Yearly Archives: 2013

skulk

Visual: This word looks like its hair is standing on end. It has an interesting pattern – it starts with the curvy s and then mixes verticals with the racy cross-angles of the kickers on the k’s. The u in the middle seems like a little receptacle (perhaps a cryoconite hole) or something small just hiding.

In the mouth: It’s smooth on the tip of the tongue but knocking at the back: an up-front gentleness belies a knockabout behind the scenes.

Echoes: There are a few words this one brings to mind: skull, skullcap, skunk, skink, hulk, sulk, shirk, and perhaps dulcet and sultry and lurk and maybe milk. And inculcate. It has a sound of something metallic being retracted or sheathed. Or of someone being choked.

Etymology: Like many words in English, skulk seems to come from old Scandinavian sources. It appears to be cognate with Norwegian skulka ‘lurk, lie watching’ and Danish skulke and Swedish skolka, ‘shirk, play hookey’. One interesting thing is that after being in common use in the 1200s and 1300s, this word pretty much disappeared in the 1400s and 1500s, and then reemerged after two centuries of skulking.

Collocations: Skulk around, skulk off, skulk away, skulk behind [something]. It’s not a common enough word to have a clear set of usual people who skulk.

Overtones: Skulk seems like a more mobile version of lurk, the very shape of its articulation suggesting to my mind a kind of ducking and peeking. You lurk in one place; you skulk around like a would-be ninja or a pervert or some other kind of guilty party. The nucleus of the word (that vowel plus liquid) has a very dark, cloaked feeling, and the fact that it’s followed by /k/ (especially /lk/, since the /l/ has a velar coarticulation – the tongue is up at the back of the mouth) joins it to words like lurk, dark, cloak, murk, and similar words with obscure images.

Semantics: This word refers to sneaking around or to lurking in concealment. One thing is certain: it imputes dark or cowardly motives.

Where to find it: It’s more often seen in literary or high-toned prose. It’s not that it’s no good for a tabloid newspaper; indeed, tabloids spend inordinate amounts of space on personages who are skulking around doing this or that – stories gathered by reporters who skulked around a lot to get it. But it’s become a less common word, and that raises the tone. You’ll find it in Dickens and Fielding and similar greats of the kind of literature that was once read by hoi polloi but is now a hallmark of a bookworm. The word, like its readers, has gone into skulking.

sleuth

Etymology is a great field for the amateur sleuth. Can’t you just picture a word nerd donning a deerstalker cap and piloting a big magnifier to ferret out early citations for a word? You know, there are some people who put quite a lot of time and energy into antedating words – finding citations that show that the word was in use earlier than previously thought, and perhaps giving some clue as to where it came from. One might imagine it as being like a bloodhound, sniffing the old foxed library books for the faint hints of a lexical trail.

Those of us who benefit from the lucubrations of such dedicated geeks can be more slothful. If I want to sleuth out the origin of a word, all I need do is consult a good etymological dictionary, as long as it has the info. If I want to know what words it is used with, there are corpus databases for that. And if I want to know what other words could be influencing it by resemblance… well, no one is doing formal studies on that, so the best I can do is taste, imagine, surmise.

What does sleuth mean to you? Yes, ‘detective’, certainly, as in the common collocation amateur sleuth; it is also a verb, as in sleuth it out. But what image do you get? Popular culture has some images it has determined, thanks to books and movies. But can you use the term for any detective? Is Mike Hammer a sleuth? Sam Spade? Hercule Poirot? Miss Marple? Jessica Fletcher? Sherlock Holmes? Are they all equally sleuthy, or do you tend more to have an image of, say, the Basil Rathbone version of Sherlock Holmes, with the deerstalker cap (as opposed to the Jeremy Brett version, top-hatted and more accurate to the books and also very entertaining, or the more recent Holmses such as Robert Downey Jr. or Benedict Cumberbatch)? Is a tough-guy detective not soft and subtle enough to be a sleuth slinking like soft silk through the dark alleys and drawing rooms?

If so, is this just an effect of which image is strongest- and longest-established, or does it have something to do with the sound of the word, coming and going with voiceless fricatives and, between them, the liquid /l/ and that dark, hollow high back vowel /u/? It slips and slides but sounds as though it seeks the truth like a soothsayer. Try this for comparison: in German, the word for ‘key’ is Schlüssel. Which sounds more like it would slip smoothly into a lock, key or Schlüssel? Now tell me what tones detective, private eye, and sleuth have for you.

