, but it’s not – renowned is the word you’re looking for. My dictionary defines infamy as “very bad reputation, disgrace, dishonor, notoriety.”
So on a spectrum of being well-known, with bad reputation being first, the words would be: infamy, fame, renown. In common usage, renown and fame no longer have the relationship defined above. They are now more commonly used with renown referring to someone who has become known for a positive contribution to society, whereas fame is attached to celebrity, where the reputation is based merely on public awareness of the individual.
(I’ve used two words in the above portion of today’s blog that I have previously addressed: conflate and conduce. They are also sometimes misused. I explained these words in my June 9 blog.)
It was Andy Warhol who is quoted as saying “In the future, everybody will be world famous for 15 minutes.” The quote became so tied to him that he later tried to change it to “In 15 minutes everybody will be famous.”
It is the different shades of words that provide for me the color to language that is equivalent to the shades an artist gives to a painting. Whether or not that applies to Andy Warhol is for you to determine, but accuracy of use provides better clarity to the final image.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Non-Skeptical Omphaloskepsism
So, what have I been doing for the last couple of weeks? I have definitely not been busy with omphaloskepsism (see 7/28 blog). Several things have been going on (an event on the 14th, an event on the 21st, and an event on the 22nd). And on the 12th I came down with some malady that has been both low-level and long-lasting. Not sick enough to feel missing the events was unavoidable, so never having enough time I can take off to get fully healthy. Navel-gazing would have been welcome.
Speaking of navels, how did we end up with two words spelled very much alike and yet very different in meaning? The word navel (with an e) is defined as “the small scar, usually a depression in the middle of the abdomen, marking the place where the umbilical cord was attached to the fetus.” I didn’t realize most people have “innies”. So a little research was warranted. According to chacha.com 90% of the population have “innies.” I found numerous other references, but the only source ever cited was chacha.com.
In researching this important item, I encountered a report of a survey (at http://www.abc.net.au/science/k2/lint/results.htm) that, based on 4799 respondents, 66% of whom had belly button lint, 96% of those with belly button lint have an “innie”.
Where did the word navel come from? It appeared in Middle English having come from the Old English word nafela, which my dictionary says is “akin” to the Greek word nabel. According to etymonline.com, nafela is presumed to come from the Proto-Germanic word nabalan, and it bases that presumption on the existence in other Germanic languages of similar words (comparing the Old Norse nafli, the Old Frisian navla, the Middle Dutch navel, the Old High German nabalo, and the German nabel). Which leads to the question, what is Old Frisian? Old Frisian is a language akin to English that was spoken on the North Sea coast of modern Netherlands and Germany before 1500. If that’s not enough, etymonline continues a lengthy exposition on navels with the fact that it was “Considered a feminine sexual center since ancient times, and still in parts of the Middle East, India, and Japan. Even in medieval Europe, it was averred that ‘[t]he seat of wantonness in women is the navel.’ [Cambridge bestiary, C.U.L. ii.4.26]”
I think that’s as far as I want to look into navels. Where did the word naval come from and why is it so similar?
The word naval, defined as of, having, characteristic of, or for a navy, its ships, personnel, etc., comes from the Latin. In French the word is naval, and in Latin it is navalis, from the Latin word navis, which is the word for a ship in Latin. Disagreeably ignoring the French, etymonline.com says naval came directly from the Latin around 1600.
Short and simple for naval. Interestingly, since I have a few words, navis is also the root for the word nave, which refers to that part of a church which is between the side aisles and extends from the chancel to the principal entrance, forming the main part of the building. Nave came to English from Latin through either Spanish or Italian. Its path is uncertain, but its first us isn’t: 1673. Apparently a church built in 1673 resembled a ship.
Enough nave or naval or navel gazing for one day.
Speaking of navels, how did we end up with two words spelled very much alike and yet very different in meaning? The word navel (with an e) is defined as “the small scar, usually a depression in the middle of the abdomen, marking the place where the umbilical cord was attached to the fetus.” I didn’t realize most people have “innies”. So a little research was warranted. According to chacha.com 90% of the population have “innies.” I found numerous other references, but the only source ever cited was chacha.com.
In researching this important item, I encountered a report of a survey (at http://www.abc.net.au/science/k2/lint/results.htm) that, based on 4799 respondents, 66% of whom had belly button lint, 96% of those with belly button lint have an “innie”.
Where did the word navel come from? It appeared in Middle English having come from the Old English word nafela, which my dictionary says is “akin” to the Greek word nabel. According to etymonline.com, nafela is presumed to come from the Proto-Germanic word nabalan, and it bases that presumption on the existence in other Germanic languages of similar words (comparing the Old Norse nafli, the Old Frisian navla, the Middle Dutch navel, the Old High German nabalo, and the German nabel). Which leads to the question, what is Old Frisian? Old Frisian is a language akin to English that was spoken on the North Sea coast of modern Netherlands and Germany before 1500. If that’s not enough, etymonline continues a lengthy exposition on navels with the fact that it was “Considered a feminine sexual center since ancient times, and still in parts of the Middle East, India, and Japan. Even in medieval Europe, it was averred that ‘[t]he seat of wantonness in women is the navel.’ [Cambridge bestiary, C.U.L. ii.4.26]”
I think that’s as far as I want to look into navels. Where did the word naval come from and why is it so similar?
The word naval, defined as of, having, characteristic of, or for a navy, its ships, personnel, etc., comes from the Latin. In French the word is naval, and in Latin it is navalis, from the Latin word navis, which is the word for a ship in Latin. Disagreeably ignoring the French, etymonline.com says naval came directly from the Latin around 1600.
Short and simple for naval. Interestingly, since I have a few words, navis is also the root for the word nave, which refers to that part of a church which is between the side aisles and extends from the chancel to the principal entrance, forming the main part of the building. Nave came to English from Latin through either Spanish or Italian. Its path is uncertain, but its first us isn’t: 1673. Apparently a church built in 1673 resembled a ship.
Enough nave or naval or navel gazing for one day.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Back From Vacation, Part 2
Effete came to English in the 1620s directly from the Latin word effetus, which referred to an exhausted, worn out, unproductive womb. It is formed by combining ex-, which means out, and fetus, which means offspring or childbearing. It was originally used in a figurative sense, and by the 1660s meant merely exhausted. By 1790 it had the meaning of an intellectual or moral exhaustion, which led to the meaning of decadent by the 19th century.
Ennui, which should come as no surprise to you is a French word unchanged in its English use, means a weariness and dissatisfaction resulting from inactivity or lack of interest. A synonym would be boredom, but ennui has a sense of dissatisfaction that the word boredom doesn’t. In the 1660s it was adopted into English, as a French word, and by 1758 no longer received the italicization of a foreign word. In Old French the word was enui, which in the 13th century meant “annoyance”. According to etymonline.com it is “a back formation from enuier.” As to its pronunciation, my dictionary gives both English and French pronunciations, the first syllable in French not having an English counterpart. (For those who wonder, it is similar to saying the word “on” through your nose.) Etymonline.com cites the Oxford English Dictionary as stating: “So far as frequency of use is concerned, the word might be regarded as fully naturalized; but the pronunciation has not been anglicized, there being in fact no English analogy which could serve as a guide.”
In both my dictionary and in etymonline.com it says that the French root has a connection to annoy, but I didn’t find it. (I find that annoying.) Perhaps the sense of annoyance that is part of the meaning of ennui in French couldn’t be left unsaid. Or perhaps the annoyance is with the French, who have a certain je ne sais quoi.
There is another famous quote from Spiro (carrying on from Wednesday’s blog), “nattering nabobs of negativism,” which gives us two other words, natter and nabob.
Natter is a verb intransitive, and means to chatter idly, talk at length, or find fault or scold. According to etymonline.com it means to grumble or fret. In 1829 it was a northern English variant of the dialectical word gnatter, which meant to grumble or chatter, and earlier (in the 18th century) meant “to nibble away.” According to my dictionary, it comes from a “Germanic echoic base, whence Old Norse gnata, ‘to crash noisily’ and German knatter, ‘to clatter’.”
