Monthly Archives: April 2011

benignant

Well, we all know the words malignant and indignant, and that reminiscent word ignorant. There’s something about that /Ign/ that seems to come with brutish, negatively toned words, especially with an /ənt/ at the end of the word – if not prognathous or gnashing the teeth, still jamming up the mouth at back and front, releasing in a way that might remind you of having a cold /gn/, then coming to a clunking stop on the tip of the tongue /nt/.

On the other hand, there’s this word benign, with its smooth /aIn/ ending, even if it is spelled with ign. It fairly glides over that g, like skating overtop of a logo on an ice rink. It rhymes with divine (and a lot of more neutrally toned things). It might even make you think of Benigno Aquino, assassinated opponent of Philippine dictator Ferdinand Marcos and husband of Corazón Aquino, who brought democracy back to the Philippines.

Benign is usually an antonym to malignant. If you have a tumour, and it’s malignant, that’s ugly – it means cancer. But if it’s benign, that means all is fine, or anyway that it’s not cancer.

But benign and malignant aren’t quite a matched pair. They’re like a fork and knife from different sets. They come from Latin roots, benignus “kindly” and malignus “of evil intent”. They were both brought over to English in the 1300s, as benign and malign. And then, 200 years later, a new version of malign arrived, malignant, based on the related Latin form malignans, which is formed from a present participle (rather like maligning). So now we had two evil and one good. And the second evil one was taking much of the business the first evil one had.

So another 200 years later (in the 1700s, if you’re not keeping track), a parallel word was invented, benignant. Where malign bespoke character and malignant perhaps a bit more action, benignant likewise spoke more to action than just to disposition. A person who is benignant shows kindness, especially to social inferiors. So there can be a kind of condescension to it as well – the bigness it displays may bring with it a bit of indignity. I suspect this is partly due to its echoes of malignant and perhaps indignant and ignorant.

Jim Taylor, who suggested this word, noted it in a quote from Mark Twain’s autobiography: “Roosevelt closed my mouth years ago with a deeply valued, gratefully received, unasked favor; & with all my bitter detestation of him I have never been able to say a venomous thing about him in print since – that benignant deed always steps in the way…” Ah, yes, the pregnant benignancy, the indignity of receiving magnanimity, smouldering like lignite ignited. Another good deed that is not unpunishing.

wax

We were seated at a table – Jess Long, Edgar Frick, Marilyn Frack, and I – at the Order of Logogustation’s monthly Words, Wines, and Whatever tasting event. For atmosphere, the lights were dim and the tables were lit with candles.

“This candle’s waning,” observed Edgar.

Marilyn reached over and tilted it a bit. “I think it’s waxing.”

“Like your legs?”

Marilyn set the candle back down. “Are you saying my legs are getting fat?”

“No, no,” Edgar protested. “I mean like you wax your legs.”

“I’ll wax your bum,” Marilyn said, reaching over and giving his leather-clad posterior a whack.

“An interesting and still open question,” Jess said, to divert the conversation, “the matter of whether the verb wax meaning ‘grow’ is at the root of the noun wax. Is it that it is what bees grow, or does that come from another root, meaning ‘weave’?”

“Beats me,” said Marilyn. “I’ve generally minded my own beeswax.”

“Your own bikini wax,” Edgar said.

“Your own Johnson wax,” Marilyn shot back.

“I think,” I interjected, “uh, we’re waxing a bit vulgar here.”

“Why, Johnson wax is floor wax, dear boy,” Edgar said.

“And probably ceiling wax, too,” Marilyn added.

“Fit for ships, and shoes, and cabbages, and kings?” Jess said, with a little smirk.

“You’re getting Carrolled away,” I said.

“I was just trying another angle,” Jess replied.

“Well, wax is a rather angular word,” I said. “In all caps, it’s almost entirely diagonals.”

“Perhaps fitting,” Jess said, “given the way it involves front-and-back coarticulations: the /w/ with the lips rounded and the back of the tongue raised, and then the /ks/ releasing at the back while the tip of the tongue holds in place.”

“More phonemes than graphemes,” I observed.

Marilyn didn’t like the dry turn the conversation was taking. “Front-and-back coarticulations… that sounds like fun,” she purred to Edgar.

“Well, these two sods are about as lively as a wax museum,” Edgar said.

“I think so,” Marilyn said, “I’m talking hot wax, and these drips are writing a wax paper. They don’t know beans about the real wax.”

I said, “Well, I didn’t come here to have a strip peeled off me.”

“Oh,” said Jess, “that’s a whole other ball of wax.” She started whistling “Brazil.”

“Now, that’s waxing lyrical,” Edgar said.

“Or lyrical waxing,” Marilyn added.

“Wax on, you two,” I said.

“Oh,” said Marilyn, “we burn the candle at both ends. I needn’t tell you what Edgar does with a smoldering wick.”

