Misusing an Apostrophe is not a Catastrophe

The Greek dramatic device called a strophe has spawned a number of words, some of which I knew and some of which I have learned in preparing this week’s post.

In ancient Greek tragedy, when the chorus first began singing an ode it moved from right to left, before it would turn and head back left to right (the antistrophe). Strophe comes from the Greek word strephein which means “to turn.” It came into English in about 1600.

So it isn’t difficult to get from strophe, a dramatic turn, to catastrophe, another dramatic turn.

Catastrophe, which now refers to a widespread disaster, also can mean a negative reversal, or a reversal of expectations. It is formed from adding the Greek kata- (meaning “down”) to strephein, thereby forming katastrephein, which to the Greeks meant to turn down or overturn or come to an end. In fact, it originally referred to, according to etymonline.com, “especially the fatal turning point in a drama”, which sounds to me like the ending of Romeo and Juliet. The Romans adopted the word from the Greek, changing its spelling in Latin to catastrophe, from which in the 1530s the English brought it into use. Its (not it’s – see below) first use to describe a sudden disaster in English took place in 1748, although the disaster of note isn’t mentioned.

Another word we get from strephein is apostrophe. Formed by adding the Greek prefix meaning “from”, apo-,  apostrophe meant the mark to indicate a letter taken from a word when it arrived in English in the 1580s. An apostrophe is still the punctuation mark used to indicate a missing letter, but it also is used in the possessive form of a noun. The opening paragraph today uses an apostrophe to indicate the possessive form of week in describing this post. The penultimate word of the preceding paragraph illustrates the missing letter use of apostrophe: the apostrophe indicates the commonly used contraction “isn’t” for the words “is not.”

Apostrophe had a more tortuous path to English than catastrophe did. Also being formed in Greek (as apostrephein), then adopted into Latin, by the time of Late Latin it had the form apostrophus, which the Middle French adopted as apostrophe and the English took without spelling change.

An aside – in the 1530s the word apostrophe was first used in English to describe an orator’s turning aside from the crowd to speak to an individual. In formal rhetoric it retains this meaning.  

While an apostrophe is used to indicate a possessive noun, an exception is the possessive neuter pronoun its. Originally the possessive of it was it’s, but since the possessives of other personal pronouns (hers, theirs, yours) don’t use the apostrophe it only made sense that "it" followed suit. And its use without the apostrophe helps distinguish it from the contraction “it’s.”

I say “helps.” The misuse of the apostrophe with the pronoun it is a common grammatical error to this day, even though the change has been in common use (and misuse) since the early 19^th century. But it's not a catastrophe.

Them's Fighting Words!

We’ve been looking at words that came to English from the Latin root word pungere.

To get an intensive form of a word like pungere in Latin you add the prefix com-. Doing so gives you the word compungere, and in Late Latin compungere became compunctionem, which meant something that pricked the conscience and caused remorse. The Old French adopted the word as compunction, and in the mid-14^th century the English also began using the word to refer to any feeling of unease or anxiety of conscience, or any wavering in consideration of which is the correct action to take.

Pungere and punctionem (the less intensive form of compunctionem) developed in Old French into the word for the tool that makes a puncture, a poncho or poinchon. In the mid-14^th century the English adopted poinchon as puncheon and later shortened it to punch. Within 100 years it also came to refer to the action of using the puncheon to create a hole, and eventually to any quick stab or jab that we call a punch (as now with a fist.)

Poignant also comes from pungere. The Old French took the present participle of pungere, which is poindre, and created in the 13^th century the word poignant to mean sharp or pointed. By the late 14^th century the English adopted the word to refer to any painful feeling (physical or emotional).  In addition, etymonline.com tells us it involves a “linguistic trick play, a double-reverse.” Pungere is from the same root word in Latin as pugnus, which means fist, and poignant “represents a metathesis of –n-and -g- that later was reversed in French.” Isn’t wordplay fun?

