Monthly Archives: March 2009

galore

There is a certain wantonness to this word, a revelry that goes beyond the sense of bounty. It brings out echoes of a glorious gala with gallons to gulp and lots of lore to listen to, and of all those bumptious gal words: galumph, galoot, galoshes. It even sounds like a guffaw from a cartoon character. And, to top it off, James Bond fans will collocate it with Pussy. In Irish Gaelic, go leór may really mean “sufficient” or “enough,” but in the more than 300 years that English has had loan of it, it has acquired a tinge of glut and gluttony. And since it begins like Guinness and ends like beer (and more), gregarious garrulous goliards will, on St. Pat’s day, go rolling home having gorged and guzzled lashings of both.

elegiac

A lyrical word, its legend an elegant sigh for one elevated to the Elysian Fields. Its origins are pure Greek, calling forth an elegy, a poetic threnody (though W.S. Gilbert may have thought it a fit verse form for enumerating the crimes of Heliogabalus). Its fluid beginning – begging in print to be the nose and eyes of one sublimely bereaved – tilts the back half away from available less-pleasant echoes. In the standard British pronunciation, with its stress on the gi and its [aI] diphthong, we get the heart of giant, angina, gyre, that wild i that tenses the tongue from yawn to constriction and is in so many countries a wail of mourning or distress – but this word’s object distills the mourning into poetry. The more American version makes the last three syllables a dactyl, the foot of the elegiac verse; the central two vowels are [i], as lee and gee (like weejee?), and the ending ac risks a sound of yak, but the poetic distillation flavours this with Cognac and Armagnac – though a sip when crossing the Lethe, river of forgetfulness, may bring back amnesiac, the necessary preparative for metempsychosis. Weep no more for your past life; it is simply not there, like the missing foot in the second verse of an elegiac couplet.

hinterland

This word will immediately remind many Canadians of Hinterland Who’s Who, which peppered our younger years with brief televised vignettes about fauna in the great backyard of our vast land, accompanied by a cheery little flute tune. In fact, it’s still active – see www.hww.ca (they’ve jazzed up the tune a bit, but the flute’s whiff of the ’70s is still discernible). Those not so primed may be influenced by the hint or inter (with that h that can add a haunting or hairy breath coming up as a gust from the hinterland of the vocal tract, while the remaining consonants are voiced – except for the t – and at the front of the mouth). One might hear echoes of winter or hinder. But speakers of German will know that hinter is “behind.” OK, but behind what? Well, the coast, originally, and the doctrine of the hinterland assigns as territory to a port those inland areas that supply it. But now coasts aren’t the only centres of commerce or primary points of encounter; some rather large inland cities don’t seem as “hinter” as all that. So hinterland now refers more to the boondocks, the backwoods, the bush, the sticks – a place where the only people who go around dressed in black all the time are the Amish. Ironically, a word often seen near – though not abutting – hinterland is city, for the contrast. The adjective you’re perhaps most likely to see with hinterland, however, is vast.

What flavour of English do you want?

This is taken from a presentation I gave at the Editors’ Association of Canada conference in Edmonton, June 2008. For the bibliography and a concise summary of some key points, see the handout (PDF, 72 KB)

I thought I wouldn’t call this “Register, collocation, and reflected meaning” because, well, that sounded a little dry. And I’m going to be starting into this subject with the use of a metaphor of sort. The metaphor I’m going to be using—and I think it’s a pretty viable one—is, as you may have guessed, that a piece of a text is like a piece of food. A document is like a dish. Words are like ingredients. Continue reading

laconic

This word’s current flavour of meaning is undoubtedly influenced to some extent by echoes of lax, lethargic, lacklustre, and perhaps lazy. There might even be a bit of a yawn in the central con. On the other hand, conic and its phonetic sibling comic don’t seem to have played into the mood much. Art history and aethetic philosophy types might (like Lessing) muse on the sublime suffering of Laocoon, but the classicists will more likely head straight to the Peloponnesus (we’ll get to that). Ask people what image this word brings to mind and it’s a pretty good bet it’ll be one of those strong, silent cowboy types – some might think of the Clint Eastwood or John Wayne types, while others might have a lazier layabout type in mind, but always it’s someone who speaks as though every word costs a dollar. The equivalent of those cowboys in ancient Greece was the Spartans, and in particular the Lacedaemonians (aka Laconians). They didn’t talk much. Too busy fighting, I reckon.

