Monthly Archives: October 2011

crepuscular

I went on a road trip with two friends today. As we were driving across the Burlington Bay Skyway, we observed the quasi-stygian landscape (Burtynskyesque) of the steel mills. But it’s really quite a tame sight now compared to what it once was; one has the sense of the steel industry gradually fading into twilight years. I recalled my first encounter with Hamilton, as a child, when a family friend, driving me and my brother from the airport in Toronto to my dad’s childhood stomping grounds in Buffalo, had us put on masks to protect our lungs from the air there; when we stopped for gas, the air had a definite orange cast.

My friend Alex’s response? “It made spectacular sunsets.” True enough: clear air makes for fairly plain sunsets – the more crap you have in the air, the more spectacular the sunsets tend to be (as long as you can see them), layered like crepe paper, sometimes with almost muscular striations (though, in the wrong smog, creeping and pustular). Your eyes tell you to breathe deep the gathering gloom (to quote from the Moody Blues); your lungs beg you not to.

But I mislead: crepuscular does not relate to sunsets, not directly. Rather, it relates to what follows them, something that comes in ample quantity in boreal latitudes and is brutally fleeting in the tropics: twilight.

Oh, great, now I’m going to get people coming to this page because they were searching for stuff on vampires. Ugh. I haven’t read the Twilight series, so I have no direct comments on its merits, but in general I’m not strongly inclined to read about creeps and corpuscles. It sounds craptacular to me. I’m not here for tweens (other than exceptionally literate ones); I’m here today to talk about the between times – between night and not night. When darkness covers us, it is not the vampire’s cape, not the shades we are dragged into by a creeper, but rather the dull crepe of the creper, which is Latin for “dark”. Make a diminutive of that and you have crepusculum, the lesser darkness: what we experience as the suddenly frantic half-dark.

The Romans tended to use the term more for dawn than for dusk, it seems, but dusk is more in our experience now. True, many of us in northern countries wake in the pre-dawn twilight for much of the year, but few people are not up and about and looking out during the dimming hours. It’s a time when we probably finish work and settle into our home-oriented routines, perhaps to settle in for a favourite sitcom, or go out for leisure and pleasure. The word twilight has a certain dreamy quality to it, an echo of night and a persistence of light. But the word crepuscular, an adjective for twilight, is more likely to send a shiver down the back, as though some unexpected furry thing were brushing against you, or perhaps a chupacabra were licking its chops in your carport.

True, this word hides sup and even super backwards, but in its crisp crackle and hiss (reminiscent of the sound from an old gramophone record set to play by a fireplace in a cabin in the grasslands a century back) we find no plenitude of positive associations as it passes over our tongues and by our eyes in a forward direction. Some people will like the taste of this word, but there are others who find it – as Elaine Phillips, in requesting this tasting, put it – sinister.

Still, even the not-pretty can have aesthetic value. The hazy air of Hamilton’s harbour presented a prepossessing picture. And from there we rode on, not into the sunset or twilight but just to Buffalo, where one of us owed the other two of us lunch (for losing a bet), at the Cheesecake Factory – we may not be Twilight fans, but we do watch The Big Bang Theory.

Macon

Mmmm… bacon. Salt, fat, protein… what’s not to like? But the question one inevitably runs into is, What kind of wine do you drink with it?

Aside from champagne, I mean. How about a nice chardonnay? I don’t mean one of those hello-sailor Australian or Californian oak-stick-in-your-face hyper-buttery chards – talk about gilding the lily. No, try something a little crisper to cut through the fat, maybe a little toasty, just a little edge of fried food in the nose. I won’t pussy-foot around this: you want a Pouilly-Fuissé, or some other chardonnay from the same region. I’m drinking one such right now: Louis Jadot Mâcon-Villages. The region is the Mâconnais, names after the city of Mâcon, in the Burgundy (Bourgogne) area of France.

You see? The name is perfect: Mmm + bacon = Macon. Of course it would be even more perfect (in word form if not flavour) for macon, which is bacon made from sheep (mutton + bacon), but who eats that outside of Scotland (or even inside of it, for the most part)?