Nabobs, as Spiro used the word, are very rich or important people. I’m sure he meant it sarcastically. Nabob’s primary definition is of a native provincial deputy or governor of the old Mogul Empire in India. Its secondary definition is of a European who has become very rich in India, and Spiro’s meaning (I assume) is the tertiary definition, which had evolved from the first and second definitions by 1764. It originally came to English in 1612 from the Hindu word nawwab or nabab, which came from the Arabic word nuwwab, which is the honorific plural form of naib, which means viceroy or deputy.
I appreciate Spiro Agnew’s sense of alliteration, his spirit of allegory, and his seminal artistry in cynical aphorisms. R.I.P.
Ennui, which should come as no surprise to you is a French word unchanged in its English use, means a weariness and dissatisfaction resulting from inactivity or lack of interest. A synonym would be boredom, but ennui has a sense of dissatisfaction that the word boredom doesn’t. In the 1660s it was adopted into English, as a French word, and by 1758 no longer received the italicization of a foreign word. In Old French the word was enui, which in the 13th century meant “annoyance”. According to etymonline.com it is “a back formation from enuier.” As to its pronunciation, my dictionary gives both English and French pronunciations, the first syllable in French not having an English counterpart. (For those who wonder, it is similar to saying the word “on” through your nose.) Etymonline.com cites the Oxford English Dictionary as stating: “So far as frequency of use is concerned, the word might be regarded as fully naturalized; but the pronunciation has not been anglicized, there being in fact no English analogy which could serve as a guide.”
In both my dictionary and in etymonline.com it says that the French root has a connection to annoy, but I didn’t find it. (I find that annoying.) Perhaps the sense of annoyance that is part of the meaning of ennui in French couldn’t be left unsaid. Or perhaps the annoyance is with the French, who have a certain je ne sais quoi.
There is another famous quote from Spiro (carrying on from Wednesday’s blog), “nattering nabobs of negativism,” which gives us two other words, natter and nabob.
Natter is a verb intransitive, and means to chatter idly, talk at length, or find fault or scold. According to etymonline.com it means to grumble or fret. In 1829 it was a northern English variant of the dialectical word gnatter, which meant to grumble or chatter, and earlier (in the 18th century) meant “to nibble away.” According to my dictionary, it comes from a “Germanic echoic base, whence Old Norse gnata, ‘to crash noisily’ and German knatter, ‘to clatter’.”
Nabobs, as Spiro used the word, are very rich or important people. I’m sure he meant it sarcastically. Nabob’s primary definition is of a native provincial deputy or governor of the old Mogul Empire in India. Its secondary definition is of a European who has become very rich in India, and Spiro’s meaning (I assume) is the tertiary definition, which had evolved from the first and second definitions by 1764. It originally came to English in 1612 from the Hindu word nawwab or nabab, which came from the Arabic word nuwwab, which is the honorific plural form of naib, which means viceroy or deputy.
I appreciate Spiro Agnew’s sense of alliteration, his spirit of allegory, and his seminal artistry in cynical aphorisms. R.I.P.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Back from "Vacation" Part 1
I returned a couple of days ago from “vacation”. I took three days vacation from work to attend a conference in Las Vegas. I have since been asked “How was Las Vegas?” and my response has become “I might as well have been in Bakersfield.” That is an overstatement, because I did get to spend about 1 ½ hours playing slots in a casino, and even won enough to pay for pizza.
A working vacation is not much of a vacation, and I find myself suffering from lassitude. I am not effete, but a little ennui sounds very appealing.
Lassitude, which has nothing to do with lassoing anything, is a state or feeling of being tired and listless. Weariness and languor are synonyms, although my dictionary includes them in the definition while listing lethargy as a synonym. When does a defining word become a synonym instead? The raison d’etre of this blog being to differentiate meaning, allow me a little diversion to do so.
Lethargy and lassitude differ in common usage in the following way: lassitude is more generally used in reference to someone who lacks motivation and exhibits tired and listless behavior; it has a slightly negative connotation. Lethargy is a more acceptable term that doesn’t have a connotation of laziness. Weariness is more purely physical in meaning, with lethargy and lassitude being attitudinal. Ennui is a forced and unwelcome inactivity and effete is a worn out inactivity (at least).
Languor, according to etymonline.com, when it came to English in the 1300s from Old French (languor) meant “disease, distress, [and] mental suffering.” In the 1650s the meaning changed to being synonymous with lethargy, and by 1825 came to refer to a “habitual want of energy.” Its Latin root word is also languor.
So, back to lassitude, which has nothing to do with television dogs (Lassie never seemed to have lassitude.) The noun comes to us through French (c’est la vie) from the Latin word lassitudo, which is a form of lassus, which means faint or weary and from which we get the word late, according to my dictionary. According to etymonline.com it actually comes from the Middle French word lassitude, which came not from lassitudo but from lassitudinem, the nominative of which is lassitudo. (Sounds like quibbling to me.) Its first known use in English is in the 1530s.
For many baby boomers, the word effete can’t be used without recalling the words of Nixon’s VP Spiro Agnew, who referred to protesters as “effete…intellectual snobs”. (For a full account of the quote and situation when Spiro uttered those memorable words, see http://www.thisdayinquotes.com/2009/10/spiro-agnew-warns-us-about-effete.html.) Effete is defined as no longer capable of producing; spent and sterile, lacking in vigor and force of character, moral stamina, etc.; decadent, soft, overrefined, etc. It is a VERY good word to use in an insult, and not one most would want to use of themselves.
We’ll get to the more on effete and other lazy and Agnew words on Sunday; I just don’t have the energy to continue with this today.
A working vacation is not much of a vacation, and I find myself suffering from lassitude. I am not effete, but a little ennui sounds very appealing.
Lassitude, which has nothing to do with lassoing anything, is a state or feeling of being tired and listless. Weariness and languor are synonyms, although my dictionary includes them in the definition while listing lethargy as a synonym. When does a defining word become a synonym instead? The raison d’etre of this blog being to differentiate meaning, allow me a little diversion to do so.
Lethargy and lassitude differ in common usage in the following way: lassitude is more generally used in reference to someone who lacks motivation and exhibits tired and listless behavior; it has a slightly negative connotation. Lethargy is a more acceptable term that doesn’t have a connotation of laziness. Weariness is more purely physical in meaning, with lethargy and lassitude being attitudinal. Ennui is a forced and unwelcome inactivity and effete is a worn out inactivity (at least).
Languor, according to etymonline.com, when it came to English in the 1300s from Old French (languor) meant “disease, distress, [and] mental suffering.” In the 1650s the meaning changed to being synonymous with lethargy, and by 1825 came to refer to a “habitual want of energy.” Its Latin root word is also languor.
So, back to lassitude, which has nothing to do with television dogs (Lassie never seemed to have lassitude.) The noun comes to us through French (c’est la vie) from the Latin word lassitudo, which is a form of lassus, which means faint or weary and from which we get the word late, according to my dictionary. According to etymonline.com it actually comes from the Middle French word lassitude, which came not from lassitudo but from lassitudinem, the nominative of which is lassitudo. (Sounds like quibbling to me.) Its first known use in English is in the 1530s.
For many baby boomers, the word effete can’t be used without recalling the words of Nixon’s VP Spiro Agnew, who referred to protesters as “effete…intellectual snobs”. (For a full account of the quote and situation when Spiro uttered those memorable words, see http://www.thisdayinquotes.com/2009/10/spiro-agnew-warns-us-about-effete.html.) Effete is defined as no longer capable of producing; spent and sterile, lacking in vigor and force of character, moral stamina, etc.; decadent, soft, overrefined, etc. It is a VERY good word to use in an insult, and not one most would want to use of themselves.
We’ll get to the more on effete and other lazy and Agnew words on Sunday; I just don’t have the energy to continue with this today.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Sesquipedalian Buckley Part III
Now, we return you to our regular blogging. Buckley used the word velleity – the lowest level of volition. My dictionary has the definitions as: 1. the weakest kind of desire or volition, 2. a mere wish that does not lead to the slightest action. It also says it comes through Middle Latin (velleitas) from the Latin word velle, which means “to wish”. The site www.word-detective.com gives it a negative meaning, to describe a person who only wishes and never acts. It also says that it first appeared in English in the 17th century.
