Monthly Archives: December 2011

odalisque

Were you as enchanted as I was by Delacroix’s rendering of the Sardanapalian odalisque being held unwilling to her early demise (see en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Delacroix_sardanapalus_1828_950px.jpg)?

I am assuming you know the word odalisque. It is possible, however, that you do not. Everyone must encounter this word first sometime, and it may be fairly late in life, odalisques not being standard features of the modern quotidian. My recollection of first encountering the word was as the title of a dance piece. Since I am a lover of modern dance, especially the abstract kind, I do not think that even at the end of the piece I had a clear idea of what an odalisque was.

The word does not lead you to its referent, does it? With its strong taste of basilisk and obelisk it seems more primed to turn you to stone; with its oda it may make you think of counting miles (that would actually be odo, as in odometer, but the hint is there). But it also has that fancy French ending… not quite esque, but, one may say, somewhat esqueesque. But, now, the esquire may enquire as to what it is esque – or ish, since the old English cognate of esque is ish. Is it model-ish? Perhaps. Especially if the model is risqué.

The truth is that the lisque in this word is from a suffix, but a Turkish one: lık. It expresses function, sort of as English er or ary might when added to a noun. And oda is a room – in this case, a chamber in a harem. An odalisque is an odalık, a woman in a Turkish harem (or any other kind of harem, more broadly) – originally, a slave, a servant to the concubines, a chambermaid to the ladies; in more common usage now, it serves up an image of a concubine herself. The s was added in the French and English because it seemed to make sense – it matched a pattern. Words are our harem, and we will abduct and tattoo and dress them as we will. (That’s much better than doing the same to humans.)

It may have been odious to have been an odalisque (though it may, for some, have been better than the alternatives), but this word is not odious, the resonance notwithstanding. The /l/ in the heart in particular is lithe and lissome; the /s/ slips as silk sliding to the tiles; the que is pure ornamentation, a simple /k/ as in kiss but with a curly q, and the rest is silence. The contexts of this word always bring it forth with a flavour of the exotic (pure orientalism), of a place far away and a time long ago; painters have liked odalisques because they give an excuse to present the nude or half-nude female form in an alluring context.

We would not tolerate the keeping of odalisques now, but we have idealized it then: a beautiful woman, dressed lavishly or lavishly nude, ready to do as the sultan bids, even to the point of fraudulently altering official documents – oh, sorry, wrong Oda, and sorry for the image. You may wish to erase it from your mind with the results of a Google image search on odalisque. You know already what you will see: models, risqué, but great painterly art. Brace yourself for an ingress of Ingres.

Thanks again to Allan Jackson for suggesting today’s word.

Laxity and language

It is a common assumption that lax language is an indicator of lax thought – that a careful thinker will use careful language. Typically riding along with this assumption is another: that “careful language” means formal language adhering to a particular set of prescriptive norms.

The first assumption may seem reasonable enough, prima facie, though, as we will see, there are important limitations and reservations to it. The second assumption is a non-sequitur, the sort of idea that would have a person wear a tuxedo to a construction job. But its effects are pervasive. In fact, it’s been shown that people will rate more highly a weak argument expressed in formal language than a good argument expressed in casual language.

Part of the problem is a general conflation of formality with care. One can use formal words without being careful about them, and one can quite deliberately and carefully use slang and other casual language for effect. Some of the most effective messages in politics and advertising have been crafted in informal language. Indeed, great philosophical insights and thoughtful analyses can be expressed in language that seems sloppy. “You oughta do the same things to other folks as you’d like them to do to you.” (Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.) “Look, the only thing I know is: I know. Ain’t nothin’ sure beyond that.” (Cogito ergo sum.) “If you got one thing in a place, you can’t have another thing in exactly the same place just then.” (Two bodies cannot occupy the same space.) True, the flavour is different, and the language may be less concise (though in some cases the plain version of an analysis is actually more concise – see below). But the understanding conveyed is the same. And beyond that, there are many professional engineers and similar people who are very vigorous and careful thinkers, but whose English is riddled with errors and nonstandard usages. Their drawings and equations are, of course, perfectly reliable.