Admittedly, you don’t want to build your culinary house on a masonry of graphemes (letters). It just happens that the wine in question does work nicely with the bacon. I’m sure, on the other hand, that far more bacon than Mâconnais is consumed in Macon. That’s Macon, Georgia, of course: note the a in place of â.

Does Macon, Georgia, have anything in common with Macon, France? Is it in fact named after it? Well, sorta and sorta. Both have hills on one side, so that’s something in common; in Georgia they have streams rushing down them that gave useful fuel to textile mills. In France they have grapes growing all over them. Those hills gave Mâcon it name; it comes from Ligurian mat “mountain” with the suffix asco, and that became Matisco in Latin, which became Mascon in French, and all those s’s that became silent over time got turned into circumflexes – that little peak on top of the a in Mâcon.

Macon, Georgia, was named after Nathaniel Macon, the sixth speaker of the US House of Representatives, a staunch opponent of the constitution and of a strong federal government, a man famous for voting “no” to practically everything (one may speculate bootlessly about sour grapes). His grandfather was Colonel Gideon Macon, an early settler who came from the Loire area of France. Which is where Mâcon is.

Of course Mâcon is pronounced the French way and Macon the English way, meaning the latter rhymes with bacon and the former does not. (Bacon, by the way, comes from a Germanic root cognate with back.) Another pair of words with the same sound pattern, different from this one only by having /s/ instead of /k/, is French maçon and its English translation mason, the English coming from an earlier or variant form of the French, which ultimately comes from a Germanic root probably cognate with make.

There is one other taste I get from Macon: in Waiting for Godot by Samuel Beckett, there’s this line: “No I was never in the Macon country! I’ve puked my puke of a life away here, I tell you! Here! In the Cackon country!” So… where is the Cackon country? Nowhere, actually. It’s a play on Macon, with a (frankly not obvious enough) reference to caca.

Does that seem like a stretch? Well, the thing is, Beckett, though an Irishman, wrote Godot in French first and then translated it to English himself. And in French the line is different: “Mais non, je n’ai jamais été dans le Vaucluse! J’ai coulé toute ma chaude-pisse d’existence ici, je te dis! Ici! Dans la Merdecluse!” You see, it’s not Mâcon, it’s Vaucluse – an area farther south in France. And the counterpart to Cackon is Merdecluse, which replaces vau with merde, the French word for “shit”.

Beckett also used puke in English where in the French he has chaude-pisse. It would be far too disgusting to relate that to chardonnay and bacon in some way, but I can’t help but be reminded by it of Pisse-Dru, which is a red wine made in Beaujolais, which is immediately south of Mâcon. I probably wouldn’t drink it with bacon. Maybe with a Big Mac, though.

hatch

“Well, that was a weekend down the booby hatch.” Marilyn Frack looked uncharacteristically like a tired wet hen. Her head was leaning against the heel of her hand, her elbow (in the usual black leather jacket) planted on the table, her whole body slumped in distinct disgruntlement. She lifted her head – and her other hand – long enough to toss a half glass of meritage down the hatch.

“We went sailing,” her other half, Edgar Frick, explained. I thought I heard an apologetic note in his voice.

Marilyn glanced up through her top lashes, which were leaking mascara. “And who hatched that plot, in mid-October?”

Edgar splayed his hand, palm up. “You saw the forecast.” He dashed back some of his glass of Hacker-Pschorr.

“What a hatchet job,” Marilyn said. “Sunny, my itchy cha-chas. The sky was cross-hatched with clouds in the morning, and by lunch we had to batten down the hatches.”

“Yes, well, things did get a little sketchy in the afternoon.”

“Sketchy?!” Marilyn raised her head, her eyes a bit wider. “I thought I was in the coney hatch!” I resisted the usually insurmountable impulse to ask whether she knew that this term for a madhouse came from the Colney Hatch Lunatic Asylum in London, and whether she was a fan of the Canadian rock band Coney Hatch.