Pugna, the Latin word for fist, is the source of pugnacious, which is a back-formation of pugnacity, the original word that arrived in English in about 1600. The Latin word pugnacitas means fondness for fighting (with fists), and came pretty directly into use in English as pugnacity. Within 40 years the adjective pugnacious was formed.

Have we exhausted words from pugnare? Hardly. You could take pugnus (fist) and form pugil, the Latin word for boxer or fist-fighter, from which in 1789 we got the word pugilism. Or you could take the word pugnare, add the Latin prefix for reverse, re-, and get the Latin word for fight back: repugnare, the present participle of which is repugnantem and from which in the late 14^th century English created the adjective repugnant. Repugnant describes a reaction to anything that is distasteful or offensive.

One final word before we leave this topic. Impugn is a verb that means to challenge as false or cast doubt on the veracity of someone or something. Take our word of the day, pugnare, add the prefix meaning in or into or on, in-, and you get through the magic of Latin the word impugnare, which means to attack or assault. The Old French changed that into impugner, and in the late 14^th century the English adopted it as a word to mean any attack by argument.

Them’s fighting words!

Get to the Point!

The word punctilious came up in my reading recently, and it started me thinking about how unusual the punc- construction is. Is punctilious related to puncture? Punch? How about compunction? Where did these words come from?

Dictionary.com says that someone who is punctilious is someone extremely attentive to punctilios. (Love those circular definitions.) Punctilio is, in my experience, less used than punctilious. A punctilio is a detail in a procedure or ceremony. Someone who is punctilious is careful about the fine points of observances, formalities or amenities. Both punctilio and punctilious came to English from the Italian word puntiglio, which means “fine point.” Etymonline.com says the Italians got punctiglio from the Latin word for prick (a sharp point or a puncture), which is punctum. It is interesting to me that our words keep the c in place and don’t use the g.  Punctilio arrived in the 1590s while the adjective punctilious came across in the 1630s.

Etymonline.com also says about punctum "see point." So let's see it. 

Point is a much more common word, and has been used in English since about 1200, at least in its noun form, which means a sharp end, or a single idea. What’s interesting is that etymonline suggests that the word is a merger of two words that both came from the Latin word pungere (which means pierce or puncture and from which we also get pungent). The neuter past participle of pungere  is punctum, and was used to refer to the small hole made by a single-point of puncture (as opposed to a blade which causes a slash rather than a circular wound). Its meaning broadened to include anything that looked like that puncture, a dot for instance. Punctum begat the Old French point, which refers to a dot or a small amount, “which was borrowed in Middle English by c. 1300.” And we haven’t given it back, so I think it’s fair to say we “took” it, not just borrowed it.

“Meanwhile,” continuing to quote etymonline.com, “the Latin feminine past participle of pungere was puncta, which was used in Medieval Latin to mean ‘sharp tip,’ and became the Old French pointe ‘point of a weapon, vanguard of an army,’ which also passed into English, early 14c.”

The French words point and pointe continue to have a difference of meaning in French, while we have combined their meanings in English.

Pungent refers to something that smells or tastes sharp, or something that is poignant. While pungent is derived from the present participle (pungentem) of the above reference pungere, in Middle and early Modern English there was a verb, punge, which has lapse into obsolescence. It meant to pierce or prick, and hence to smart or sting. The word pungent arrived in English at the same time as punctilio, from the aforementioned pungentem. 

Pungere is related to pugnus, hence to pugnacious and inexpugnable. The past participle of pungere is punctus, from which we got puncture (a pointed piercing or pricking) in the late 14^th century.

And we've reached the end of today's post, but not the end of words from pugnere. More next week.

Stop Ahead - FUTPNBCV (Follow Up - The Pedantic Night Before Christmas, Part V)

Will Christmas never end? I don’t think I’ve ever written that before, but being the last week of the month this is yet another few words from my post of last Christmas. 