Among world languages and cultures, sophistication of morphosyntax, whatever that may be (is it greater complexity or greater elegance? it’s almost undefinable), does not seem to correlate with sophistication of thought. And, more importantly, adherence to prescriptive norms can actually evince lack of thought – dogmatism without regard for effect – while masquerading as intelligence. A mind that can only manage one mode of communication regardless of context is not careful, it’s inflexible. And, in spite of what many people would have you believe, inflexibility is a mark of an inferior mind, not a superior one.

In short, it is reasonable to expect that careful thinkers will also more likely be careful users of words. But care in use of words is often misunderstood. Colloquialism can be very inventive – in fact, the inventive spirit is the source of much slang – and “proper” language can be very thick-headed.

To look at the limiting effect of the formality prejudice, consider academic writing and similar registers such as medical jargon. They present themselves as being more precise, and in academic writing the expectation is that this apparently rigorous language is giving a rigorous analysis and adding new perspective. But much of the time they don’t say anything truly new or present a truly fresh perspective. Consider the difference between medical jargon and regular speak: “Sildenafil is contraindicated in hypertension.” “Don’t take Viagra if you have high blood pressure.” Both mean the same thing; the first simply adds the medical in-group sense (“I know this subject, so listen to me”) and uses standardized terminology – and is less likely to be understood by the people who actually use the drug. Much academic writing does the same: the words are not the keys to new understanding; they are just the keys to the door of the private club, the secret passwords to the clubhouse.

This is a topic of which I have some knowledge. I read a lot of academic jargon while getting my PhD, and wrote some of it too (though I always tried to be readable). Defamiliarization, properly done, requires new metaphors, new perspectives, new angles, and not simply more obscurantist ways of saying the same old thing. The only insight given by “Senescent canines are unreceptive to education in novel behaviour modes” that is not given by “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks” is that it’s possible to say something in ten-dollar words that you could easily say in two-bit words. And, on the other hand, “Adaptability is inversely correlated with age” may seem the most direct and precise statement of the concept, but it’s not as effective in conveying the idea and making it stick. What good is precise information if it’s not retained?

True, new angles of thought and deeper analyses can lead to different use of language, can even demand certain kinds of novel terminology, and one does need to write with precision and key the reader’s mind to receiving the information in a certain mode. I’m not saying don’t write using the academic register! Those expensive words are like expensive wines: people may pay more attention to what they can get from them. But there’s quite a lot out there that is really unremarkable thought packaged in bloated syntax, like a taxi driver who takes you through Jersey and Staten Island to get from Manhattan to JFK Airport – you pay more, it takes longer, but the end result is no different.

I don’t want to say that all academic writing is BS. “Academic BS” does not equal “all academic writing.” And I don’t want to say that people should write in an inappropriate register. As I say so often, language is known by the company it keeps; people will receive your prose on the basis of the expectations created by your choice of words and syntax. But one ought not to hide behind needlessly abstruse syntax and vocabulary; there is still a responsibility to produce actually fresh ideas rather than just putting new lipstick on the old pig.

And, more generally, as many a salesman and preacher knows, putting things in nice, direct language can be very effective and clear. And, as many a body in universities and business management knows, you can often hide the fact that you have little to say by saying it with impressive-sounding words. But that’s often, not always, and you can fool some of the people some of the time, but you can’t fool all of the people all of the time.

So don’t fool yourself. Hiding behind formal language is one of the most pervasive kinds of laxity in English usage – not evidence of careful thought but a means of avoiding it. Remember: if you can’t explain something clearly in plain language, you don’t really understand it.

Sardanapalian

This is a luxuriously long word; it avails itself of six vowels, five of which are spelled with a – a sort of AAAAA rating, like a five-star restaurant. It mostly taps the tip of the tongue, with a little pop of /p/ in the midst of it all. It presents a platter of mixed and sometimes exotic flavours: sardine, Sardinia, sardonic, sardonyx, Naples, Neapolitan, Nepal, pall, appalling… wait. The pal is actually said like “pale”, so the tastes become pay, pale, pail, paling, alien… and the whole word smacks a bit of Sarah Palin.

Well, the sound does. How about the meaning? You can guess from the capital S on it that it’s a proper noun or is based on one – either a place or a person. You will likely guess (correctly) from the ian ending that it’s an adjective. The echoes of place names might lead you to think it’s geographical, but in fact it’s formed from Sardanapalus, a probably at least partly mythical person: the last king of Assyria, as presented by Diodorus and, more recently (and influentially), Byron and others.