“The girls got especially excitable,” Edgar said, a touch ruefully.

Marilyn looked at me. “A clutch of chicks, barely hatched. That’s why he wanted to go on this wretched trip.”

“You seemed rather fond of the crewmen,” Edgar said.

“Chet and Chico? I spent all my time with Chuck. Up-chuck.”

“It was wretched,” Edgar allowed. “And I ratched my back in the parking lot. I was clutching the catch on a hatchback…”

Marilyn smirked. “I thought it was from catching your britches in a hatchway.”

“Well,” I said, hoping to switch the topic. “This is quite an affricate festival we’re having here. And all these Anglo-Saxon words…”

Marilyn looked at me and half-smiled. “Don’t lose your touch, hot-shot. Oh, I have some Anglo-Saxon words to hatch and dispatch at my match…” She glanced over at Edgar, who was doing his best to look like a sorry puppy. “But…” she said with a shrug, “ah, frick it.”

affricate

Ah, frick it. It’s about time I got around to doing this word. It just has a certain something: it sits in your mouth hissing and spitting like a fricassee on the griddle, and the sound it refers to is slightly sternutatory: a stop released not suddenly but in a short, sharp spray – or hissing puff of air, anyway. Well, hissing if it’s voiceless; with the voiced ones, that little vibe after the stop can seem to give it an added strength. Or you tell me: which letter sounds stronger to you, d or j? No doubt context plays a role. But affricates, consonantal equivalents of diphthongs, have a complexity most others lack.

What are the affricates? In English, we have only two: /tʃ/ and /dʒ/, what we spell ch and j. But several others are available, and you’ve probably said more than one of them at one time or another in some loan word or piece of another language. It’s probably just a matter of time before /ts/ is accepted as an English sound; its voiced counterpart, /dz/, may or may not follow. Some of you may use /pf/ in loans from German; /bv/ is one you might make inadvertently in an especially sodden “bread”, but not as a distinct sound in its own right. And then there are the ones on the palate – press the middle of your tongue to the roof of your mouth and imitate a sneeze, and you might recognize a sound from the start of an emphatic “cute”, but again, it’s not a distinct sound in its own right – you could say a normal [k] there instead and be making the same word. As to the affricates made with /k/ and /g/ at the start… well, those have a good reason for being rare. And then there’s the lateral one heard at the start of Lhasa when it’s pronounced in the original… I’ll spare you the detailed description.

Some of you may be thinking, “Wait, we have hats and adze and upfront and subvert… what about those?” But an affricate is the conjunction of the stop and fricative done as a single sound, recognized and treated as a single sound, patterning as a single sound. We start words with /tʃ/ and /dʒ/: Chuck and Jim, for instance. We don’t do that with other potential affricates. German has Pfeiffer and Zeitgeist; Japanese has tsunami; we tend in English, when we borrow such words, to reduce or change the sounds. The English examples you can think of are all two sounds treated like two sounds. You can see the difference when you look at one of our affricates against its two-phoneme counterpart: compare ratchet with rat shit.

Others of you may be thinking, “What about /ks/ and /ps/ and sounds like those?” They don’t count; they’re not homorganic: the stop and the fricative don’t use the same part of the apparatus. To make an affricate you start with a stop and then add some friction – a fricative – in the same place. And, yes, the fric in affricate and fricative is the same as in friction: from Latin for “rub”.

The word affricate has stops and a rub – the twin ff like chaff in the breeze standing for the fricative /f/, and of course c and t the stops /k/ and /t/ – but it has no affricate. It does have a sound of African (indeed, affricate is how you would say African if it were Afrikit). Is that ironic? People more readily think of prenasalized stops – such as /nd/ and /mb/ – and clicks when they think of African languages, but that’s just because those are exotic to European ears. Of course affricates can be found in African languages – varying from language to language, naturally; remember that Africa has about two thousand languages in four entirely distinct language families (Niger-Congo [e.g., Swahili, Zulu], Afroasiatic [e.g., Arabic, Hausa], Nilo-Saharan [e.g., Dinka, Masai], and Khoisan [e.g., !Kung, Khoekhoe]; five if you count the Indo-European ones – English, French, etc., as well as the Greek that Cleopatra spoke).

