Monthly Archives: June 2013

wonk

You’re a wonk about a subject if you know the subject backwards.

Get it? Know backwards is wonk.

So is that where wonk comes from? Some people think so. Others – including some of the most noteworthy word wonks – declare that they don’t know. There are other words wonk, including a naval term for a greenhorn sailor, Australian slang for a white person or an effeminate man, and a mutated borrowing from Chinese meaning ‘yellow dog’ (and often seen in the phrase wonk dog). There is also the word wonky, which means ‘off-kilter, unstable, unreliable’, and there is some suggestion that wanker may have been an influence too (wanker, for those who don’t know, is a British term that literally calls the person an onanist and thus more broadly and figuratively functions similarly to its American counterpart jerk).

The word wonk was formerly more pejorative than it generally is now; just as nerd was once an insult but now is elevated to near-approbation, and geek has gone all the way from a term of disgust and abuse to high praise, wonk has moved from a word for a boring, excessively focused, swottish (that’s a Britishism) person, towards one for an interesting, respectworthy, highly focused, swottish person.

And there is now one area above all in which one may be a wonk. Yes, you could be a math wonk or a word wonk (or language wonk or whatever), but in the general usage wonk has a steady wordfriend: policy. Political staff who know all about the little details of how things are done and can be done and should be done are policy wonks. This seems to have become a popular term under President Clinton, who showed a predilection for hiring highly intelligent, highly focused, swottish people. You get an image of an introverted person with an abstractly intense look – and glasses, probably – dispensing precise thoughts and ramified recommendations to a blow-dried (but perhaps thoughtful) candidate. Nerdy, maybe a little, but no less attractive than the sharp tools on Criminal Minds, if without all the blood.

There’s no question about it, this word has an awkward sound. With its labiovelar start, its nasal open vowel, and its knock at the back, it sounds like something large and hollow being struck, or a goose venting at you. But if you look at the different elements that might make it so – /wɑ/, /ɑŋ/ or /ɑ̃/, /ɑ̃k/, /ŋk/ – they all show up in non-awkward words as well: water, song, think… Ugliness of sound is no preventative for prettiness of sense. Once you get to be a word wonk, possibilities open up all around you.

esculent

In word country, every word is esculent. I will not say that all are excellent, nor even succulent, but all are suitable for ingestion. Serve some in many contexts, others in the fanciest feasts, others in heavily spiced dishes, a few in just the most brutish contexts or perhaps under glass. Be aware that some words that are perfectly fine by themselves may combine into recipes that will make the heartiest word-eater gag, send your dear diners dashing for the door, end up crammed down your own throat. Some words provoke reactions up to anaphylaxis in some diners, and you must be aware. But there exists no word that is intrinsically so poisonous that none can eat it.

Esculent itself is especially esculent. It is not a word for just any recipe; the readers may need a schooling in it before they can digest it well, and its rarity makes it a caviar or morel word, except that it comes at no great price. The taste of it on the tongue is especially sapid; the initial /ɛsk/ is so much like the sound from intaking and swallowing the extra saliva that blossoms in the mouth after a taste of something exceptionally savory – or spicy. Then the tongue releases with a glide, licks the liquid /l/, lifts up for the mid-front vowel and laps forward again like a second small wave of surf at the beach edge of your alveolar ridge.

The letters of this word likewise lap, lick, dance; they give clues when rearranged, and form their secret cult, and after the glass is drained leave behind wet lees to be reflected in the cute lens of the drinker’s eye, tense with a lust for language. They hint of foreign or classical things, of an escuela or an escudo or something lucent.

Climb the escalier to heaven and you will see that the table is set with esca. What is the case here? In paradise Latin has a place at the table, and esca is ‘food’. From this came esculentus: fit to be eaten. This word esculentus is cute unless… unless what? Unless you’re not speaking Latin, I suppose. So we have English esculent, suitable for use as ‘suitable for use as food’. Such a dull definition for such a sensually palate-cleansing word, so excellent when used consensually. Cultivate it and cut a little esculent when it’s ready for serving; place it on the tip of your tongue, taste it, and serve it delicately. All words are esculent; this word is esculent.