The image we have of Sardanapalus from these stories is of a man devoted to luxury, a hedonist, a voluptuary, a sybarite, an oral-retentive thelemite (so, really, rather Lord Byron’s kinda guy, one might say), an omnivorous omnisexual who liked to wear rich, “effeminate” clothing and make-up. Ruling was almost too much bother for him; he just liked the luxurious perks and the attention. And then, when a misjudgement led to the imminent threat of certain defeat, he had all his goods and treasures and servants piled together around him (yes, the servants and assorted odalisques too) and immolated himself and all of them. If he can’t win, why try – might as well take everyone down with him, eh? You get the picture – by Eugène Delacroix.

Not that it likely happened exactly like this in real history. The last king of Assyria, Ashurbanipal (on whose name Sardanapalus appears to be based), was rather more of a warrior. And it was his brother who was burned to death, not voluntarily either. And it was in Babylon, not Nineveh.

Oh, yes, Nineveh. That’s where Sardanapalus is supposed to have been for all of this. Does that name seem familiar? In the Bible, Jonah went to warn Nineveh that the wrath of the Lord was coming upon them and they had to repent. (Well, first he tried to escape having to do this, and there was a little adventure with a whale or big fish and so on.) Jonah was of course not Sardanapalian; he was the sort of agelast who wanted to see all Sardanapalians suffer and be destroyed. He was not inclined to mercy, and so he was mighty upset when, after the Ninevites repented as instructed, God actually spared them. (God gets one of His best lines, often quoted in the King James Version: “And should not I spare Nineveh, that great city, wherein are more than sixscore thousand persons that cannot discern between their right hand and their left hand; and also much cattle?”) Clearly this was a different story line just happening in the same place! The king in the story of Jonah repented in sackcloth and ashes. Sardanapalus wouldn’t be caught dead in sackcloth – though he was, of course, caught dead in ashes.

So anyway, Sardanapalus liked to throw a good orgy, rather like Varius Flavus and Curius Odus in Asterix in Switzerland. (Yes, my image of orgies comes first from Asterix comics. Obviously nudity and copulation were not an early key feature for my definition.) He just wanted to party all the time; he loved luxury. It is this aspect of his life – the clothing, makeup, luxuries – that Sardanapalian refers to. Actually doing work and facing adversity was too much for him; he gave up readily and took his retinue with him. So you tell me… is the resonance of Sarah Palin appropriate?

Thanks to Allan Jackson for suggesting today’s word.

Why not the Silicon Valley?

A while back, a colleague was faced with an author who wanted to say the Silicon Valley rather than just Silicon Valley because, after all, we say the Ottawa Valley.

But the Ottawa Valley is the Ottawa Valley because it’s the valley of the Ottawa River. I grew up in the Bow Valley, so called because it was the valley of the Bow River. There is no Death River and no Silicon River; the names Death Valley and Silicon Valley are not descriptive formations based on some geographic feature. A valley doesn’t need to have a river to get a “the,” but the “the” generally indicates a central geographic feature contained by the valley, and that geographic feature is the focal detail, not the valley – the valley is presented as a surrounding attribute.

On the other hand, places named after some feature or associated quality or thing such that the place, not the associated thing, is central (and the associated thing is an attribute) normally don’t take “the” – Moraine Lake, Rainbow Falls, Happy Valley, Cougar Mountain, etc. So if it’s a valley first, it’s likely to be X Valley, whereas if it’s a river or whatever first and the valley is an attribute of it – if it’s the valley of the X – then it may be the X Valley.

But the main reason that Silicon Valley doesn’t take a the is just because it doesn’t. Never mind arguing from reasoning; place names are varied enough that exceptions can typically be found for any rule. Place names adhere to what is actually officially and commonly used for the place name, and it is not officially or commonly standard to say or write the Silicon Valley. It’s like saying the New York or the Vancouver Island.

guggul

When you Google, you can find if not a googol then more than a gaggle of words that make you goggle and giggle. Your mind will boggle as, agog, you ogle the ugly but allegedly legible scribblings. It might as well be so much googoo and gaga – do they take you for gullible? Are you being guggled (deceived)?