Not all languages have affricates, to be sure, and those that do may not have many. But where you have them, they add a nice extra something that you can just chew on. So to speak.

lurch

When I was a kid, if I wanted to imitate the noise of something (e.g., a car) lurching to a sudden halt, the sound I would make was typically “Rrrrch!” (I suppose you could also spell it “Errrch!” but only if you remember that the nucleus of the syllable is a syllabic /r/, no variety of an e vowel.) The /r/, especially if high pitched, seems to carry a bit of the sound of rubber on road, and the closing affricate /tʃ/ is a classic catch sound, that of something that stops but not quite on a point. There’s a definite taste of screech. One way or another, this is one word that makes me glad I speak with a Canadian accent rather than, say, a British (or a Brooklyn) one. That syllabic retroflex, as infra dig as it may seem, has a certain tension.

Bearing all that in mind, lurch seems a generally sonically appropriate word. Of course things (and people) may lurch into motion, or side to side, rather than to a stop; the point is simply abrupt movement – originally a sudden leaning to one side. The headlong movement seems to work well with the /r/ and the abruptness with the /tʃ/. The one bit that may make you wonder is the /l/: is that not too soft, too liquid? For a truly abrupt motion, perch might perchance seem a better word, but that is instead a word for a place to sit, or the act of sitting on it. Well, maybe the /l/ is the lap of the sea, or maybe it’s the unnoticed lead-up to the big lean.

But what other words have this sound? And does it suit them? To find the answer, you may search, research, and ensearch from your perch, be it on birch or in a church, or just virch, but what you find will besmirch any theory of a phoneastheme here: the various words really have nothing in common other than the sound. I’m inclined to think that phonaesthemes – such as /sn/ having to do with nasal things – tend to show up in the onset, not the rime, of a word. Alas, /rtʃ/ leaves us in the lurch.

And in fact even lurch leaves us in the lurch. You see, the sense “sudden leaning to one side” dates only from the 1700s (and the verb “lean suddenly” to the 1800s), and its apparent progenitor is lee-larches, possibly from lee-latch. Meanwhile, two centuries earlier there was a game called lurch – not a sport, but a table game like backgammon, and it got its name from a Germanic word meaning “left” or “wrong”; if you lost badly, you were lurched (sort of like being snookered). The lurch, from that, is a position in a game where one loses very badly: either completely blanked or, for instance, with less than 30 at the end of a game of cribbage.

Yes, that’s where we get left in the lurch from: being stuck without help in a losing position (it does not necessarily imply that the person who leaves you in the lurch is your opponent – it could be someone who was supposed to be on your side). Nothing to do with jerks, except for the kind who leave you in the lurch. The phrase originated with a gaming sense now long forgotten; it’s just been lurching around since.

Oh, yes, there’s also a verb sense of lurch that means (and is probably related to) lurk. Well, there was one – it’s obsolete now too. It seems that the sense we know best has taken over. I’m tempted to speculate that it’s prevailing thanks to its phonaesthetic appeal. Of course, I have no solid data for that.

nevertheless, nonetheless, notwithstanding

Jess held up Arlene’s jacket, which had been missing. (See whereabouts.)

“Oh!” said Arlene. “Whereabouts was it?”

“Hanging off a cupboard in the kitchen,” Jess said, “but wherefore I know not.”

Wherefore… Is that short for what it was there for?” Arlene said playfully. “How did it get there? Nevertheless, I am glad you found it.”

“Oh!” I said, a lightbulb going on in my head. “When you arrived a bit early we conscripted you immediately into helping bring food and beverage out. We took you into the kitchen and you left your jacket there.”

“Oh yes,” Arlene said, “notwithstanding I was the newbie…”

“Especially because you were the newbie,” I said. “And how do you get involved? Not with standing around waiting!”