“Wax off,” Jess replied drily, and high-fived me.

pram

Picture yourself out for a stroll when you perceive a posse of perambulators, strollers trolling past the lamps on the boardwalk – or perhaps rolling down the ramp from a tram or some boat. The matrons pushing them have perms, and have perhaps lately sampled some SPAM parmigiana; the pram passengers are pampered and Pamper-ed and probably talcum powdered. And then something happens rather beyond the usual pram parameters: the permed moms begin to ram prams one against another: “Pram! Pram!” is the sound as the metal rattles when the prams jam. Now, what could be the pragmatic of such a perturbation of perambulation, this heavy metal thunder forcing the newborn to be wild?

And where would this be happening? Well, England, probably; that’s where they have prams – in North America we’re more likely to call them baby buggies, baby carriages, or – less semantically isomorphically – strollers. You might see prams parading in Hyde Park, near Albert Hall, where they perform the Proms and Brahms. The word is a demotic English truncation, a bit like telly for television or – more American and more recent still – blog for web log. What is pram short for? Perambulator. Does that sound like some discombobulator, some rather Victorian machine?

Well, the perambulator is a Victorian machine, really; its name comes from when such impressive-sounding locutions were in fashion: in 1853, Burton’s Registered Infant Perambulator was the latest thing for taking infants out for air. Perambulation, as you may know, is “walking around” – from a Latin root formed from per, meaning “throughout”, and ambulare, meaning “walk” (whence also ambulance, a thing that no longer walks). There is also a device used by surveyors – a wheel one walks about with to measure distances – called a perambulator.

Of course, baby carriages had been in existence for several decades by the time perambulator was applied to them. But the term caught on. And then got trimmed down in that way we do (I’m put in mind of vacay, for instance). The first citation for pram in the OED is from 1884. Unless, that is, you count the entirely unrelated word pram referring to a kind of flat-bottomed boat, which comes from Dutch praam.

And how do you like saying it? It seems so pretty and prim, but that’s probably association. The shape of the word bears no particular resemblance to its object, but they seldom do; you could, I suppose, see the blouse of the mother in p and her hand on the pram handle in m. The mouth, saying pram, makes a transit from lips closed to lips closed, like mum, but it can be open for as long as you wish. If it weren’t for the /r/, it could be one of baby’s first words. But if you hear /pam/ from baby, you’ll probably take it as a request for mummy, or perhaps for some SPAM.

maple

Mmm, maple. Look, I’m a good Canadian, but in spite – or perhaps because – of that, I don’t think of the maple leaf first when I hear maple. (I even live in Toronto, home of the unspeakably abysmal Toronto Maple Leafs, run by an appallingly greedy and complacent organization, and nonetheless – or perhaps with even greater cause – don’t think first of maple leaf.)

Nope, I think of maple syrup, and in ample amounts. And maple sugar. And those leaf-shaped cookies, but I think of them because of the flavour first, not the shape. Oh, maple syrup is truly ambrosia. It’s just aces with me. When I was a kid growing up in Alberta, we didn’t get a whole lot of it. My brother came back from a school trip to Quebec with a can of the stuff and we enjoyed it thoroughly in a variety of ways (if you can ever have grand-pères au sirop d’érable, little dumplings swimming in maple syrup, do). I’ve been known to mix maple syrup with vodka (or Everclear) for a pleasant beverage. I simply won’t buy any other kind of syrup now. (And am always disappointed, but never surprised, when a restaurant’s syrup, called “maple syrup” on the menu, turns out to be the usual cheap corn syrup with fake flavour.)

But hey, I grew up in Alberta, where there are no maple trees (not that I ever saw, anyway) – ironic, given that they’re all over much of North America and Europe and even East Asia (mostly not the sugar kind, though), but there I was, in a country with a maple leaf on the flag, and no maples in sight. My dad came back from a trip one time with a couple of big maple leaves and I was seriously impressed. It was sort of like getting a visit from the prime minister or something. We stuck them in the edge of the frame of a painting.

Meanwhile, there are Maple Streets galore in the eastern US and Canada, and even towns named Maple in Ontario, Wisconsin, and Texas. The maple is such a common motif in Canada and the US that we might as well dance around the maple, rather than the maypole, on Mayday. And if the maple leaf is not truly distinctively Canadian, well, neither is the beaver, and anyway maple syrup production is indigenously North American – the First Nations people invented it. Making it more truly Canadian than any prime minister this country has ever had.

The word maple, on the other hand, is not originally Canadian, but it is Anglo-Saxon. A maple tree in Old English was a mapulder, which had a tidy analogy with apulder “apple tree”. There are places in England with names such as Mappleton and Mappleborough thanks to maple trees. The Latin name for the genus, as it happens, is Acer – a word etymologically unrelated to maple or even to ace.