Contumacious – I admit I was surprised to find that I haven’t blogged on this word. It’s a word I use with regularity, and often used when our children were young. It is an adjective meaning obstinately resisting authority, insubordinate, and disobedient. (Any parent can understand why I would find this word useful. It is not only perfectly descriptive, but it can also be instructive and helpful in getting children to use a dictionary.) It is a form of the Latin word contumacia, which came to Middle English as contumacie. Delving into the Latin roots is interesting (at least to me – you may be bored to death by now). Contumacia comes from contumax, which is formed from com- (an intensifying prefix) and tumere, which means “to swell up.” So when a person gets swelled up and keeps swelling, that’s contumacy.
More from Buckley's essay book review:
Supernal – see the July 14 blog. This is the only one in the review excerpt that I’ve already covered.
Psephologist – one who studies election returns. It is also in my dictionary, as psephology, the statistical evaluation of election returns or political polls. The first known use of psephology in English is 1952. According to Wikipedia, historian R.B. McCallum coined the term in the United Kingdom. Its etymology is from Greek, psephos meaning pebble, and logy being a suffix referring to the study of a subject. Why pebble? In ancient Greece elections were done with two different pebbles (now we sometimes use marbles in the same way). According to Sir William Smith in his book “A dictionary of Greek and Roman Antiquities”, the pebbles were placed in a cadiskoi
“when they gave their votes on a trial. There were, in fact, usually two cadiskoi: one, that in which the voting pebble was put; this was made of copper: the other, that in which the other pebble, which had not been used, was put; this was made of wood….The pebbles were distinguished from one another by proper marks….Sometimes, also, the dicasts had only one counter each, and there were two cadiskoi, one for acquitting, the other for condemning.”
As a side note, eventually white pebbles or balls were used as a vote in the affirmative, black ones were a negative vote, using the latter description of voting above. (Hence the origin of the phrase “black-balled”.) Our word ballot comes from the Italian for little ball, the diminutive form of the word balla.
And finally, in our consideration of Buckley’s words as listed in a review of an omnibus of his essays: palinode – an ode or song retracting something in an earlier poem, a formal retraction. This noun is formed starting with the Greek words for “again” – palin (I’m sure you will find a way to use this in reference to Sarah Palin over the next two years) and ode or song – oide. The full Greek word from which we end up at palinode is palinoidia, which by Late Latin was spelled palinodia, then went through Middle French as palinod before getting to English in the 1590s. While some are hoping for Palin Odes, others are looking for Palin palinodes.
And you're probably looking for the end of the blogging on the review of the Buckley book. Congratulations, you've found it!
Contumacious – I admit I was surprised to find that I haven’t blogged on this word. It’s a word I use with regularity, and often used when our children were young. It is an adjective meaning obstinately resisting authority, insubordinate, and disobedient. (Any parent can understand why I would find this word useful. It is not only perfectly descriptive, but it can also be instructive and helpful in getting children to use a dictionary.) It is a form of the Latin word contumacia, which came to Middle English as contumacie. Delving into the Latin roots is interesting (at least to me – you may be bored to death by now). Contumacia comes from contumax, which is formed from com- (an intensifying prefix) and tumere, which means “to swell up.” So when a person gets swelled up and keeps swelling, that’s contumacy.
More from Buckley's essay book review:
Supernal – see the July 14 blog. This is the only one in the review excerpt that I’ve already covered.
Psephologist – one who studies election returns. It is also in my dictionary, as psephology, the statistical evaluation of election returns or political polls. The first known use of psephology in English is 1952. According to Wikipedia, historian R.B. McCallum coined the term in the United Kingdom. Its etymology is from Greek, psephos meaning pebble, and logy being a suffix referring to the study of a subject. Why pebble? In ancient Greece elections were done with two different pebbles (now we sometimes use marbles in the same way). According to Sir William Smith in his book “A dictionary of Greek and Roman Antiquities”, the pebbles were placed in a cadiskoi
“when they gave their votes on a trial. There were, in fact, usually two cadiskoi: one, that in which the voting pebble was put; this was made of copper: the other, that in which the other pebble, which had not been used, was put; this was made of wood….The pebbles were distinguished from one another by proper marks….Sometimes, also, the dicasts had only one counter each, and there were two cadiskoi, one for acquitting, the other for condemning.”
As a side note, eventually white pebbles or balls were used as a vote in the affirmative, black ones were a negative vote, using the latter description of voting above. (Hence the origin of the phrase “black-balled”.) Our word ballot comes from the Italian for little ball, the diminutive form of the word balla.
And finally, in our consideration of Buckley’s words as listed in a review of an omnibus of his essays: palinode – an ode or song retracting something in an earlier poem, a formal retraction. This noun is formed starting with the Greek words for “again” – palin (I’m sure you will find a way to use this in reference to Sarah Palin over the next two years) and ode or song – oide. The full Greek word from which we end up at palinode is palinoidia, which by Late Latin was spelled palinodia, then went through Middle French as palinod before getting to English in the 1590s. While some are hoping for Palin Odes, others are looking for Palin palinodes.
And you're probably looking for the end of the blogging on the review of the Buckley book. Congratulations, you've found it!
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Sesquipedalian Buckley Part II
But back to the original subject: Buckley’s words.
Anaphora – the rhetorical device of repeating the same phrase at the beginning of verses, sentences, or paragraphs. It comes through Latin from Greek. Anaphora in Greek means “a carrying back”. It was first used in English in the 1580s.
Since we're on the subject of rhetorical devices, allow me another diversion from the subject. A friend recently forwarded to me an email about the word paraprosdokian phrases, which are phrases with an unexpected final word. Wikipedia lists one example as a quote from Will Rogers: “I belong to no organized party; I’m a Democrat.” (There are a number of them listed, and the email contained a list of them, too. Check them out if you need a chuckle.)
The interesting thing about the word paraprosdokian is that, while listed in Wikipedia as a figure of speech, it is not found in my dictionary or in dictionary.com or in etymonline.com. On July 21, 2008, socyberty.com cites its etymology as coming from the Greek prefix para- (meaning above or beyond) and prosdokian, meaning expectation. Later on it says “When a paraprosdokian is particularly good it will change the meaning of the first part of a phrase by playing on a word’s potential double meaning. This can create what is known as a syllepsis. This is where the primary verb of a sentence can change meaning according to the other words in the sentence.” (Read more: http://socyberty.com/languages/in-pursuit-of-the-perfect-paraprosdokian/#ixzz10dy95hhV.)
Syllepsis also comes to English through Latin originally from Greek, without any change in spelling. In Greek syn- is the root prefix and means “together”, while the word lepsis means “a taking”. So, a word taken together in describing two or more words though it can only agree with one is a syllepsis. My dictionary uses as an example “either they or I am wrong.” Socyberty uses an example from Alanis Morisette.
Back to paraprosdokian. Google produced about 26,400 results when searching for the word, so it’s all over the internet, even if not in my dictionary or etymological resources. I found a resource, www.writing.com, that had an entry from 2005 and literaryzone.com/?p=32 had an entry from 2007, but other than the three mentioned here all of the first 40 search results that had dates were from 2010, so I have concluded this is a relatively new word. Where did it come from?
Someone else will need to do more research to ultimately determine where the word come from. It seems to have appeared recently, and is likely a combining of two Greek words. In Michael Fontaine’s book, “Funny Words in Plautine Comedy”, published by Oxford University Press in 2010, he writes “Ancient theorists call this facetious and sudden reversal of expectations a para prosdokian (Greek para prosdokian, Latin praeter exspectationem, ‘contrary to expectation, surprise turn, switcheroo’.)” Discussions of classical literature have numerous references to the phrase para prosdokian (two separate Greek words). It seems that only recently have the words been combined into one and become descriptive of the same technique in English comedy as was used frequently in classical Greek and even in Shakespeare. Sorry, but that’s the best I can do.
Speaking of comedy, there is a great site called Uncyclopedia, and a wonderful “history” of Paraprosdokian that I highly encourage you read. (It alters Rogers’ phrase at the beginning by saying Paraprosdokian was not a citizen of any organized nation – he was Greek. Another line – “He was a skilled archer, although he did occasionally miss his wife.”)
More on Buckley's words on Sunday...
Anaphora – the rhetorical device of repeating the same phrase at the beginning of verses, sentences, or paragraphs. It comes through Latin from Greek. Anaphora in Greek means “a carrying back”. It was first used in English in the 1580s.