“Well, carrying trays of food, I felt like a waiter nonetheless,” Arlene said. “Although, as I know from working for a caterer, they also wait who stand and serve.”

Jess was shaking her head in amusement and mild amazement. “Where did you find her, James?”

“Not without standing around,” I said. “Manning the table at frosh week can be a bit dodgy, but nevertheless there’s always the more.”

“And nonetheless there’s one the more, at least this time,” Arlene said. “Those are nice long words that don’t say a whole lot, aren’t they? Nevertheless, nonetheless, nothwithstanding… insofar as they say anything at all, it’s just ‘but’ or ‘athough’.”

“I believe medieval English law clerks got paid by the letter,” I said.

“Well, not by the word,” Jess said. “Otherwise why concatenate so?”

“Are these words really that old?” Arlene said.

“Older, even,” I said. “Especially earlier versions of them such as netheless and natheless, which come from Old English, before the years were in triple digits. The phrases got used adverbially so much that they got treated as single words. We don’t use natheless anymore because we don’t use na anymore, but none and the now-archaic use of never the and never a to mean ‘not’ have taken over.”

“We use natheless nevermore!” Arlene said.

“I think she’s raven,” Jess quipped.

“Just as we use neverthemore nevermore,” I said, “but it was a word in use at one time, to mean ‘definitely not’.”

“And nevermore means ‘no longer’, as does not anymore,” Arlene said, thinking it through, “so they refer to something that stopped. The converse would be something that hasn’t stopped… Still.”

“Yes,” Jess said, “if something hasn’t stopped still, it still hasn’t stopped. I love how we use still for something that keeps moving. And is therefore not still.”

“Well, what would it still be there for?” I said.

“What are these words still there for, if we have shorter ones that serve?” Arlene said. “Nevertheless they are, their length notwithstanding.”

“Ah, multiple morphemes are the morphine of pompous parlance,” I said. “If we wish to be more formal and authoritative, we often drag in confections of multiple Latin and French bits, but these ones are made of Anglo-Saxon bits: never, the, less; not plus withstanding, which is with on standing, which is stand plus ing.”

“Notwithstanding that notwithstanding is probably based on Latin non obstante,” Jess said. “Still, we could say it at even greater length: ‘It is no less the case that it is so’ rather than ‘Nevertheless, it is so,’ or ‘All of the preceding does not present an obstacle’ rather than ‘All of the preceding notwithstanding.’ But you’re right, the longer words are like verbal truncheons, and the longer ones hit harder. However,” she said, dropping into a chair, “if we’re going to keep on this tack, it will not be without sitting down.”

“Notwithstanding that it sounds like fun,” I said, “my system and my spouse will not withstand a lack of sleep. Enough morphemes, more morpheus for me.”

“And now I have my wherewithal,” Arlene said, putting on her jacket, “something to wear with all the words in my head and the winds outside…”

“I hope it will be withstanding the winds,” Jess said. “It’s a bit breezy out there.”

“And in here,” Arlene said, and smiled. “I’ll see you later.” And with that she breezed out.

Thanks to Margaret Gibbs and Elin Cameron for suggesting today’s words.

whereabouts

The Order of Logogustation’s monthly Words, Wines, and Whatever tasting event was drawing to a close. One of our newest members, Arlene (you may recall her from my note on beg the question and ad hominem), was looking at the chairs around the room.

“Inventorying our assets?” I said.

“It’s more about something to wear,” she said. “My jacket. Its exact present whereabouts are unknown.”

“Magnificent,” I said. “You’ve managed to include three of the top collocations for whereabouts: unknown, present, and exact.”

“True,” she said. “People seldom say that whereabouts are known.”

“In fact,” I said, “if you Google ‘whereabouts are known’ you get the suggestion ‘whereabouts are unknown’. Interestingly, if you Google ‘whereabouts is known’ you get no suggestion and far fewer hits – about fifteen percent as many. The same is/are proportion holds for unknown, but with about ten times as many hits.”

“Well, why would anyone say whereabouts is?” Very brief pause. “I suspect I’m about to find out.”

I was smiling. “It’s not a plural.”