A night out with some different accents

My latest article for TheWeek.com was published today, and it comes with another video. This time it’s a quick look at sound change, specifically as expressed in the sounds in the words night out:

A linguistic tour of a ‘night out’ around the world

And how to tell if it’s a Canadian or an Australian asking you out

Halifax, Haligonian

I just spent four days in and around Halifax, Nova Scotia. I was there to attend the annual Editors’ Association of Canada conference, which was a marvellous fun event (and not without its educational aspect). During the conference, I hosted some word tasting breaks. Two of the words we tasted were Halifax and Haligonian.

These are words with a notable vertical extension. The capital H’s make me think of the uprights on the two bridges that allow motorists to cross the harbour from Halifax to Dartmouth, or vice versa. Halifax has that eye-catching x at the end, which, in this instance, makes me think of the word meeting an abrupt stop, cutoff, collision, or even explosion. Haligonian, on the other hand, just goes on, the f replaced by g, the ax dulled to onian.

The effect on the sound is similar: although both begin with the breath and liquid (the same as start halitosis, which reminds me that I had just eaten smoked salmon with onions when I conducted the tasting of these words), Halifax fires off the teeth and lips and flies back to the back of the mouth to hit at [k] and then hiss away with [s], like broken glass or a punctured tire or a few other percussives with entropic dénouement. Haligonian skips the fire-off and goes straight to the back, but the bounce isn’t as hard, and instead of immediately hissing on the tongue tip with [s] it goes through a long, lip-rounding /o:/ and touches twice softly on the tongue tip with the two nasals.

Are you wondering what the relation between Halifax and Haligonian is? Unless you’re from Halifax, you may well wonder. On the other hand, if you’re from Halifax, you know what a Haligonian is: you are one. Haligonian is the adjectival form for people and things pertaining to, or residing in, Halifax.

Hmm. It does not from this follow that gonian is the adjectival form of fax. Someone from Carfax is not a Cargonian. Your fax machine’s toner and paper are not gonian supplies. The real reason for Haligonian lies in etymology – false etymology.

Where does the name Halifax come from? Well, the city in Nova Scotia took its name from George Montague-Dunk, the second Earl of Halifax. The Halifax of which he was earl was (and is) a town in west Yorkshire. It has existed since before the year 1100, which makes it harder to know for sure where the name comes from. In the 1500s, some scholars proposed that it was from Old English halig feax, ‘holy hair’. Why would it be called that? Well, there is a legend – possibly started around the same time – that the head of John the Baptist is buried there. There’s also another legend about a maiden who was murdered by a lustful priest whose advances she spurned.

From this halig feax, anyway, came a Latin version of the town name: Haligonia – that’s halig plus the common onia suffix you see on many place names. And it is from that that the adjective comes: Haligonian. Of course it could be Halifaxian or Halifaxer or Halifaxish or whatever, but those are obvious and expected. People love an in-group thing, an unexpected deviation that gives you special knowledge. And, certainly in the Nova Scotian city, there is a pride in knowing that the denizens are Haligonians. It’s just one of their things.

But do you remember that I said that it was false etymology? Yeah. It very likely is. It’s more likely that the town’s name comes from Old English halh-gefeaxe (which would have been pronounced similarly to how we might say “halhyafaxa” now). This means something like ‘coarse grass area in nook of land’. Which is a more sensible and plausible name for a place, really, if you can say it in one or two words.

But the designation Haligonian is established now and isn’t going anywhere. You may find it to be like polygon or goon or Lego or goalie or haggle or any of quite a few words that use some of the sounds. That’s rather different from hallux and Carfax and Shadowfax and fax machine and effects and fix and such like. You may or may not find the Hali connection to be strong enough to override the difference in the ends of the words.