Since we're on the subject of rhetorical devices, allow me another diversion from the subject. A friend recently forwarded to me an email about the word paraprosdokian phrases, which are phrases with an unexpected final word. Wikipedia lists one example as a quote from Will Rogers: “I belong to no organized party; I’m a Democrat.” (There are a number of them listed, and the email contained a list of them, too. Check them out if you need a chuckle.)
The interesting thing about the word paraprosdokian is that, while listed in Wikipedia as a figure of speech, it is not found in my dictionary or in dictionary.com or in etymonline.com. On July 21, 2008, socyberty.com cites its etymology as coming from the Greek prefix para- (meaning above or beyond) and prosdokian, meaning expectation. Later on it says “When a paraprosdokian is particularly good it will change the meaning of the first part of a phrase by playing on a word’s potential double meaning. This can create what is known as a syllepsis. This is where the primary verb of a sentence can change meaning according to the other words in the sentence.” (Read more: http://socyberty.com/languages/in-pursuit-of-the-perfect-paraprosdokian/#ixzz10dy95hhV.)
Syllepsis also comes to English through Latin originally from Greek, without any change in spelling. In Greek syn- is the root prefix and means “together”, while the word lepsis means “a taking”. So, a word taken together in describing two or more words though it can only agree with one is a syllepsis. My dictionary uses as an example “either they or I am wrong.” Socyberty uses an example from Alanis Morisette.
Back to paraprosdokian. Google produced about 26,400 results when searching for the word, so it’s all over the internet, even if not in my dictionary or etymological resources. I found a resource, www.writing.com, that had an entry from 2005 and literaryzone.com/?p=32 had an entry from 2007, but other than the three mentioned here all of the first 40 search results that had dates were from 2010, so I have concluded this is a relatively new word. Where did it come from?
Someone else will need to do more research to ultimately determine where the word come from. It seems to have appeared recently, and is likely a combining of two Greek words. In Michael Fontaine’s book, “Funny Words in Plautine Comedy”, published by Oxford University Press in 2010, he writes “Ancient theorists call this facetious and sudden reversal of expectations a para prosdokian (Greek para prosdokian, Latin praeter exspectationem, ‘contrary to expectation, surprise turn, switcheroo’.)” Discussions of classical literature have numerous references to the phrase para prosdokian (two separate Greek words). It seems that only recently have the words been combined into one and become descriptive of the same technique in English comedy as was used frequently in classical Greek and even in Shakespeare. Sorry, but that’s the best I can do.
Speaking of comedy, there is a great site called Uncyclopedia, and a wonderful “history” of Paraprosdokian that I highly encourage you read. (It alters Rogers’ phrase at the beginning by saying Paraprosdokian was not a citizen of any organized nation – he was Greek. Another line – “He was a skilled archer, although he did occasionally miss his wife.”)
More on Buckley's words on Sunday...
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Sesquipedalian Buckley Part I
I was reading a copy of National Review this week and came across the following in a review by Mona Charon of a book about William F. Buckley (the title of which begins with “Athwart History” and ends with “Omnibus” 14 words later:
Bill Buckley is perhaps best remembered as the leading sesquipedalian columnist in America. Though this became fodder for late-night comedy and even a Disney movie portrayal, it’s worth pausing to consider the sniper-like precision with which he deployed his prodigious vocabulary….Describing Oliver North’s star turn before the congressional committee investigating Iran/Contra, he noted that a minority of viewers came away determined to punish North’s “contumacious bravura.” That sums it up.
Your humble reviewer confesses that she cheerfully turned to the dictionary several times in the course of reading these essays and learned that “supernal” means celestial or heavently (Bill Buckley knew a lot of words about heaven), that “anaphora” refers to the rhetorical device of repeating the same phrase at the beginning of several verses, sentences, or paragraphs (used in reference to Jesse Jackson), and that “velleity” is the lowest level of volition. “Psephologists” study election returns.
Do you know what a “palinode” is? No, it’s not a paean to the former governor of Alaska….Webster’s had is. “1: An ode or song recanting or retracting something in an earlier poem. 2: a formal retraction.”
Let’s begin to inspect the words from this short excerpt. It will take all of this week.
Sesquipedalian – while I mentioned it on Jan. 3, along with its transmogrified (see Mar. 17 blog) form hyperpolysyllabicsesquipedalianist, I’ve never gone through the research on it that I do with most words. I also reread the blog from Sept. 1 and to my surprise I didn’t even make reference to it there. The word has quite a distinguished history, having been used by Horace in his Ars Poetica, a poetic treatise on poetry. In lines 96-97 you find the phrase containing the first known use of the word:
The phrase, for those of you not fluent in Latin, was translated in 2005 by A.S. Kline as:
And Latin was good enough for people until 1615, when it was first used in English. The Latin word comes from two words: sesqui- and pes. Sesqui- is a prefix meaning 50% more, and pes is the Latin word for the length of a foot. So the literal translation is “foot-and-a-half” and in Horace’s use refers to uerba, or words, so it is a foot-and-a-half long adjective used to describe foot-and-a-half long words.
Horace’s tongue-in-cheek usage is the same way it is used today. And if you really want to express the pedantry (see Jan. 18 blog) of long words, add prefixes like hyper- (over, beyond, extra) and poly- (many, a lot), to syllabic (referring to syllables) and combine it with sesquipedalian to get an even longer word describing long words, hyperpolysyllabicsesquipedalian.
On Wednesday we’ll get to other words from the review of Buckley’s essays. Stay tuned.
Bill Buckley is perhaps best remembered as the leading sesquipedalian columnist in America. Though this became fodder for late-night comedy and even a Disney movie portrayal, it’s worth pausing to consider the sniper-like precision with which he deployed his prodigious vocabulary….Describing Oliver North’s star turn before the congressional committee investigating Iran/Contra, he noted that a minority of viewers came away determined to punish North’s “contumacious bravura.” That sums it up.
Your humble reviewer confesses that she cheerfully turned to the dictionary several times in the course of reading these essays and learned that “supernal” means celestial or heavently (Bill Buckley knew a lot of words about heaven), that “anaphora” refers to the rhetorical device of repeating the same phrase at the beginning of several verses, sentences, or paragraphs (used in reference to Jesse Jackson), and that “velleity” is the lowest level of volition. “Psephologists” study election returns.
Do you know what a “palinode” is? No, it’s not a paean to the former governor of Alaska….Webster’s had is. “1: An ode or song recanting or retracting something in an earlier poem. 2: a formal retraction.”
Let’s begin to inspect the words from this short excerpt. It will take all of this week.
Sesquipedalian – while I mentioned it on Jan. 3, along with its transmogrified (see Mar. 17 blog) form hyperpolysyllabicsesquipedalianist, I’ve never gone through the research on it that I do with most words. I also reread the blog from Sept. 1 and to my surprise I didn’t even make reference to it there. The word has quite a distinguished history, having been used by Horace in his Ars Poetica, a poetic treatise on poetry. In lines 96-97 you find the phrase containing the first known use of the word:
…cum pauper et exul uterque
proicit ampullas et sesquipedalia uerba,
The phrase, for those of you not fluent in Latin, was translated in 2005 by A.S. Kline as:
One exiled, one a beggar, lament in common prose,
Eschewing bombast, and sesquipedalian words,
And Latin was good enough for people until 1615, when it was first used in English. The Latin word comes from two words: sesqui- and pes. Sesqui- is a prefix meaning 50% more, and pes is the Latin word for the length of a foot. So the literal translation is “foot-and-a-half” and in Horace’s use refers to uerba, or words, so it is a foot-and-a-half long adjective used to describe foot-and-a-half long words.
Horace’s tongue-in-cheek usage is the same way it is used today. And if you really want to express the pedantry (see Jan. 18 blog) of long words, add prefixes like hyper- (over, beyond, extra) and poly- (many, a lot), to syllabic (referring to syllables) and combine it with sesquipedalian to get an even longer word describing long words, hyperpolysyllabicsesquipedalian.
On Wednesday we’ll get to other words from the review of Buckley’s essays. Stay tuned.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Small but Growing
Last week I was telling someone about my ancestry, and about how fecund my ancestors were. I had to look up the word to make sure I used it correctly. It was as recent as my grandfather’s generation for whom the adjective fecund is appropriate. My father was one of at six children (Lucille, Vernon, Lenora, Kernan, and Naomi I’ve met; one other died as a young child.) Fecund means fruitful or fertile, prolific or productive.