The word maple is so common, and it brings such delicious taste memories to the mind’s tongue, that it doesn’t get such a strong influence from similar words – it’s more likely to give influence to them. Mind you, many resemblant words are equally well established. Most of the -ple words are so common that it’s hard to pinpoint any common taste they get from the ending: simple, purple, ample, people, pimple, scruple, steeple, trample, dumple… OK, that last one is jokey; dumpling does not come from some verb dumple – rather, there is a rare verb dumple backformed from dumpling (and meaning, roughly, what one does to those bits of dough when making grand-pères). The /pl/ ending always seems to me to be like a little folding-over, as of a piece of paper (or a palm, or a leaf), but I can’t say quite why. I wonder what taste it has for others.

On the other hand, at least two fictional characters have names that smack a bit of maple for me: Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple (also tasting of marble), soon to be played by Jennifer Garner, WTF are you kidding me (and transposed to the US too, how unspeakable), and the Shadout Mapes, a character in Frank Herbert’s Dune.

The latest news (as I write this) for maple syrup is from that fertile field of fatuousness, health reporting. The news media are running little “whaddya know” stories about a study commissioned by maple syrup producers. It turns out that maple syrup has a whole lot of antioxidant phenolics in it. So it must be really good for you, eh? Well, I’ll take it over corn syrup any day, but come on, folks: it’s sugar. And phenolics are pretty common in fruits and vegetables. Just enjoy it because it’s enjoyable, with no excuses. If you can enjoy words, you can certainly enjoy a bit of maple syrup.

incessant & unceasing

Dear word sommelier: Is it better to speak of unceasing devotion or incessant devotion?

Well, I’d say that depends at least in part on how you feel about the devotion: is it commendable or annoying? It also depends to some extent on whether the devotion is continuous or continual. The two words are supposedly synonymous, but we shall see that they do have differences in flavour and usage patterns.

Incessant and unceasing are like long-lost twins separated at birth. Only they’re not quite identical anymore – they’re sort of like Danny DeVito and Arnold Schwarzenegger in Twins. Well, not quite, but they have elaborated differently from the same root. Both come from the Latin verb cessare “cease, stop”, which is in turn derived from cedere “yield, cede”. Both came to English by way of French. But in the case of unceasing, just the verb root was borrowed over and Anglicized as cease in the 14th century, and English affixes were added to make unceasing (also dating from the 14th century). In the case of incessant, the whole French word was borrowed over (with a change in pronunciation) – about 200 years later than cease showed up.

We can note the different sounds and feels of the two words: although both have a scissor-like quality, unceasing starts with the dull, mid-central “uh” vowel and has a “long” vowel peak (written with that more open-feeling ea), while incessant is higher and tighter from start to finish: in is more acute and perhaps pushier than un, the stressed vowel [ε] is a bit lower than the [i:]  in unceasing but tighter because shorter, and the following [s] may be thought of as longer (without actually being so) because it’s written doubled. As for echoes, unceasing has sounds of sea, sing, and seizing, while incessant is more likely to bring to mind such words as incense and necessity and perhaps insensitive.

Have those factors helped shape the current shades of meaning and usage of the two words? I can’t say. Actually, it would take a lot of work to come up with even a suggestion of an answer. But we can see what has shaped up. Words are known by the company they keep, and have a look at the kinds of words each one is likely to travel with: unceasing shows up with such as struggle, flow, activity, rain, wind, and demands; on the other hand, incessant shows up with demands, noise, rain, activity, wind… Whaddya mean they look the same?

Actually, while there are overlaps, the emphasis is indeed a little different. Something that is unceasing is typically continuous (like flow), and may be positively, negatively, or neutrally toned (it can be applied to kindness, as by Walter Scott, or a progression, as by Willa Cather, or care or change or toil, as by William Wordsworth). Something that is incessant may be continuous or may be iterative (repeating), and is usually at least slightly negatively toned (like noise; it can be applied to shocks or war, as by Wordsworth, or slashing, as by Sherwood Anderson, or weepings, as by Shakespeare, or pain, as by Christopher Marlowe, or uneasiness, as by H.G. Wells).

Consider, for instance, incessant visits versus unceasing visits. Neither is likely to be very positively toned, though unceasing visits could be; but also, incessant visits means the person is visiting, for instance, every day, without cease, while unceasing visits may mean that or may mean that the visits are of great duration, or both.

And so, too, unceasing devotion may be admirable (though it may be annoying), but it is certainly truly unceasing – as the affixes indicate, is doesn’t cease; it’s continuous. Incessant devotion, on the other hand, is much more likely to be annoying, and has the option of something that happens with great frequency (though that would be more likely with a plural: incessant devotions). It’s a little more removed from the clear literalness of cease because of its lesser resemblance.

For what it’s worth, incessant is also the more common of the two words; if Google Ngrams are to be trusted, it shows up about two and a half times as often as unceasing, and has done so pretty consistently for at least two centuries – although both words had a peak in the mid-1800s and have been subsiding ever since. But, yes, their use has not ceased – which is not to say it is incessant (which implies a very notable frequency).

At a guess, you probably want unceasing devotion – it’s the safer choice in that case anyway (but you can see that you may do better with incessant in some contexts). But there are many other cases where incessant would be the better choice.