Today: body parts. Or words that were used to describe them.

First is coruscate, to describe Santa’s eyes. Coruscate is a verb, so the full sentence (I used my poetic license) would have read “his eyes were coruscating.” Coruscating means to emit flashes of light, or to gleam or sparkle. It came to English in 1705 from the Latin word coruscatus, which is the past participle of coruscare, which means to vibrate or glitter. English doesn’t retain the vibrate part of the Latin meaning.

Hoary is the next word, and is a good word for Santa’s beard. Hoary means grey or white with age, although it has come to mean anything old or ancient, and sometimes even something so old as to be stale and overly familiar, like that joke I make about the sign that says “Stop Ahead” where I hold the head of the person nearest to me. Anyway, hoary came to English in the 1510s and was a development of an older adjective, hoar, which came from an Old English word har. The Proto-Germanic root haira came from an older Proto-Indo-European root kei-, from which we also get our word hue (a word generally used to refer to a shade of a color) and the Germans get their word Herr, which is equivalent to our English Mister.

The word gyre is one of the group of words that we have that come originally from the Greek word for circle, gyros (yes, that’s where the name of my wife’s favorite Greek dish came from – the circle of lamb on a spit from which meat is carved to put in a pita) and sometimes from its Latin descendant gyrus. For instance, gyration (which is a noun for anything turning in circles – NOT for something vibrating, a common misuse) came from the Latin word in the 1610s, and the gyroscope (which is an apparatus that allows something like a compass to turn freely and remain relatively steady no matter the gyrations of the apparatus) was invented and named by Foucault (of pendulum fame - look it up) in 1852, and was first used in English in 1856. Gyre predates both of those, having arrived in English in the 1560s from the Latin root. It is a noun for a ring or circle or a motion that constitutes a ring or a circle. So you could confuse most people by suggesting “let’s form a gyre” (when pronounced correctly the g sounds like a j).

Our next word today, tumescent, has one of those definitions that drive me crazy: “slightly tumid.” Tumid means swollen, but is even less used than tumescent. So tumescent is an adjective that is used to describe anything that is swollen, either physically or emotionally. It can also be used to describe a posture of swollenness (like someone who is pretentious or pompous). Tumescent arrived in English in 1806 from the Latin word tumescentem, the present participle of tumescere, which is the inceptive (yes, that’s what it says  - don’t ask me) of tumere, which means to swell. And, by the way, tumere is the root word from which we developed the English word that refers to the thick or most swelled part of the leg, the thigh.

But that’s below the belt. Today we’re all about the head. 

George Carlin on Words

George Carlin, the eminent author (didn’t he win a Pulitzer or Nobel or something?) wrote in 3x Carlin, the compilation of his three books: “Why is it the only time you ever hear the word figment it’s in relation to the imagination? Aren’t there any other figments?”

The usage of figment to which George refers is its meaning as a product of one’s mental invention. If I understand the definition, then “of the imagination” is redundant. Figment refers only to a fantastic (as in fantasy) notion. Figment comes from the Latin word figmentum, which means something formed or fashioned, a creation. It came to English in the 15^th century and is now found almost exclusively as part of the phrase “figment of…imagination.” However, it’s a good word that doesn’t require the explanatory “…of the imagination.” Try to stop yourself the next time you begin the phrase and use just the word. “That’s just a figment.” And George, the answer is: not really; all figments are products of imagination or thought or dreams.

George also had an interesting exposition on the usage of use (pg. 745, op cit.): “I object to the use of usage when it’s used in place of use. There’s nothing wrong with using use; it’s been in use a long time and I’m used to it. It isn’t that usage isn’t useful; I simply have no use for its current usage. The use of usage should be consistent with good usage: I’d prefer to say, ‘My use of the Internet’ rather than ‘my usage.’….And, as I’m using space on usage, I’ll use some more on utilize.”