Fecund came to English in the early 15th century from Old French. The Old French word fecond came from the Latin word fecundus. The speculation is that the word came to Latin from a primitive indo-european root word that means “to suck or suckle”. According to my dictionary the root word is the one from which we get the word fetus.
A similar good word is superfetation. I think I came across the word superfetation when the Octomom was in the headlines. Superfetation is the fertilization of an ovum during a pregnancy already in existence. The word immediately above superfetation in my dictionary is the word superfecundation, which refers to the fertilization of more than one ovum at separate times during the same ovulation period.
Since fecund and superfetation didn’t take much space, let’s turn our attention elsewhere after a pregnant pause…
“Singularly unique” (a wonderful redundancy again), according to Wikipedia, dreamt “and its derivatives are the only English words that end in mt.” And “there are only two words in English that end -shion (though many words end in this sound). These are cushion and fashion.” (Words like pincushion and refashion are just derivative forms of these words.)
“There are only three common English words ending in -cion. These are coercion, scion, and suspicion (another is the less-common cion).”
Boldface and feedback are the shortest words that contain all the letters from a to f. There is probably no common English word that contains all letters a through g.
And with that I’m finished with the Wikipedia entry on unusual words. If you want more you’ll have to do the research for yourself.
This makes for a short entry today, but it’s longer than last Wednesday’s entry.
Fecund came to English in the early 15th century from Old French. The Old French word fecond came from the Latin word fecundus. The speculation is that the word came to Latin from a primitive indo-european root word that means “to suck or suckle”. According to my dictionary the root word is the one from which we get the word fetus.
A similar good word is superfetation. I think I came across the word superfetation when the Octomom was in the headlines. Superfetation is the fertilization of an ovum during a pregnancy already in existence. The word immediately above superfetation in my dictionary is the word superfecundation, which refers to the fertilization of more than one ovum at separate times during the same ovulation period.
Since fecund and superfetation didn’t take much space, let’s turn our attention elsewhere after a pregnant pause…
“Singularly unique” (a wonderful redundancy again), according to Wikipedia, dreamt “and its derivatives are the only English words that end in mt.” And “there are only two words in English that end -shion (though many words end in this sound). These are cushion and fashion.” (Words like pincushion and refashion are just derivative forms of these words.)
“There are only three common English words ending in -cion. These are coercion, scion, and suspicion (another is the less-common cion).”
Boldface and feedback are the shortest words that contain all the letters from a to f. There is probably no common English word that contains all letters a through g.
And with that I’m finished with the Wikipedia entry on unusual words. If you want more you’ll have to do the research for yourself.
This makes for a short entry today, but it’s longer than last Wednesday’s entry.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Hometown Buffet
Just got back from a visit to Hometown Buffet (HTB). Usually it’s my father’s favorite place to go, so I’ve become a regular at the Turlock HTB, but Dovie and I haven’t gone to the one in Elk Grove for some time. I tried hard not to overeat, or at least to overeat those things that aren’t fattening – a big salad, and a couple of sugar-free cookies for dessert.
One of the things my father usually comments on when we go to HTB is the gulosity of many of the denizens of HTB. Actually, he doesn’t use the word gulosity; in my dictionary it’s listed as a “Now Rare” word, but that’s a matter of volume of use, isn’t it? (I think I’ll begin a campaign to make gulosity less rare – as a word, not as a condition; I wouldn’t want to work in direct opposition to Michelle Obama’s efforts.) Apparently its rarity is cause for it not to be found in either of my favorite online resources. But my dictionary gives us some explanation of its etymology. It comes from the Late Latin word gulositas, which is a form of gulosus, which means gluttonous. The word gulosus comes from the Latin word gula, from which we also get the word gullet. Gulosity has come to mean greediness, especially in relation to food.
Another good word that applies at HTB (okay, to me at HTB) is inspissate. Inspissate came to English the same year the Pilgrims came to America, 1620. It, too, is formed from Late Latin words, in this case in- and spissare, which means “to thicken”. Inspissate still means to thicken, usually by evaporation (not in my case, though). A synonym would be condense.
While we’re on the topic, we might as well go to France and come back with embonpoint. Embonpoint came to English from French before the Pilgrims came from England. In the 16th century the Old French phrase en bon point, which means “in good condition” was adopted into English. Not long after Henry VIII (a man of great proportions) the word embonpoint was used to refer to those in good condition, which in that time meant not emaciated. By 1751 it came to refer to plumpness, and now my dictionary adds the word corpulence to the definition. There are usually people who are embonpoint at most buffets.
Now, those with embonpoint are not the same who are turgid. Turgid comes from the Latin word turdigus which mean inflated or swollen.
Paradoxically, those who are suffering from malnourishment will often have turgid or distended bellies, but those who have been through the line at HTB more than twice would likely also have turgid bellies. Turgid came into English in the 1610s, and eventually (by 1725) came to be used in reference to language.
If you want to see turgid language, turn to Cspan and watch your government in action. (Or is it inaction?) Or, for more on turgidity in language, you could refer back to my blog of Jan. 31, 2010. It’s not the blog that’s turgid, turgidity is the subject of the blog. Do it before Fat Tuesday...
One of the things my father usually comments on when we go to HTB is the gulosity of many of the denizens of HTB. Actually, he doesn’t use the word gulosity; in my dictionary it’s listed as a “Now Rare” word, but that’s a matter of volume of use, isn’t it? (I think I’ll begin a campaign to make gulosity less rare – as a word, not as a condition; I wouldn’t want to work in direct opposition to Michelle Obama’s efforts.) Apparently its rarity is cause for it not to be found in either of my favorite online resources. But my dictionary gives us some explanation of its etymology. It comes from the Late Latin word gulositas, which is a form of gulosus, which means gluttonous. The word gulosus comes from the Latin word gula, from which we also get the word gullet. Gulosity has come to mean greediness, especially in relation to food.
Another good word that applies at HTB (okay, to me at HTB) is inspissate. Inspissate came to English the same year the Pilgrims came to America, 1620. It, too, is formed from Late Latin words, in this case in- and spissare, which means “to thicken”. Inspissate still means to thicken, usually by evaporation (not in my case, though). A synonym would be condense.
While we’re on the topic, we might as well go to France and come back with embonpoint. Embonpoint came to English from French before the Pilgrims came from England. In the 16th century the Old French phrase en bon point, which means “in good condition” was adopted into English. Not long after Henry VIII (a man of great proportions) the word embonpoint was used to refer to those in good condition, which in that time meant not emaciated. By 1751 it came to refer to plumpness, and now my dictionary adds the word corpulence to the definition. There are usually people who are embonpoint at most buffets.
Now, those with embonpoint are not the same who are turgid. Turgid comes from the Latin word turdigus which mean inflated or swollen.
Paradoxically, those who are suffering from malnourishment will often have turgid or distended bellies, but those who have been through the line at HTB more than twice would likely also have turgid bellies. Turgid came into English in the 1610s, and eventually (by 1725) came to be used in reference to language.
If you want to see turgid language, turn to Cspan and watch your government in action. (Or is it inaction?) Or, for more on turgidity in language, you could refer back to my blog of Jan. 31, 2010. It’s not the blog that’s turgid, turgidity is the subject of the blog. Do it before Fat Tuesday...
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Getting to the Bare Truth
As I was first developing the list of words on which I would blog I was reading a mystery book or story (I don’t remember which) set in Paris, and there were three words used that I’d never encountered: ecdysiast, integuement, and valetudinarian.
The hero of the tale was chasing his nemesis into an establishment where he encountered an ecdysiast. I could tell from the context that the woman referred to as such was engaged in doing a strip-tease. It turns out that the word is relatively recent, being coined in 1940 by H.L. Mencken. He took it from ecdysis, which came from the Greek word ekdysis, which is used specifically of snakes when they shed their skin/integument and means “a stripping or casting off”. So he took a perfectly good word (ecdysis) and sullied it. Shame on him.
Integument is a word that refers to the outer covering of something, like a husk, hull, shell, or skin. The word comes from the Latin word integumetum, formed from in- (in or upon) and tegere (to cover). It’s an old word, having been used in English since the 1610s, but it was new to me.