“Of course not,” she said, looking heavenward. “Why should I assume something is a plural just because it looks like one?”

“The s is a survival of the genitive from when it was used to form adverbs – besides, anyways, towards, and so on.”

She looked at me through the tops of her glasses. “Survival of the genitive. Sounds like linguistic Darwinism.”

“Except in language some words and phrases persist long after their environment has changed to one unsuited to them.”

“Well, I’m unsuited for the environment outside,” she said. “If I don’t find something to wear about now, I will lack the wherewithal to get home comfortably, no ifs, ands, or buts.” She continued moving through the chairs. I could see her begin to roll the word around in her mouth silently as she did so: where-a-bout-s. Then she stopped and turned again to me. “So I could actually say ‘Whereabouts is my jacket’?”

“Exactly,” I said. “That was its first use: as a long way of saying ‘where’ or a short way of saying ‘in what area’. Sort of like whatever versus what.”

“Which means,” she said, “I could also say ‘My jacket’s where is unknown.'”

“True, although since we generally no longer devoice the wh, there is risk of confusion.”

“Well, there we are,” she said. “I am confused about the exact present where of my wear.”

“Yes, the whereabouts of what you will wear about outside is unknown.”

Jess came up to us. “I don’t know about that,” she said.

I raised an eyebrow. “You’re disagreeing with my syntax?”

“Your semantics,” she said. “Its whereabouts may be unknown to you, but they are not – sorry, it is not – to me.” She held up a jacket.

“Oh!” said Arlene. “Whereabouts was it?”

“Hanging off a cupboard in the kitchen,” Jess said, “but wherefore I know not.”

muumuu

So… what do you think is better for a woman to wear in a hot climate? Cut-offs or a long, loose dress? Daisy Dukes or a Mother Hubbard? Well, when the missionaries hit the Polynesian islands in the 19th century, they found that the women wore less than the missionaries felt was modest. So they had them wear long, loose dresses with long sleeves and high necklines – what have come to be called Mother Hubbard dresses. The women of Hawai‘i felt that these dresses would be more comfortable with a little less fabric, and so they cut them – no flounces at the bottom, no lace collar at the top, and short sleeves; the dresses hang loosely from the shoulders. They called them “cut off” – a word which in Hawai‘ian is not cut off but reduplicated, as many Polynesian words are: mu‘umu‘u.

Now, to be sure, a muumuu is not a sort of dress to make the average man say “mmmm” or “oooo” or get a catch in his throat. It’s more the sort of thing for his mama. Many women don’t fancy it so much either – it’s the kind of thing of which my wife would say “It makes me look like a moo-moo” (i.e., bovine – although in reality no matter what she wears she looks divine).

But it sure is comfortable and relaxed. And, typically, very colourful. It’s tropical loungewear for people who really don’t want to have to worry about, well, much of anything. Kick back. Have a Chi Chi (that’s nothing chi-chi; it’s a piña colada made with vodka). It’s fitting enough that the pronunciation has eased off, too: no glottal stops (as we use in English uh-oh, and as in Hawai‘i they say between the final two i’s of the state name); what was four syllables has become two, and in English the glottal stop marks – not apostrophes but opening single quotes – have been dropped. You can discern a variety of shapes in the resulting muumuu: the uu’s may be upside-down m’s; they may be loose shapes of the body hanging in the dress’s drapery; the alternation between m and uu might bring to mind the swaying of a hula dance.

And the sound of the word? The soft murmur of the breeze in the palm trees, perhaps? The wash of the waves, beneath which swim the mahimahi, the humuhumunukunukuapua‘a, and the lauwiliwilinukunuku‘oi‘oi? Or, well, the cattle that are herded by ranchers on the island of Hawai‘i, perhaps – they were introduced by Captain George Vancouver in 1793 and there’s a pretty big industry there now.

hussy

OK, what word comes before this one? Yes, I know, immediately you think Olivia, but in fact the actress who starred in Zeffirelli’s 1968 Romeo and Juliet is Olivia Hussey with an e. I suppose the Montagues might have thought Juliet Capulet was a shameless hussy, though…

Oh, yes, shameless. That’s the big winner in the collocation contest. Number two is brazen. We know what a hussy is: that husband-stealer who wears deep red lipstick, the sort of woman who gives every decent housewife a hissy fit and sends her off in a huff, even as the husbands think “Huzzah!” And I won’t mention the resemblance of this word to another one that starts with a p but curiously doesn’t rhyme with this one… I won’t mention it not because I’m still on a paralipsis kick but because it would probably trip off every stupid spam and smut filter out there.