Halifax in Yorkshire apparently had a reputation as a place of draconian punishment (including a decapitation machine that anticipated the guillotine by centuries). The 17th-century poet John Taylor wrote, in his “Beggar’s Litany,” “From Hell, Hull, and Halifax, Good Lord, deliver us!” I can tell you that I felt no need to be delivered from Halifax, Nova Sc0tia, when I was there. (As to Hull and Hell, Canadians will tell you the former no longer exists, now being part of Gatineau, and the latter was looking set to freeze over until the Leafs were knocked out of the playoffs.) You may wish to be delivered from Haligonian, but you are unlikely to get your wish unless you leave Halifax. Regardless of its origin, it seems it won’t be gone any time soon.

acanthaceous

What’s not to like about a word that has twelve letters, nine phonemes, four syllables, one spot where there are three consonants together and another where there are three vowels together, and two instances of ac?

Its first consonant is that hard back [k], but then, after landing on a pillow of a tongue-tip [n], it does the three voiceless fricatives that use the front of the tongue: [θ], [ʃ], and [s]. Soft and fresh like a spring shower. When you look at the word, you see the words can, cant, ant, nth, ace, and us. But in the main it just looks like a heap of curly foliage with a couple of spiky bits sticking up.

So what is it? It’s what you always wanted but never knew it: it’s an adjective referring to being like an acanthus.

And what is an acanthus? It’s a thorny plant with spiky-shaped leaves (rather like big dandelion or thistle leaves, really). Its leaves are featured curling at the tops of Corinthian columns.

The word acanthus is a Latinization of the Greek ἄκανθος, which may come from an ἄκ- root for pointy things (such as acupuncture needles) plus an ἄνθος root for flowers. So pointy (thorny) flower. And then that Greek assemblage gets a Latin-derived adjectival suffix and we have acanthaceous. You are at this very moment probably thinking about a coelacanth eating a herbaceous anthurium. Rest assured that the roots of those words are just as they look.

And where will you use acanthaceous? When describing the tops of Corinthian columns, perhaps, or some foliage sprouting from a sidewalk crack. Or someone’s hair. Apparently styles like that are a thing again.

parenthesis, parentheses

Sometimes in the tall grass of your text you will find – or insert – subtle interruptions, like panthers gliding through, making momentary disturbance and then leaving all as before: places where the author may slip little side theses between pairs of parabolas to set them apart from the parent clause. Asides, in short.

A parenthesis is an aside: it is something put in beside. The word parenthesis was assembled in Greek from παρα para ‘beside, around’, ἐν en ‘in’, and θέσις thesis ‘placing’. Originally, parenthesis (singular) refers to the aside itself, the text that is indicate by a shift in vocal tone, a turning away of the head, a setting apart in the text, before a return to the tone, position, or flow as before. When the practice came about of setting it apart with these curves ( ), the entire assemblage was first called a parenthesis, but since the bumpers travelled in pairs it just made sense, ultimately, to refer to them in the plural. And the plural in this case is a Greek-derived plural: just as we say theses rather than thesises, we say parentheses.

Or you could just call them panthers if you think you could get away with it. They do have that sleek, sometimes predatory nature. Allow me to cover parentheses in greater depth with a poem from my book Songs of Love and Grammar (available at lulu.com or amazon.com; also available as an ebook from the same sites).