Another new word to me was valetudinarian. It comes pretty directly from the Latin, from the word valetudinarius. In Latin it referred to someone who is sickly, infirm, or an invalid. Interestingly, the word is formed from the Latin word for strong: valere.
The etymology of the English usage is interesting. It first was used in the 1580s in the adjectival form valetudinary, meaning sickly. In 1703 the word valetudinarian was first used in print, and referred to someone who “is constantly concerned with their own ailments”. It still retains the same meaning, but also has gained the meaning of a sickly person. So whether you’re constantly sick or just constantly concerned with being sick, you’re a valetudinarian.
But what about the adjective? Valetudinary has almost ceased to exist, and the noun valetudinarian now can also be used as an adjective.
A valetudinarian differs from a hypochondriac in that a hypochondriac has an “abnormal anxiety over one’s health, often with imaginary illnesses and severe melancholy.” A valetudinarian may have a lot of anxiety, but the illnesses are not imaginary.
Hypochondriac originally referred to the hypochondrium, which is the area of the abdomen on either side directly below the bottom rib. Hypochondria has a long history, going back to its Greek root word, hypokhondria. In case you care, hypokhondria is a neuter plural word formed from the word hypo- (meaning “under”) and khondros (meaning cartilage of the breastbone). By the time of Late Latin it was spelled By the time of Late Latin it was spelled hypochondria and (according to etymonline.come) reflected the “ancient belief that the viscera of the hypochondria were the seat of melancholy.”
When the word came to English use in 1373 it referred to only the upper abdomen. By 1668 it had fused the ancient belief with a new meaning, and had come to refer to a depression or melancholy without cause. That sense remained and in 1839 gained the additional meaning of any illness alleged that has no cause (or now, any basis in fact).
It still retains the meaning of location, according to the dictionary, but almost all uses I’ve encountered refer to imaginary illnesses.
Better to be a valetudinarian than a hypochondriac (although not by much) and better to be either of those than an ecdysiast.
The hero of the tale was chasing his nemesis into an establishment where he encountered an ecdysiast. I could tell from the context that the woman referred to as such was engaged in doing a strip-tease. It turns out that the word is relatively recent, being coined in 1940 by H.L. Mencken. He took it from ecdysis, which came from the Greek word ekdysis, which is used specifically of snakes when they shed their skin/integument and means “a stripping or casting off”. So he took a perfectly good word (ecdysis) and sullied it. Shame on him.
Integument is a word that refers to the outer covering of something, like a husk, hull, shell, or skin. The word comes from the Latin word integumetum, formed from in- (in or upon) and tegere (to cover). It’s an old word, having been used in English since the 1610s, but it was new to me.
Another new word to me was valetudinarian. It comes pretty directly from the Latin, from the word valetudinarius. In Latin it referred to someone who is sickly, infirm, or an invalid. Interestingly, the word is formed from the Latin word for strong: valere.
The etymology of the English usage is interesting. It first was used in the 1580s in the adjectival form valetudinary, meaning sickly. In 1703 the word valetudinarian was first used in print, and referred to someone who “is constantly concerned with their own ailments”. It still retains the same meaning, but also has gained the meaning of a sickly person. So whether you’re constantly sick or just constantly concerned with being sick, you’re a valetudinarian.
But what about the adjective? Valetudinary has almost ceased to exist, and the noun valetudinarian now can also be used as an adjective.
A valetudinarian differs from a hypochondriac in that a hypochondriac has an “abnormal anxiety over one’s health, often with imaginary illnesses and severe melancholy.” A valetudinarian may have a lot of anxiety, but the illnesses are not imaginary.
Hypochondriac originally referred to the hypochondrium, which is the area of the abdomen on either side directly below the bottom rib. Hypochondria has a long history, going back to its Greek root word, hypokhondria. In case you care, hypokhondria is a neuter plural word formed from the word hypo- (meaning “under”) and khondros (meaning cartilage of the breastbone). By the time of Late Latin it was spelled By the time of Late Latin it was spelled hypochondria and (according to etymonline.come) reflected the “ancient belief that the viscera of the hypochondria were the seat of melancholy.”
When the word came to English use in 1373 it referred to only the upper abdomen. By 1668 it had fused the ancient belief with a new meaning, and had come to refer to a depression or melancholy without cause. That sense remained and in 1839 gained the additional meaning of any illness alleged that has no cause (or now, any basis in fact).
It still retains the meaning of location, according to the dictionary, but almost all uses I’ve encountered refer to imaginary illnesses.
Better to be a valetudinarian than a hypochondriac (although not by much) and better to be either of those than an ecdysiast.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Solving the Mystery
I recently came across three (out of a set of 10) small books with the ambitious title “The World’s Best 100 Detective Stories.” Published in 1929, it came before Dashiell Hammitt and one year after Ellery Queen’s creation. Nonetheless the stories I’ve read so far (two of the three volumes) provide a couple of interesting word mysteries.
The first mystery is: what is the difference between incredible and incredulous? In a story by Karl W. Detzer entitled “The Music of Robert the Devil” the author introduces the title character and states:
“’Robert the Devil?’ Amazed townsfolk stared him down. It was incredulous!”
I would have used the word incredible, having understood that incredible is used of something beyond belief and incredulous is a response of disbelief (whether justified or not). A thing is incredible, whether a fact or a statement, and a person is incredulous (sometimes in response to an incredible statement). At least that’s the way I’ve ordered them in my mind. Let’s see what Mr. Webster says.
The adjectives are defined as: incredible – not credible, unbelievable, and incredulous – unwilling or unable to believe, doubting, skeptical. So my supposition was correct; incredible describes the act, statement, or fact, and incredulous describes the reaction to the act, statement or fact.
According to Webster’s, they come from two different Latin words. Incredible comes from incredibilis, and incredulous comes from incredulus. (I wonder why we added the “o”?) The word incredible came first into English in the early 15th century. It wasn’t until the end of the 16th century (1570 to be exact) that incredulous came aboard, although incredulity arrived at about the same time as incredible.
Incredulity, the unwillingness or inability to believe, came from the French word incrédulité, which came from the Latin incredulitatem, the qualitative noun form of incredulous.
So you may be incredible, but you’re more likely to be incredulous. And something someone else says may be incredible, but it can’t be incredulous. It can be said with incredulity, or incredulously, but only a person can be incredulous.
Another word used in the book was the word is sang-froid. Sang-froid is a good word, and comes from two French words (yes, sang and froid). First used in English in 1712, it refers to a calm presence of mind, or composure, often described as coolness under pressure. In French sang means blood (we have the word sanguinary which comes from the same root) and froid means cold. So the literal translation would be cold-blooded, a phrase mostly used of killers. Sang-froid is often used in a positive sense; I’ve not heard cold-blooded used in anything but a negative sense (except in referring to animals).
The word sang-froid reminded me of another word relating to emotions: angst. Much more popular now than even two decades ago, angst refers to a “gloomy, often neurotic feeling of generalized anxiety and depression.” Used in its original German (Angst) in 1849 by George Eliot, it became more popular as Freud’s works were translated into English. It was considered a foreign word until the 1940s, and my dictionary lists it as a proper noun, while acknowledging that it is often spelled with a lower case “a”.
I suppose the existence of a cold-blooded killer would cause angst until a sang-froid hero catches the killer in an incredible fashion. Although you might be incredulous.
The first mystery is: what is the difference between incredible and incredulous? In a story by Karl W. Detzer entitled “The Music of Robert the Devil” the author introduces the title character and states:
“’Robert the Devil?’ Amazed townsfolk stared him down. It was incredulous!”
I would have used the word incredible, having understood that incredible is used of something beyond belief and incredulous is a response of disbelief (whether justified or not). A thing is incredible, whether a fact or a statement, and a person is incredulous (sometimes in response to an incredible statement). At least that’s the way I’ve ordered them in my mind. Let’s see what Mr. Webster says.
The adjectives are defined as: incredible – not credible, unbelievable, and incredulous – unwilling or unable to believe, doubting, skeptical. So my supposition was correct; incredible describes the act, statement, or fact, and incredulous describes the reaction to the act, statement or fact.
According to Webster’s, they come from two different Latin words. Incredible comes from incredibilis, and incredulous comes from incredulus. (I wonder why we added the “o”?) The word incredible came first into English in the early 15th century. It wasn’t until the end of the 16th century (1570 to be exact) that incredulous came aboard, although incredulity arrived at about the same time as incredible.