Still, I wonder if this word might be undergoing a bit of a rehabilitation. I say this because on a store window today I saw a display for Merle Norman’s Hussy Collection, a set of cosmetics (lipstick, lip gloss, lip liner, nail polish) in a truly lurid red, just the sort of thing you imagine the hourglass-shaped maneaters in film noir and hardboiled ’40s films wearing (imagine because, after all, the films were in black and white). Very Jessica Rabbit: “Get out of here. Give me some money too.” (You can see the curve and sway of her hips and bust in the ss.) Makeup for women who aren’t bad but want to be drawn that way, maybe to fly off with their mad men on Pan Am…

Well, if hussy gains a more positive tone, it’s only fair; it’s had something of a downturn in the past half-millennium. After all, it started out as a contracted form of huswyf or huswif – a word we now spell as housewife. At first hussy named a frugal domestic engineer. The prejudices of the times (not altogether gone from our own) led from that to a sense of a rural, uneducated woman. And from that to a rude one. A nasty one. A nasssssty one. Mmmm… a minx. Oh yess. A hussy. Maybe with a husky voice, and flounces all fluffy… ready to ride off on a horsey with some rural Romeo.

paralipsis

I don’t have to tell you that this word has two of most of its letters – p, a, i, s – plus a pair of liquids; some might suggest that this indicates doublespeak or a forked tongue, but I will not. And it hardly needs pointing out that this word resembles parallel and parallax, which I just yesterday tasted; it goes without saying that they have the Greek para “alongside” root in common. The lipsis comes from leipein “leave”, so the roots combine to make “leave alongside”, which is what this word means.

But it doesn’t mean it literally; it means it rhetorically, a sort of feigned rhetorical paralysis (or acted cataplexy). Imagine the stream of discourse as like a conveyor belt of ideas. Now imagine that every so often in the incessant stream someone takes an idea and pulls it off and sets it aside. I don’t need to ask which you’re more likely to turn your attention to, the stream of ideas or the one that was pulled off and set aside. It’s sort of like saying “Don’t think about elephants.”

I used to have a professor who would occasionally introduce slightly mischievous suggestions into his discourse by saying “I was about to say” – as in “She looked rather like, erm, I was about to say rather like a tart.” But of course he didn’t say it, did he, aside from, you know, saying it. That’s the good-humoured way of using paralipsis. It would be distasteful to mention here the less pleasant mode of use it gets in politics, drawing attention to a character attack by saying you won’t mention it – anyway, Andy Hollandbeck does just fine covering that side of it at logophilius.blogspot.com, wherein he calls it by the name praeteritio.

Yes, paralipsis has a number of names; aside from praeteritio, it can also be called preterition, cataphrasis, antiphrasis, and parasiopesis. But I like paralipsis. I like it, for one thing, because it makes me think of a parellipsphere. What’s that? It is (or was – it was made in the ’70s and ’80s) a theatrical light that combines the best parts of three different kinds of reflectors – parabolic, ellipsoidal, and spherical – to cast a strong, clear, focused beam. They make good spotlights (not follow spots, though; fixed). And paralipsis draws attention just as surely and as strongly as a parellipsphere.

One thing I don’t need to draw attention to is this word’s strong taste of pair of lips. Oh, there’s many a slip betwixt cup and lip, and I’m a-Freud some of them are not pure lapsus. I was going to close with the admonition that you always have to watch what the pair of lips is actually saying, but I think you know that, so I’ll leave it aside.