Some people say the same about Ayurveda, mind you, in which guggul figures significantly. What is guggul? It’s a shrub that grows in Gujarat and Rajasthan; it produces a resin from which is extracted guggulipid (I kid you not), which is said to be beneficial for treating high cholesterol, inhibiting tumour growth, reducing osteoarthritis symptoms, and, in combination with other ingredients, healing hemorrhoids, urinary tract infections, and acne, and helping people lose weight. It’s had clinical trials for treatment of cholesterol, but the results were not so great, so its future as a treatment for that is questionable.

So is its future in general. As it happens, the plant is endangered due to overuse. It’s also used as incense (which smells like myrrh), especially for driving away evil spirits (“Go, ghoulies”) and removing the evil eye. (No news on its effect on nazguls.) Such magic for us muggles! This all gets to sound a bit like Gulliver’s Laputa, doesn’t it? Or, no, not Laputa – Glubbdubdrib. Which reminds me (especially its convocation of b’s and d’s like big-bellied men making conversation) of the name the incense had around the Mediterranean in ancient times: bdellium.

There seems to be one stop too many in bdellium, doesn’t there? Well, it does at least counterbalance these back-of-the-tongue /g/s with the tip and the lips. Not that guggul is entirely at the back of the mouth: the u’s keep it there with the g’s, but in the end it leaps up with the l, which just happens to be a frequent travelling companion of g, a kind of Laurel to its Hardy. The /gl/ onset is a well-established phonaestheme, often heard in words for things wet, bright, or both (gleaming, glistening, gluey, glop); this /g–l/ finish, which has the stop and liquid in separate syllables, has less of a clear pattern, but as you juggle and gurgle it in your mouth, you will find it seems often to show up in words for small, rapid motions (jiggle, wiggle, juggle), and to have a sense of swallowing. (Indeed, guggle the noun refers to the epiglottis or the windpipe, and guggle the verb more commonly refers to a sound like that of liquid pouring from a small-necked bottle.)

The tongue often follows common paths, and – in any given language especially – shuns others. But it can nonetheless put together unexpected bits. It makes me wonder: is language more like Boggle or Lego? Do you mainly follow the bits as you can connect them, or do you pick them from the bucket and stick them together willy-nilly? This issue comes up for phonemes (the set of available distinctive sounds for a language), morphemes (the meaning-bearing bits words are made of, e.g., make+ing=making), lexemes (words, basically), phrases, and of course the semantic components too: how constrained are we when we string them together?

Linguistics is not some kind of jiggery-pokery, though some people (who prefer not to be plagued with facts) might say it is. But there must be limits to what we can say about language with language; that follows from the incompleteness theorems set forth by Kurt Gödel. The nature of the system sets, you might say, a girdle on it.

I know not what this has to say about the science of medicine, and what western medicine can know versus what Ayurveda maintains. I make no claims about the health benefits of guggul, let alone about its apotropaic qualities. But while its set of letters , just slightly unexpected in English, might attract the eyes, its path in the mouth is well worn. I’m sure you said it many times as a baby.

crapulous

Naughty things – those that bring pleasure but may have very undesirable consequences – tend to have a lot of words for them. A person adhering to the “Eskimos have 50 words for snow” idea* that people have more words for things that are more important and central to their lives might well conclude that drunkenness and sex are two of the most important things to Anglophones. Proceeding in the other direction, they might come to conclude that Eskimos (better to call them Inuit) see snow as a naughty pleasure.

There are far more English words for “drunk” than I could possibly mention in today’s note; I could actually do nothing but words and phrases for “drunk” for a whole year. They come with many different tastes and tones and implications. We all have our favourites, of course, and will use different ones for different contexts.

Recently, a colleague in the Editors’ Association of Canada was looking for one that had just the right elevation of tone – dignified but not snooty. Among the ones I thought might be appropriate were tipsy, three sheets to the wind, under the influence, flying, feeling no pain, blotto, pie-eyed, sozzled, squiffy, tanked, boiled as an owl, drunk as a lord, and, of course, in one’s cups. Interestingly, there are a lot of Anglo-Saxon words in that list and almost no Latin-derived ones. And one very plainly Latin-derived one is not on it: crapulous.

Crapulous comes originally from Greek κραιπάλη kraipalé, which referred to the symptoms of a hangover. Latin took that word and made it crapula, which is not the name of a low-quality vampire; it means “excessive drinking” or “inebriation, intoxication”. From it we get a set of English words, including crapulous, which commonly refers to drunkenness but is also usable to refer to the undesirable effects of drunkenness.