But where does this word come from, sleuth? Ah, well, there’s an interesting trail. And it’s a trail that can’t be pursued without sloth. You see, sloth is the older form of this word. But this sloth is not related to the word sloth that we know and use today; that word comes from slow+th just as width comes from wide+th. But it happens that the modern word sloth also used to have a form sleuth, so it seems that the shift from sloth to sleuth is a more natural one than some might expect. (It’s easier if you’re an armchair sleuth.) Anyway, the sloth that our sleuth comes from is from an Old Norse word for ‘track’ or ‘trail’. That is what a sleuth (sloth) first was: the trail of an animal… or person.

And if you are tracking a person or animal, you may find it useful to have a bloodhound. What, since the 1400s (though less so today), is another name for a bloodhound? Sleuth-hound. It was not until the mid-1800s that persons who tracked other persons came to be called sleuth-hounds. But it took a mere couple of decades for that to be shortened to sleuth. The term was used for fictional detectives at least 15 years before the appearance of Sherlock Holmes (the Oxford English Dictionary has an 1872 citation naming a story called Sleuth, the Detective).

Was sleuth applied to Sherlock Holmes by his author? In “The Red-Headed League,” we see this: “his gently smiling face and his languid, dreamy eyes were as unlike those of Holmes the sleuth-hound, Holmes the relentless, keen-witted, ready-handed criminal agent, as it was possible to conceive.” That appears to be the one and only use of the term in Arthur Conan Doyle’s works (at least that I can find from sniffing around in the Project Gutenberg library), and that’s a sleuth-hound. But that’s not so surprising if you know that the use of the word sleuth for a detective first came about in America. And its use as a verb meaning ‘ply the trade of a detective’ appeared at the beginning of the 1900s.

So there it is: the fruits of amateur armchair sleuthing… a small amount of digging but mostly just looking things up. But the tasting is still up to you.

pangolin

Visual: A pretty and pleasant enough word; eight letters, heavier in the front than the back, descenders at the front – one long and straight, one curved – and ascender and dot at the back.

In the mouth: This one uses the whole mouth: it starts at the lips, then after a low front vowel it bounces off the back with a soft and sticky nasal-stop combination, followed by a vowel that could be mid-back rounded but will probably be neutral and reduced; then it’s to the tongue tip for a liquid, a mid-high front vowel, and a nasal. Nasal, stop, liquid, voiced, voiceless, front, mid, back; it’s like a sampler tray.

Echoes: To me, it has always sounded like a name of a place in Tolkien’s Middle Earth. But no – that’s Gondolin. It might seem like a musical instrument, not so much a violin as a mandolin, right down to the plucking sound of “pang.” It also has a resonance of penguin. And you can hear pang and angle.

Etymology: From Malay pengguling, which means ‘roller’ – i.e., a critter that rolls up.

Semantics: What is a pangolin? It is also called a scaly anteater. But it’s not an anteater. Oh, it’s an ant eater, yes, and a termite eater, and it does look rather like an anteater if you were to replace the shaggy hair on the anteater with sharp scales. But it’s an unrelated beastie; the resemblance is due to convergent evolution (critters that do the same thing tending to become similar in form due to the functional advantages). It got its name from rolling up when threatened. This is not some ostrich move, either; a rolled-up pangolin is a very difficult-to-open ball, and you’ll likely injure yourself trying. And yet people do eat them. Altogether too much, in fact.

When it’s alive and not balled up, the pangolin strolls around on its back legs, counterbalanced by its long tail, not touching its long front claws to the ground. It uses those claws to dig into anthills and termite mounds. And then it simply licks the ants or termites up with its tongue, which is half a centimetre wide and up to 40 centimetres (16 inches) long. The world is its sampler tray. Read more about it at savepangolins.org, and watch a short National Geographic video about it at www.youtube.com/watch?v=gz4HXyxcess (OK, it’s not the honey badger, but still). Thanks to Adrienne Montgomerie, @sciEditor, for directing my attention to the video.

Where to find it: You’ll find the word where you’ll find the animal – various parts of African and Asia – but also elsewhere, such as where you’re sitting now. I have not seen this word used figuratively, probably because not enough people know what a pangolin is for it to be an effective image. But, now that you know what a pangolin is, you would probably get the sense of a phrase such as pangolin management style – someone who ambles around lapping at small details, and in a crisis balls up and you’ll just hurt yourself if you try to get them involved.

What’s including what?

A colleague was wondering about a sentence of the type “Borgop Company’s commitment to environmental responsibility is wide-ranging, including [assorted things].” It didn’t sound quite right to her but she couldn’t put her finger on the reason.