aspic

This word made me snicker when I first heard it. I was about 10 years old. I soon learned that its object was some unfun adult version of Jell-o – I found that to be a less auspicious aspect. Still, a spicy aspic is as pickable as pickles, and I certainly grasp I can prefer it to some versions of picas. One does need to get past the unpleasant overtones of a racist epithet. But the word has an unavoidable bite to it, not simply from the sharp stab of pic or the snake-like hiss before it, but from the snake that not only begins it but actually is it: aspic is an extended form (useful in poetry) of asp (one of them bites Shakespeare’s Cleopatra). How does that come to be savoury jelly? One suggestion is that the jelly was said to be “froid comme un aspic,” a cliché in French. Or it could be that it is of the same colour as an asp. Either way, it doesn’t seem to be any connection to the third aspic, which is another word for spikenard (great lavender).

brazen

What’s the next word? It might well be hussy. On the other hand, it could be Head, as The Brazen Head is Ireland’s oldest pub, serving since 1198 and mentioned by James Joyce – and imbibed at by Brendan Behan – a touch more recently. If you said image, you’re probably thinking of graven. But one thing’s for sure: the sense is as bold as brass, and the word likewise. There are notes of of fire and food, with blaze and braise echoing, and the noise of braying (with a buzz in the middle) but also a bit of bravery. It lacks the primness of praise, with its voiceless p spreading to rob even the r of its resonance. Certainly there is nothing of Zen about it beyond the letters; whether the bra applies depends on the hussy, but I suspect she would be more brazen without one. Mix it up and you get zebra plus an n, but that’s a horse of a different stripe. The mettle of this one is metallic, and it has an echo of bronze – but it’s all brass all the way, baby; from the oldest version of English, this word means “made of brass” (brass, for its part, is not only old but untraceable: we don’t know where it came from before Old English. It just showed up one day uninvited, it seems. The nerve). And brass is bright, shiny, in your face – and, musically, loud: glaring and blaring. So someone who horns in, or some trumpeting strumpet, gets this word, however unpolished they may be. And they just have to brazen it out.

Guinea

Not just a toponym but, in nearly all its uses, a proper noun. But a word nonetheless, so let us capitalize on it! The form of the word is among those oddities to the construction of which English is nowadays perhaps less inclined: it has the gui for [gI] to make sure that one does not say “jinny” (less of a risk in a time such as now when we put a [g] even on Gibran and Genghis, which were written with G to transliterate what we would now put as J), but, even better, it has that ea at the end, rather than the ee that one might have expected from a slightly later adaptation. So it’s four phonemes (/gIni/, or, in the Oxford version, /gInI/), six letters. Echoes and tastes? One might, on contemplation, find beginnings of guise and near – or the middle of beginning – but this is one of those words that echoes in, and gives flavour to, other words rather more than it gets any from them. The word seems to have come from a Berber word – in other words, like, say, Eskimo or Berber, it’s not taken from the people or region it describes – aginaw, meaning “black” or “black man.” The Portuguese, having adapted it to Guiné, used it to describe a large swath of West Africa; it has settled on that stretch of the African overhang from the Gabon to the Gambia. This area of Africa was among the first to trade with Europeans and among the last to be colonized by them, due to its well-organized, advanced, and not acquiescent kingdoms. But while Europeans were colonizing Guinea, its name was colonizing European language and spreading across the planet. An eponymous coin originally made with African gold for trade with Guinea came to be a byword for an amount of British currency equal to a pound and a shilling (because, apparently, the existing pre-decimalization system wasn’t cussèd enough), now £1.05. Certain birds from the area were named Guinea fowl. Rather less pleasantly, an indigenous parasite is known as Guinea worm. Meanwhile, there is the Guinea pig, which is not a pig and comes from South America (various theories exist as to the source of its name, but it was not named after the coin, as it was named before the coin was first struck). Four countries have Guinea in their names, and only three are in the region: Guinea, Guinea-Bissau, Equatorial Guinea, and Papua New Guinea (the last of which is named after the large island of which it occupies half, New Guinea – apparently enough alike the old Guinea to spare the Europeans who named it any exercise of the imagination or local research). And, as we may hope fewer and fewer people know, it is also an epithet for Italians and sometimes for Spaniards and other people of similar appearance, originally so applied because of their relatively darker skin. But the Guinea keeps on going – it has gotten quite a number of compounds: along with those already mentioned, it may be followed by aloe, amomum, cloth, drill, hairworm, pea, stuff, corn, cubebs, current, deer, goose, grass, green, hog, merchant, palm, peach, plum, pods, ship, sorrel, trader, weed… Let it not be said that Guinea never gets!