Use, usage and utilize are an interesting trilogy. Use is used as both a noun and a verb. Usage is a noun and utilize a verb. My dictionary has no less than 27 definitions of the word use. It also tries to explain the difference between our trilogy of words:

Use, utilize mean to make something serve one’s purpose. Use is the general word: to use a telephone; to use a saw and other tools; to use one’s eyes; to use eggs in cooking. (What is used often has depreciated or been diminished, sometimes completely consumed: a used automobile; All the butter has been used.) As applied to persons, use implies some selfish or sinister purpose; to use another to advance oneself. Utilize implies practical or profitable use: to utilize the means at hand, a modern system of lighting.

The nouns usage and use are related in origin and meaning and to some extent overlap in their use. Usage usually refers to habitual or customary practices of procedures: Some usage of the Anglican Church are similar to those of the Roman Catholic Church. It is also commonly used in reference to language practices: English usage is divided in the pronunciation of aunt.

Use came to English in the mid-1200s from the Old French word use, which the Old French got from the Vulgar Latin word usare. The meanings haven’t changed, but the English word use replaced an Old English word brucan. Usage is not formed from the word use. It came from an Anglo-French and Old French word usage which meant custom, habit, or experience. So usage as an established custom or habit makes sense. Utilize is the most recent word to come into English. It arrived in 1807 from the French word utilizer and the Italian word utilizzare.

So what are the differences? Usage is used when something is used repeatedly, as a habit or custom. Utilize is a little more difficult. Its meaning is the same as a couple definitions of the word use, both of which use the word purpose. When something is used to result in some positive outcome, utilize is often used. Use is more useful than utilize, but utilize shows that you have made use of something to positive effect. When in doubt, usage dictates you use use. 

Happy Mother's Day

It’s Mother’s Day, and as I have mentioned on several occasions there is a surfeit of negative words for women but a dearth of positive ones.

A mother’s love and correction accrete to develop good and strong children. A simple touch on a fevered brow is an anodyne, and her chary restraints keep her children from doing anything that could be deleterious.

A chary mother is one that is cautious or careful, and as a result protective. The word chary comes from an Old English word, cearig, which meant sorrowful, but by the 16^th century developed its current meaning.

Such cautiousness is designed to protect children from those things that would be deleterious, or harmful to their health or well-being.

Deleterious came to English in the 1640s from the Medieval Latin word deleterious, which came from the Greek word deleterios, which means noxious or harmful to health or well-being.

Noxious comes from the Latin word for injurious (noxius), so it had a sense of doing physical or moral harm that deleterious does not have. But it can also have a sense of evil that deleterious does not have. It came to English around 1500, and within a century the word obnoxious followed.

Obnoxious, which came from the Latin word obnoxiosus, was formed by adding ob-, meaning “toward,” to the same root from which we get noxious. In 1580 it meant “subject to the authority of another” but soon after, by the 1590s, developed the meaning of subject to something harmful. It was not until the 1670s that it developed its most common meaning of today: offensive. The former meaning of injurious is now in general disuse.

The word mother itself (it was modor in Old English) came from the Proto-Germanic root word mothær. In Old Norse it is moðir, in Danish it is , in Dutch moder, in Old High German she is your moeder, while in German she is your Mutter. The Latin is mater, Old Irish mathis, and Sanskrit matar. Formed by adding -ter, a kinship term suffix, to one of the earliest sounds a child makes, "ma", it is a word of warmth and love. Those blessed to have theirs mothers still around should take today to return some of the love and affection that has been given them by their mothers, no matter how you spell or pronounce it. There is never enough love. 

And to come back to my opening statement, dearth is a word that means scarcity or lack. It came to English in the mid-13^th century and was originally used to describe food in times of famine. Within a century its meaning expanded to anything that was scarce. Originally spelled derthe, it was formed from the Old English root word deore, which meant costly or dear, and from which we got our word dear.