Incredulity, the unwillingness or inability to believe, came from the French word incrédulité, which came from the Latin incredulitatem, the qualitative noun form of incredulous.
So you may be incredible, but you’re more likely to be incredulous. And something someone else says may be incredible, but it can’t be incredulous. It can be said with incredulity, or incredulously, but only a person can be incredulous.
Another word used in the book was the word is sang-froid. Sang-froid is a good word, and comes from two French words (yes, sang and froid). First used in English in 1712, it refers to a calm presence of mind, or composure, often described as coolness under pressure. In French sang means blood (we have the word sanguinary which comes from the same root) and froid means cold. So the literal translation would be cold-blooded, a phrase mostly used of killers. Sang-froid is often used in a positive sense; I’ve not heard cold-blooded used in anything but a negative sense (except in referring to animals).
The word sang-froid reminded me of another word relating to emotions: angst. Much more popular now than even two decades ago, angst refers to a “gloomy, often neurotic feeling of generalized anxiety and depression.” Used in its original German (Angst) in 1849 by George Eliot, it became more popular as Freud’s works were translated into English. It was considered a foreign word until the 1940s, and my dictionary lists it as a proper noun, while acknowledging that it is often spelled with a lower case “a”.
I suppose the existence of a cold-blooded killer would cause angst until a sang-froid hero catches the killer in an incredible fashion. Although you might be incredulous.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
More from Wikipedia
Ever heard of a kangaroo word? Wikipedia says "a kangaroo word is a word that contains all letters of another word, in order, with the same meaning. Examples include masculine (male), observe (see) and inflammable (flammable)."
Speaking of that last pair, how can two words that seem to mean the opposite actually mean the same? In- as a prefix should mean “not” (see blog of 12/26/09), but here it doesn’t. Why not? It gets to etymology again. Word-detective.com addresses the inflammable/flammable confusion:
Other words with both similarities and differences are homophones. Homophones are words that sound alike but have different meanings (like male and mail). Rarely do pairs of homophones have opposite meanings (antonymns). One example of homophones with opposite meanings is raise (to build or rise) and raze (to demolish or push down by force).
The antonyms cleave (to split apart) and cleave (to adhere, or stick together) are homographs (the same spelling) as well as homophones. The words patronize (to support) and patronize (to act condescendingly toward) are also antonym homograph homophones.
This isn’t as unusual as you may think. There are a few English words that have one meaning that is the opposite of another. Wikipedia calls these “ ‘self-antonyms’, ‘auto-antonyms’ or ‘contronyms’. Examples include cleave or clip (joining things together or taking them apart), fast (move quickly or fix in one spot), sanction (to give one's blessing or one's condemnation), enjoin (to cause something to be done, to forbid something from being done), and ravel (to unravel, to entangle).”
And in the category of “I never noticed that” is the differing spelling of the words blond and blonde. I always spell it blonde, but it turns out that blonde used to be used only in describing women, while blond was used for males. It is common in some languages to decline adjectives, but this is the last remaining adjective in English that has vestiges of declination, and those are growing less as blond is becoming the preferred (some say politically correct) usage for both male and female. Or is it mail and femail?
Speaking of that last pair, how can two words that seem to mean the opposite actually mean the same? In- as a prefix should mean “not” (see blog of 12/26/09), but here it doesn’t. Why not? It gets to etymology again. Word-detective.com addresses the inflammable/flammable confusion:
In the beginning, there was "inflammable," a perfectly nice English word based on the Latin "inflammare," meaning "to kindle," from "in" (in) plus "flamma" (flame). "Inflammable" became standard English in the 16th century. So far, so good.
Comes the 19th century, and some well-meaning soul dreamt up the word "flammable," basing it on a slightly different Latin word, flammare, meaning "to set on fire." There was nothing terribly wrong with "flammable," but it never really caught on. After all, we already had "inflammable," so "flammable" pretty much died out in the 1800's.
"But wait," you say, "I saw 'flammable' just the other day." Indeed you did. "Flammable" came back, one of the few successful instances of social engineering of language….
After World War Two, safety officials on both sides of the Atlantic decided that folks were too likely to see "inflammable" and decide that the word meant "fireproof," so various agencies set about encouraging the revival of "flammable" as a substitute. The campaign seems to have worked, and "inflammable" has all but disappeared.
That left what to call something that was not likely to burst into flames, but here the process of linguistic renovation was easier. "Non-flammable" is a nice, comforting word, and besides, it's far easier on the tongue than its now thankfully obsolete precursor, "non-inflammable."
Other words with both similarities and differences are homophones. Homophones are words that sound alike but have different meanings (like male and mail). Rarely do pairs of homophones have opposite meanings (antonymns). One example of homophones with opposite meanings is raise (to build or rise) and raze (to demolish or push down by force).
The antonyms cleave (to split apart) and cleave (to adhere, or stick together) are homographs (the same spelling) as well as homophones. The words patronize (to support) and patronize (to act condescendingly toward) are also antonym homograph homophones.
This isn’t as unusual as you may think. There are a few English words that have one meaning that is the opposite of another. Wikipedia calls these “ ‘self-antonyms’, ‘auto-antonyms’ or ‘contronyms’. Examples include cleave or clip (joining things together or taking them apart), fast (move quickly or fix in one spot), sanction (to give one's blessing or one's condemnation), enjoin (to cause something to be done, to forbid something from being done), and ravel (to unravel, to entangle).”
And in the category of “I never noticed that” is the differing spelling of the words blond and blonde. I always spell it blonde, but it turns out that blonde used to be used only in describing women, while blond was used for males. It is common in some languages to decline adjectives, but this is the last remaining adjective in English that has vestiges of declination, and those are growing less as blond is becoming the preferred (some say politically correct) usage for both male and female. Or is it mail and femail?
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Supercalifragil... Long Words
In several August blogs I mentioned the Wikipedia listing http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/English_words_with_uncommon_properties. There were parts of the listing that made me wonder “Who has time to check these things out?” But since they do, we might as well honor that research:
Looking for odd and unusable information about words and letters? “Faulconbridge is a town in the Blue Mountains of New South Wales, Australia. The town's name uses half of the alphabet, including all five vowels, and does not use any individual letter twice.”
Not concerned with repetition but trying to avoid double vowels or double consonants? Honorificabilitudinitatibus (27 letters), Shakespeare's longest word (see August 22), alternates consonants and vowels, as do the slightly more prosaic medical terms hepatoperitonitis and mesobilirubinogen (both 17 letters). The longest such words that are reasonably well known may be overimaginative, parasitological and verisimilitudes (all 15 letters, the last of which will make for a good future blog, to tell the truth). As a country, United Arab Emirates (18 letters) is unsurpassed for length in its vowel/consonant alternation.
Apparently those people who have time and inclination for these kinds of words have developed a few words of their own to describe categories. The word isogram is used to describe a word in which no letter is used more than once. (Remember Faulconbridge?) Uncopyrightable, with fifteen letters, is the longest common isogram.
Speaking of long words, I remember when antidisestablishmentarianism (at 28 letters) was considered the longest word in the dictionary (the dictionary being the Oxford English Dictionary). It has since been overtaken by pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis.
The history of the p word (known as P45) as recorded in Wikipedia is interesting: “This word was invented in 1935 by Everett M. Smith, president of the National Puzzlers' League, at its annual meeting. The word figured in the headline for an article published by the New York Herald Tribune on February 23, 1935 titled ‘Puzzlers Open 103d Session Here by Recognizing 45-Letter Word’:
“Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis succeeded electrophotomicrographically as the longest word in the English language recognized by the National Puzzlers' League at the opening session of the organization's 103rd semi-annual meeting held yesterday at the Hotel New Yorker. The puzzlers explained that the forty-five-letter word is the name of a special form of silicosis caused by ultra-microscopic particles of silica volcanic dust...”
For purists, the Guinness Book of Records in 1992 (and thereafter) declared floccinaucinihilipilification to be the “longest real word” at 29 letters. F29 (as I call it) is a good word that should get more usage. It refers to “the act or habit of estimating as worthless.” Its first known usage is in 1741 in the Eton Latin Grammar. It is actually a combining of four Latin words used together in a rule, all four words having the meaning of “small price” or “for nothing”. (The words were flocci, nauci, nihili, and pilifi.) The combining of these four words in such a monumental word to describe such a little thing was considered great fun in 1741, the television not having been invented yet.