My take is that it’s because a set of things “including” specified things is a plural, whereas commitment is a mass object. If it were a collective, it would work:

Margaret’s doll collection is wide-ranging, including seventeen from China, eighty-six from Scotland, and at least two from Las Vegas.

And as a plural it would work (though it might seem to suggest that the individual objects travel a lot):

Margaret’s dolls are wide-ranging, including seventeen from China, eighty-six from Scotland, and at least two from Las Vegas.

But as a mass object, and an abstract at that, it’s problematic:

Margaret’s interest in dolls is wide-ranging, including seventeen from China, eighty-six from Scotland, and at least two from Las Vegas.

Also, some people might find it odd to say a commitment is wide-ranging.

Scandinavian words we say differently

My latest article for TheWeek.com is up. My editor has given it a funny title – as one commenter points out, it’s more like “The strange English pronunciations of common Nordic words,” but the title on the article is

The strange Scandinavian pronunciations of common English words

I hope you enjoy it!

cryoconite

I heard this word spoken just this evening, in the documentary Chasing Ice, about the photographer James Balog and his Extreme Ice Survey, a project to photographically document shrinking glaciers. Interestingly, he puts the stress on the o, following a common model for dealing with polysyllabic Greek-derived words, but the dictionary pronunciation has stress directed by the morphology: cryoconite.

Very well, but what is it? You see the cry and you may think of tears, but you see the cryo and may think of cold things. And the conite – is it tears of contrition? Or is it some kind of cone? Or pneumoconiosis? Is the ite a signal that it is a mineral, or is it leading us into – or out of – nite?

The source parts tell one story, but the reality of it is more complex. The word comes from the Greek κρύος kruos ‘icy cold’ plus κόνις konis ‘dust, ashes’ plus that ite ending, also originally from Greek. So it’s cold dust. But it’s much more than that. And its significance has to do with heat.

Glaciers are dirty. Dust and soot and volcanic ash and so forth blows onto them from all over and settles. It is not distributed in a perfectly even pattern, of course; that would not be random (if all particles were evenly distributed, the distances between them would be highly consistent, not random at all). So there are little clumps here and there. And this dust and soot and so on is dark. So it absorbs heat from light. Which means that when the sun shines in the warmer weather, the ice under this dust melts, and soon the dust is sitting in a little pool of water. Which, being an indentation, draws more water and dust to it, and so it enlarges. Imagine a game of crokinole with the board slanted down towards the hole in the middle, and no pegs to bounce the little quoits out. Thus you have a cryoconite hole, which is a cylindrical hole with a diameter anywhere from less than a centimetre to more than a metre, filled with water (often deeper than the diameter) and with a layer of cryoconite on the bottom. Large areas of glaciers, especially closer to their leading edges, are a Swiss cheese of these holes, dotting them like the circles in the word cryconite.

So the cold dust creates warm tears as the glaciers melt into these little feedback cylinders. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust… But even if these holes are places where the glacier is dying, they are places where other things are living. Cryoconite is not dead and inert. It has bacteria in it, and sometimes algae too, and even insects, worms, crustaceans. Glaciers have whole ecosystems. They have millions of small ecosystems, each cryoconite its own little aquatic environment with pelagic and benthic zones, but taken all together they make up an ecosystem on the glacier that communicates from one part to another. In a delicious passage from “Possible interactions between bacterial diversity, microbial activity and supraglacial hydrology of cryoconite holes in Svalbard,” Arwyn Edwards et al. speak of findings that challenge “previous assumptions that glacial ecosystems are heterotrophic and dependent on an Aeolian flux of allochthonous organic matter” – in other words, previous assumptions that they rely on stuff blown in on the wind. Indeed, Edwards and colleagues find that there are complex contained ecosystems on glaciers, existing in these myriad cryoconite holes and communicating through melting and drainage.

So even as the glaciers disappear, we cannot simply sing “Dust in the Wind.” The fluid nature of existence means that as one thing goes another grows. As the glacier is less whole it is more hole, but those holes grow life, even as they further heat and kill the glacier. Once the glacier under and around them is gone, of course, the cryoconite will wash away too, the “cold dust” now a warm mud full of life on an ever-warming planet.

acatalectic

I wouldn’t say this word is an eclectic catalogue of letters – more a lexically elect collection of selected characters. Three a’s, three c’s, two t’s, and le and i. Its rhythm makes a soft-shoe clatter like the clicking of an IBM Selectric. Now, how would you use it in verse? (I’ve bolded the stressed syllables to make the reading easier, because it changes abruptly halfway through.)