A parenthesis

Parentheses: cradled hands holding your message,
neatly bestowing a soft little blessage
(so much more peaceful than the visual rackets
that may be created by using square brackets).
They’re a velvet ink bag to soften hard words
(or a little surprise gift, loaded with turds).
Say your friend (a co-worker) sends you an email
suggesting (or foisting) an unattached female –
a little blind date (or myopic at best)
who’s eager to meet you (or willing when pressed).
Are you free (it’s been set up) on Friday at 9?
You can meet (if she shows) at the Savoy to dine.
She’s heard all about you (it goes without saying)
and she says you sound nice (she’s been told that you’re paying).
So you put on your suit (Goodwill, $10.98)
and comb down your hair (not much work) for your date.
She’s awaiting, with perfume (or bug spray) anointed,
and she seems quite demure (probably disappointed).
You order some drinks (loosen up things a notch);
her tastes are refined (she takes single-malt Scotch).
You make conversation (one word at a time);
you find she’s quite eloquent (just like a mime).
You think that she’s pretty (the drink’s kicking in),
and she smiles dreamily (she has moved on to gin).
The food comes (at last) and it’s simply divine
(like food offered to gods – burnt and sprinkled with wine).
Your date has filet mignon (charcoal briquette);
you went for the chicken (to stay out of debt).
For dessert, it’s Napoleon (from water loo)
and the chef’s special (leftover) tiramisù.
The mood is romantic: you look in her eyes
(or, anyway, somewhere ’twixt forehead and thighs).
You feel that she’s warmed to you during the meal
(it’s the closeness that comes from a mutual ordeal).
You call for the cheque and slap down your gold card
(two full meals and twelve drinks, tax and tip, damn that’s hard).
You offer to walk her home (can’t hurt to try);
she accepts (she’s afraid she’ll fall over, that’s why).
When you get to her door, you make as to kiss
but she blushes and turns (she’s afraid she would miss).
But the evening ends well – witness plans that you make
to talk in the morning (she’ll nudge you awake).
Ah, parentheses – they let you keep your composure
and charm (while still offering total disclosure).

quetzal

Visual: A small feast of loops, lines, curves, and zags. Those rare letters q and z always stand out, the z for its angularity but the q just for its rarity; the long, straight tail also exists on p.

In the mouth: A small, fairly smooth movement of the tongue. It starts at the back with [k], then pushes against the front with a vowel [ɛ] closing in to [ts], then a neutral vowel releases to let the tongue pull back just a bit to touch its tip with [l]. It may be like the pattern of a tapdancing shoe, or it may be like a finger making a simple two-touch caress.

Echoes: The qu and z together will likely call forth quiz and quartz; the sound is much like kettle and a little like kits and just vaguely like shptizel; you may think first of quetzalcoatl, the legendary plumed serpent of the Aztecs, which has the same quetzal in it.

Etymology: This is a Nahuatl word, converted to Spanish. In the original, it comes from quetz [kets] ‘stand up’, which was the root for quetzalli [ke’tsal:i] ‘large, brilliant tailfeathers’; that was added to tototl ‘bird’ in Nahuatl to make quetzallitototl, ‘bird with large, brilliant tailfeathers’. The Spaniards simply chopped the word’s tailfeathers (ironically cutting the bird morpheme and leaving the feather morpheme) and left it at quetzal.

Semantics: Yes, this is a bird with long tailfeathers, especially the male when in mating. It’s a bird with bright green plumage over most of its body, except for its chest, where it is red or yellow. The word quetzal now names any of several species, but the original and still the model is the bird now called the resplendent quetzal. That bird was revered by the Aztecs; it was illegal to kill one – they would be caught and their tail feathers plucked for use in high-status costume, and then they would be released again.

Where to find it: This is a word for a bird, and so will most often be seen when the bird is spoken of. But of course it can be used in metaphor, especially because of its place in Aztec culture. And the striking look of the word helps, as may the crisp progression of the sounds. “Is Keith a peacock, with his fine clothes? No, a quetzal, darling. Fit for adoration – and for catching, plucking, and releasing.”

Your iPhone is using ancient linguistic technology

If you have a smart phone, it’s quite a handy device, with a combination of features inconceivable two decades ago: phone, camera, computer, internet browser. All new things in the grand scheme. And yet we’re using ancient words to speak about them. Find out more in my latest article for TheWeek.com:

4 very old words for very new things

 

You can get far by acting immature

That article I wrote for TheWeek.com about teenage noises, and its accompanying video, have grown slightly longer legs yet. It’s been reposted and featured on several sites, including PopSci.com and even in a column on Australia’s Crikey.com.au. The Huffington Post presented the video with a write-up.

And today listeners of National Public Radio’s Weekend Edition Saturday heard Scott Simon interview me about it – listen to it on their website. The segment is 3 minutes long, which means I still have 12 minutes of fame coming to me. I hope it’s not for something humiliating.