Looking for odd and unusable information about words and letters? “Faulconbridge is a town in the Blue Mountains of New South Wales, Australia. The town's name uses half of the alphabet, including all five vowels, and does not use any individual letter twice.”
Not concerned with repetition but trying to avoid double vowels or double consonants? Honorificabilitudinitatibus (27 letters), Shakespeare's longest word (see August 22), alternates consonants and vowels, as do the slightly more prosaic medical terms hepatoperitonitis and mesobilirubinogen (both 17 letters). The longest such words that are reasonably well known may be overimaginative, parasitological and verisimilitudes (all 15 letters, the last of which will make for a good future blog, to tell the truth). As a country, United Arab Emirates (18 letters) is unsurpassed for length in its vowel/consonant alternation.
Apparently those people who have time and inclination for these kinds of words have developed a few words of their own to describe categories. The word isogram is used to describe a word in which no letter is used more than once. (Remember Faulconbridge?) Uncopyrightable, with fifteen letters, is the longest common isogram.
Speaking of long words, I remember when antidisestablishmentarianism (at 28 letters) was considered the longest word in the dictionary (the dictionary being the Oxford English Dictionary). It has since been overtaken by pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis.
The history of the p word (known as P45) as recorded in Wikipedia is interesting: “This word was invented in 1935 by Everett M. Smith, president of the National Puzzlers' League, at its annual meeting. The word figured in the headline for an article published by the New York Herald Tribune on February 23, 1935 titled ‘Puzzlers Open 103d Session Here by Recognizing 45-Letter Word’:
“Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis succeeded electrophotomicrographically as the longest word in the English language recognized by the National Puzzlers' League at the opening session of the organization's 103rd semi-annual meeting held yesterday at the Hotel New Yorker. The puzzlers explained that the forty-five-letter word is the name of a special form of silicosis caused by ultra-microscopic particles of silica volcanic dust...”
For purists, the Guinness Book of Records in 1992 (and thereafter) declared floccinaucinihilipilification to be the “longest real word” at 29 letters. F29 (as I call it) is a good word that should get more usage. It refers to “the act or habit of estimating as worthless.” Its first known usage is in 1741 in the Eton Latin Grammar. It is actually a combining of four Latin words used together in a rule, all four words having the meaning of “small price” or “for nothing”. (The words were flocci, nauci, nihili, and pilifi.) The combining of these four words in such a monumental word to describe such a little thing was considered great fun in 1741, the television not having been invented yet.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Stationary Capitol
I was driving recently along a street near my house in Sacramento, which is the capital of California, and saw a sign for capital nursery. While the words constitute the name of the business, they were not capitalized on the sign, which got me thinking: “What’s the difference between capital and Capitol? And why?” Another blog in the making.
I found out that Capitol (capitalized with an “o”) refers only to the building where Congress meets. It was used by Thomas Jefferson in 1793 and derived from the Latin Capitolium, which is the temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus (sounds like a Transformer) in ancient Rome. While early usage extended to Virginia state houses, the word Capitol has not been extended to centers of state government. And it is always capitalized.
Instead, for states the word is capital, and its history and usage precedes Jefferson’s use of Capitol. While capital was first used in the 1660s to refer to the city where the government resides, its history goes back further. (In fact, the noun form in Old English is heafodstol. How that translates to capital I don’t know.)
It makes sense that the city where the head of the government resides is called the capital because the word comes from the Latin word caput, which means “head”. The word capital came to English from Latin in the 13th century, from the Latin word capitalis. Capitalis means “of the head” so the various meanings for capital all have some sense of primary or top. A capital offense is one that affects life (historically by decapitation – another word that comes from caput.) Even a capital letter usually is the first letter, the head of the word.
Now that I’ve made that differentiation in my mind, perhaps history can help me remember the difference between stationary and stationery. Because I just looked it up in my dictionary I know that stationary refers to something not moving, and stationery refers to writing materials, specifically paper and envelopes used for letters.
According to my dictionary, stationary came from the Middle English word stacionarye, which came from the Latin word stationarius, a form of the word statio, from which we also get the word station. It came to English in the early 15th century, originally in reference to planetary movements.
Stationery comes to English much later, in 1727. It was derived from referring to “stationery wares,” or the items for sale by a stationer, a word much more commonly in use in the early 1700s than now. A stationer was a seller of books and paper, which in 14th century Middle Latin was stationarius, or “stationery seller”.
Etymonline.com adds some interesting additional information. In the Middle Ages, when this word came into usage in English, “roving peddlers” were common. Those with fixed (they avoided using the word stationary) locations were usually associated with and licensed by universities. “The Company of Stationers, one of the Livery Companies of the City of London, was founded 1556.”
Michael Quinion (worldwidewords.org) tells a little more of the etymology that etymonline only refers to: “In medieval times a stationarius was a trader who had a fixed station — a shop — rather than travelling from fair to fair, like a pedlar. These were usually booksellers (whose stock was too bulky to be carried about) and were mostly linked to the medieval universities, which is why such an elevated Latin word came to be attached to them. It became stationer in English, a form that’s recorded from the fourteenth century.” A station where books and writing items were sold was a stationer, and what they sold stationery.
Remembering that a stationer (you wouldn’t spell it with an “a”) sells stationery helps me remember which one to use: the one with the “a” or the one with the “e”. Several websites gave the mnemonic device of “e” refers to envelopes, so now you have two ways to remember.
I found out that Capitol (capitalized with an “o”) refers only to the building where Congress meets. It was used by Thomas Jefferson in 1793 and derived from the Latin Capitolium, which is the temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus (sounds like a Transformer) in ancient Rome. While early usage extended to Virginia state houses, the word Capitol has not been extended to centers of state government. And it is always capitalized.
Instead, for states the word is capital, and its history and usage precedes Jefferson’s use of Capitol. While capital was first used in the 1660s to refer to the city where the government resides, its history goes back further. (In fact, the noun form in Old English is heafodstol. How that translates to capital I don’t know.)
It makes sense that the city where the head of the government resides is called the capital because the word comes from the Latin word caput, which means “head”. The word capital came to English from Latin in the 13th century, from the Latin word capitalis. Capitalis means “of the head” so the various meanings for capital all have some sense of primary or top. A capital offense is one that affects life (historically by decapitation – another word that comes from caput.) Even a capital letter usually is the first letter, the head of the word.
Now that I’ve made that differentiation in my mind, perhaps history can help me remember the difference between stationary and stationery. Because I just looked it up in my dictionary I know that stationary refers to something not moving, and stationery refers to writing materials, specifically paper and envelopes used for letters.
According to my dictionary, stationary came from the Middle English word stacionarye, which came from the Latin word stationarius, a form of the word statio, from which we also get the word station. It came to English in the early 15th century, originally in reference to planetary movements.
Stationery comes to English much later, in 1727. It was derived from referring to “stationery wares,” or the items for sale by a stationer, a word much more commonly in use in the early 1700s than now. A stationer was a seller of books and paper, which in 14th century Middle Latin was stationarius, or “stationery seller”.
Etymonline.com adds some interesting additional information. In the Middle Ages, when this word came into usage in English, “roving peddlers” were common. Those with fixed (they avoided using the word stationary) locations were usually associated with and licensed by universities. “The Company of Stationers, one of the Livery Companies of the City of London, was founded 1556.”
Michael Quinion (worldwidewords.org) tells a little more of the etymology that etymonline only refers to: “In medieval times a stationarius was a trader who had a fixed station — a shop — rather than travelling from fair to fair, like a pedlar. These were usually booksellers (whose stock was too bulky to be carried about) and were mostly linked to the medieval universities, which is why such an elevated Latin word came to be attached to them. It became stationer in English, a form that’s recorded from the fourteenth century.” A station where books and writing items were sold was a stationer, and what they sold stationery.
Remembering that a stationer (you wouldn’t spell it with an “a”) sells stationery helps me remember which one to use: the one with the “a” or the one with the “e”. Several websites gave the mnemonic device of “e” refers to envelopes, so now you have two ways to remember.
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