You can see why, in spite of its classical roots, crapulous does not carry a dignified tone. The overtones are obvious in English; a person may be forgiven for thinking that crapulous is like craptacular, and crapulence (the related noun) a crappy opulence like fugxury. I first saw crapulous (slightly altered) as a name of a drunken Roman in Asterix and the Chieftain’s Shield – Titus Crapulus – but did not instantly make the connection between crapulous and drunkenness; I think I connected it first with rhinophyma (that bulbous red nose often, and not always accurately, associated with alcoholism).

This word seems to have various bits dissolved together: along with crap we have a mixed-up soul and an incomplete louse, a hidden cup and two cups u u (plus one seen from above o); anagrammed, it forms the response uttered by a pair of linguists caught pressed flat together, predicating directly: “Us, copular?” (Those linguistics parties. I’m told they do get up to some antics before they pay the sin tax.)

The form of this word seems to highlight a particular aspect – or vector – of the alcohol experience. We all know that being right ripped, home-style hammered, ploughshared, plastered, shellacked, et cetera, can make a person feel crappy thereafter. Craptacular, in fact. So it’s not so unreasonable that crapulous looks like a blend of fabulous and crap: it’s what you get after drinking a lot of fabulous crap – first you feel fabulous, and then you feel like crap. It’s easy when crapulous to think you’re fabulous but to look ridiculous and eventually end up in the crapper, destined to creep out of bed in the morning, joints crepitating and mind captious, wincing at the crackling of a wrapper, skin prickling at the touch of crepe paper. Alcohol may seem like a solution – well, alcoholic beverages are solutions, of ethanol and esters and whatnot in water – but in the end, you will see what it can precipitate.

*The idea that the Inuit have 50 words for snow is not really accurate, and anyway since Inuktitut is an agglutinating language – it sticks a lot of parts together to make very long words where English might use a whole sentence – counting words in it is a mug’s game. On top of that, we have a lot of words for snow and its various types in English. So there.

Thanks to Stan Backs for suggesting crapulous.

littoral

“You were not pleased with your Caribbean sojourn?” I said. Marica and Ronald had just returned from a vacation and seemed disaffected.

“The resort was a literal garbage dump,” Ronald said.

“Rubbish everywhere,” Marica said. “Not just littoral. Riparian, pelagic, probably even benthic, for all I know.” For once they had the illusion of being in the same conversation.

“Probably been thick on the ground for a long time, yeah” Ronald said.

Benthic on the ground?” Marica said, and appeared to be about to say “that doesn’t make sense.” She paused instead. “…Oh. Never mind.”

“I mean, for her, a beach is a literary thing,” Ronald said. “A place to read a book. But I like to look at the glitter all over the waves, the little roll of the small boats on the sea, the flutter of birds, the rattle of scattering pebbles and the skittering of little critters… a lotta real nice things like that. I can hardly enjoy that when there’s litter all over the place,” he concluded bitterly.

“Oh, it matters to me too,” Marica said. “Environment is important. The littoral zone is not just a tourist attraction; it’s essential to the planet’s health.”

Ronald snorted. “Yeah, the zone of literal reality would be kinda important. Even if some people prefer the figurative.”

Marica looked at Ronald over the rims of her glasses. “L. I. T T. O. R. A L. Littoral. ‘Of or pertaining to the zone including the shore of an ocean or lake.'” She turned to me. “Why the hell don’t we pronounce it ‘litTORal,’ anyway? That would be so much less ambiguous.”

“Less fun, too,” I said. “Sometimes. But the stress pattern seems to have been set in Latin with the original root litus, ‘shore’, which had a long first vowel and so was stressed on the first syllable. I do like how it causes the tongue to touch the tip, then roll back and forward to touch again, like a wave at the shore. The l’s are the high water, the t’s halfway down, the r the low water…”

“I suppose,” Marica mused, “we could see the littoral zone as like the interface between the great seas of imagination, with their ships of fiction, and the solid world of physical reality. The literal littoral zone.”

“The littered littoral zone,” Ronald said. “The only crabs were me and Marica.”

“So your vacation was a washout? Obliterated?”

“No, we salvaged it by shifting to another resort farther up the shore.”

Marica nodded. “A littoral lateral relocation.”

Thanks to @SportLinguist (Ryan Dewey) for suggesting littoral, which I was surprised to find I had not tasted before.