mumpsimus

One of those words (like blivet) that are typically used so they can be explained. Imagine this word in old-style Gothic lettering – where m‘s and w‘s and u‘s and n‘s and, but for the dot, i‘s were all series of the same stroke, and nearly indistinguishable: the only things to stand out would be the p and the two s‘s. The rest lapses into incoherence. Swapping the initial m for an s would make it a bit better to read. But, oh, we couldn’t do that! We must keep the three combs (with three lines each) and two cups (with two lines each) and one candle (with one line and a dot) and it will all be neat and tidy, the way it was meant to be. Even if it does make one think of a childhood disease. In fact, it’s a bit of a dumb-sounding word, isn’t it? A bit thick and slow, perhaps. Well, and this is all leading up to the explanation (“At last!” you say, momentarily pausing your finger-drumming. “Well, get on with it!”). Erasmus, in 1516, recounted the story of an ill-educated priest who had been incorrectly reciting “quod ore mumpsimus” in the Mass instead of the proper “quod ore sumpsimus” (mumpsimus doesn’t actually mean anything). When someone corrected him on it, he replied, “I will not change my old mumpsimus for your new sumpsimus.” And so this word has come to signify someone who clings stubbornly to an error in the belief that it is the old true form, or to an ignorant archaic belief of whatever sort; it also refers to the error thus clung to. So it is actually a nice, useful word if you have an interest in the English language, which is plagued with mumpsimuses (I don’t say mumpsimi not only because it’s not actually a Latin word but because the supposed Latin word it’s taken from is a conjugated verb – the noun form is purely an English usage), such as those baseless shibboleths about “split infinitives” and not ending sentences with prepositions or starting them with conjunctions – cases where the “new error” is a time-honoured form and the “old right way” was someone’s misguided invention. Now let all those mumpsimuses and their mumpsimuses take their lumps and bumble off.

fracas

This word may occasion a quarrel between Brits and Americans over pronunciation, with Canadians caught in the middle as usual. On the British side, partial (but only partial!) obeisance to the French source, sounding like “frack off” minus the final [f] (if you’ve ever watched Battlestar Galactica you will recognize “frack off”); on the American side, a rhyme with “break us.” Either way, it’s not exactly a word of quietude. It calls to mind the friction, fractures, and ruckus caused when a flic finds a flack in flagrante delicto with his fickle filly. That fr – you can get fried with frustration from frittering your time with frauds and their French frippery. And whether it’s “ack” or “ache,” whether it’s “caw” or “cuss,” you’re unlikely to find this word motivating you to fruition of friendliness, or at least a fricassee, even though the opportunity is there, phonetically. As to the fight between US and UK, the irony is that the “purer” version, adhering (only somewhat) to the French, is adhering after all to an alteration. The French fracas came from Italian fracasso, meaning “make an uproar,” from fra (from Latin infra) as an intensifier or absolutizer and cassare meaning “break.” Smash things up, in other words. Throw the plates. All of them. As Rick Simon (played by Gerald McRaney) might have said, “Things are gonna get mighty western in here.”