Dactyls and trochees make quick dialectic
when they are mixed and not acatalectic.
If you must write this way so you can show ’em,
watch that you change not the pace of your poem:
A switch to text acatalectic
could cause crises apoplectic;
are (they ask) you messing with ’em
when you don’t truncate the rhythm?

Whether the word acatalectic works with catalectic or acatalectic verse is thus a question of whether you say it with stress on the first a and on the lec (dactyl plus trochee, catalectic) or on the ca and the lec (upbeat plus two trochees, acatalectic). You see, verse is catalectic if, like the first four lines above, the lines drop the last syllable of the rhythm. It is acatalectic if it doesn’t – on other words, if it’s like normal verse that fills out the metre.

So, really, acatalectic is an abnormal way of saying normal, an overfull way of saying complete. It’s a cattle herd where a cow might do. It’s four morphemes, all from Greek: a, ‘not’; cata, ‘off’, lect, from légein, ‘end, stop’ (not the same as the lect related to reading); and that adjectival ic. It’s a word that doesn’t leave off. Unless it does…

A Word Taster’s Companion: Syllables 2: Breaking words

Today: the sixteenth installment of my how-to guide for word tasting, A Word Taster’s Companion.

Syllables 2: Breaking words

OK, the words I talked about in “Syllables 1: The basic bits” are all one syllable, so they’re not that hard. When we get to more than one syllable, now, that’s where things get interesting. Try this word – a very appropriate one: breaking. It’s made of break plus ing. But how do you say it?

Slow it down. Now sing it on two notes. Now put a space between those notes, just a slight gap. Now speed it up, keeping the gap.

If you’re now singing brea, king, brea, king, it probably sounds quite normal and feels easy enough to do. If you’re now singing break, ing, break, ing, it more likely sounds unnatural and feels more difficult to do.

But why would the [k] go and attach itself to the suffix when it belongs to the root word? Because it’s just easier to do it that way. Consonants tend to prefer onsets over codas, given the chance. Oh, there are many things that can keep a consonant on the end of a syllable rather than migrating to the beginning of the next one. I won’t be so tedious as to make a long list of them here; much better if you just explore syllables yourself and see how they really break, and try to sort out why they break where they do. But be aware that there are many places where what you may have always thought was the syllable break actually isn’t.

“But we hyphenate it between break and ing!” Yes, we do. In English, we don’t always put hyphens at the actual syllable boundaries. We also take into consideration the parts the word is made of (morphemes – I’ll get to those) and the relation between the spelling and the pronunciation. Breaking is made of break and ing, and even though we actually put the /k/ at the start of the second syllable we still think of it as being at the end of the first one. But also, we don’t know how brea- should be pronounced until we see the next letter: Brea…thing? Brea…ding? Brea…king? So we hyphenate it as break-ing, because those are the constituent parts and because if you see brea- at the end of one line it may be a surprise to see king on the next.

We run into another problem in English because of how we think about vowels. English has tended to have “long” vowels in open syllables – syllables without codas – and more notably has a strong tendency to have “short” vowels only in closed syllables – syllables with codas. A word such as break shows that we can have a “long” vowel in a closed syllable (but usually it will be indicated with multiple written vowels, often with a “silent e” after the final consonant, showing us that the final consonant was originally the onset of another syllable). But whereas we can have open/closed pairs with “long” vowels – bray/break, be/beat, buy/bite, bow/boat, boo/boot, cue/cute – just try to find an open match for bit, bet, or book (bat has bah, though open syllables with [æ] are uncommon; hut has huh, but most places you hear that vowel sound are unstressed; there are many words with [ɑ] in open syllables – it’s an exception).

So “short” vowels generally need to be in closed syllables. But! As already observed, consonants tend to shift from coda to onset when they can. Look at latter and later. In later, dividing it is easy; la-ter. But in latter? Don’t even bother thinking the syllable splits where we hyphenate it, lat-ter. There’s no long (or double) [t] in there – nothing like you hear in hot toddy or cat-tail. No, this is a case where we think of the /t/ as being at the end of one syllable even though it’s attracted to the start of the next syllable – since there’s no onset on the next syllable, and it’s in the middle of the word, there’s a natural tendency to shift.