Mothers are dear, and should be honored not just on this day but throughout the year. Now stop reading and call your mother.

Dining, Drinking, and a Detour

Last week while researching the blog words my dictionary used a word in definition that I had never seen before: crapulous. It turns out to be a good word that had I known about it I would have used in my blog post (the one that has been viewed by far more than any other of this blog’s posts) entitled “Let’s Drink to That”, because crapulous is a good word for excessive eating and drinking.

Crapulous comes from the Latin word crapula, and the Romans, who used it exclusively in regards to over-drinking, got it from the Greeks, who spelled it kraipale. (Actually, they spelled it kraipale, but it’s hard enough to understand my English let alone my Greek.) For the Greeks it referred to the headache or nausea that occurred from a night of debauching. That is the sense it has developed in English, where it has been used since the 1530s to mean not only the act of overeating or drinking too much, but the resultant suffering that occurs from such overindulging. So someone who is replete or who has been a gourmand might feel crapulous.

Other words that hearken back to that previous post are gastronomy and zabaglione. But first a detour caused by my use of the word hearken:

Can you hearken forward? No, but you can pay heed, or hearken, to what you read or hear now. Hearken is a good word that dates back to the late 12^th century, whence it came from a Middle English word herchen. According to etymonline.com “harken is the usual spelling in U.S.” but I must admit I haven’t noticed that spelling; perhaps I read too much written in England. 

Of course, now a further detour is necessitated by my use of the word whence, which is a good word that takes the question “From what place?” or “From what source?” and includes it all in one word. It came to English in the late 13^th century also from the Middle English, from whennes. Etymonline.com includes the explanation “…with adverbial genitive –s, from Old English hwanone, related to hwænne” whence we get our word "when." All of which reminds me of an old English teacher (the teacher was old, not the language being studied, or I would have had to write it Old English teacher) who insisted that words beginning with wh- be pronounce with an initial h- sound followed by the w-. Now I know where she got that idea. From her childhood in the middle ages.  Enough of a detour.

Gastronomy is a word I have heard Bert Wolf, the food writer/television travel guide, use on more than one occasion. It is defined as the art or study of good eating. A gourmet would be interested in gastronomy. Gastronomy came to English in 1814 from the French word gastronomie (no surprise there). But the etymology of the word is interesting. It is a coined word, created in 1800 by Joseph de Berchoux as the title for a poem he wrote on good living. Apparently he got the idea from a poem that was quoted in writings by Athenæus. Speaking of Athenæus, in etymonline.com the listing below the etymology on gastronomy is the related word deipnosophist.

Deipnosophist is a new word to me, and etymonline gives it the short definition of “gourmand.” But my dictionary expands the definition to include anyone who is adept at conversation around the dinner table. A raconteur at dinner becomes a deipnosophist. Deipnosophist came to English in the 1650s from the Greek word deipnosophistes (deipnoswfistes, I think) that meant “one learned in the mysteries of the kitchen.” Again, the word originally game from Athenæus, from his third century work on gastronomy the title of which is Deipnosophistai.

Of course, now I’ve got to tell you about raconteur before I get to zabaglione.

A raconteur is someone skilled at telling stories or anecdotes in an interesting way. I am not aware of it ever being used to describe me. It appeared in English in 1828, from the French word raconteur which came from the French word for “recounting”, raconter. Not every deipnosophist is a raconteur, and not every raconteur is a deipnosophist, but it’s good to know both good words.

Now, finally, zabaglione. It is fitting that zabaglione comes at the end of the post, since it is an Italian dessert made from egg yolks, sugar, and Marsala wine. The ingredients form a foamy custard that can be served hot or chilled. Zabaglione arrived in English at the end of the 19th century, from the Italian as a variant of zabaione, which might have come into Italian from the Late Latin word sabai, which was "an Illyrian drink." Chaudeau is a type of zabaglione, but that will have to wait for another post.