So does that mean, then, that latter really divides la-tter? Well, some people say so. Some intro linguistics professors will tell you straight out that, for instance, Christmas breaks phonetically as Chri-stmas (as a rule we don’t say the t, so the [s] is naturally pulled to the onset because it can go before the [m]). But say it slowly and forcefully. Are you sure the [s] is all the way with the next syllable? When you say latter, does it seem as though the /t/ – which is usually said by North Americans not as a [t] but as an alveolar flap, making it identical or very similar to ladder (the [æ] may be slightly longer in ladder) – is as much with the first syllable as with the second? Some linguists think that’s not an unreasonable way of looking at it. They call this ambisyllabicity: it goes with both syllables. Not everyone agrees that it exists. But this is an important thing to know about linguistics: although it seems very scientific, with all its technical terms and structures and codifications and so on, in fact there’s lots of disagreement about all sorts of things, even basic issues such as phonemes. You learn things in one linguistics course and are told they’re wrong in the next. Eventually you get far enough that you can start making up your own mind and disagreeing too. See? Language is a sport not just for those who use it but for those who study it, too.

Next: The rhythm method

rodomontade

Bellicose professions lend themselves to boasting rants. Boxers, wrestlers, and other fighters are known for loudly heralding their prowess. “When my opponent steps into the ring, he’s sealing his own doom! I’m gonna demonstrate that I’m a demon in human form! I’ll ram him down and drum on his head! There will be no redeeming him!” And so on – a mordant montage. The same may be found in many more figuratively combative lines of work, such as stock trading and mergers and acquisitions. Tests are met with testosterone and attestations.

There are a few different words for this bellicose chest-beating, but the most sonorous is surely rodomontade. The very sound is like a flourish on a drum: roll in with ro and then three strokes, hard, softer, then sharp: do-mon-tade! It’s sure to awaken the dormant. It’s a word for someone who rode in mounted on his ego.

It tells such tales, too: its eleven characters can produce doom, demon, madder, dormant, ardent, mordant, moaned, tandem, odor, and several others, and but for the lack of a letter it could make matador and mastodon – a battle appropriately sized for this kind of braggadocio. You can see the eyes popping and the mouth gaping, o o o, and the bared teeth m n and drawn scimitar t…

Scimitar? Well, why not? There is a larger tale that this word tells. It is from a name, Rodomonte, the original bearer of which was a character in the epic poems Orlando innamorato by Boiardo and Orlando furioso by Ariosto, written in the late 1400s and early 1500s (respectively). Rodomonte was a Saracen king, a loud, boastful, arrogant man, given to supreme confidence in his skills and certain to assure his enemies that they would be slain and dismembered by him, the most illustrious of warriors.

Boiardo was, we are told, so happy with coming up with the name for this character that he asked for the church bells to be rung. The name Rodomonte is sonorous, certainly, but what else? In Boiardo’s dialect, it means ‘roll-mountain’ – one who rolls away the mountain. Of course, to anglophones generally it’s not semantically transparent. It might as well be Rhadames. Or perhaps some warrior from Rhodes. Which is why so often you will see this word spelled as rhodomontade. Also, perhaps, the rh makes the word seem extra hairy.

One more thing we should remember about this word: it refers to over-the-top boasting, but it does not automatically imply that the boasts are empty or that the boaster is a coward, a miles gloriosus to use the Roman term. The annoying fact is that in the poems Rodomonte actually is a highly skilled warrior who generally lives up to his press releases. He is only finally lain low near the end. Don’t you hate that – when someone declares loudly how good he is and actually turns out to be good?

A Word Taster’s Companion: Syllables 1: The basic bits

Today: the fifteenth installment of my how-to guide for word tasting, A Word Taster’s Companion.

Syllables 1: The basic bits

Of course, we don’t normally say phonemes in isolation. We speak them in streams. And when we do, there’s a certain rhythm to them. Oh, most of the time it’s not an especially evident rhythm; it just bumps and bops along with little enough in the way of a prominent pattern that we don’t pay it much heed. But if we’re singing – or rapping or reciting metered verse – we not only notice it but make pointed use of it. And it can affect our word choices even when we’re not thinking about it.

So what is the minimal unit of rhythm in speech? This is one you almost certainly know at least a little about. The syllable.

OK, so now tell me: what is a syllable?

Well, what do you need in order to have a syllable?

The one thing you definitely must have is a nucleus – a peak of sonority and emphasis. This is usually a vowel, either a single vowel sound or a diphthong or triphthong. But it’s not always a vowel! If you were paying attention in “Lovely, lyrical liquids,” you know that /r/ and /l/ can also sometimes make up syllables by themselves – and they can be the nucleus, or peak, or a syllable with other parts. Say murder. Odds are you had /r/ as the peaks of both syllables. Say bottled. The second syllable has no vowel sound! (The e may be written, but it’s not said, so there is no actual vowel there.) Nasals can also serve the turn. Say button – the way you usually say it, not the careful way. Your second syllable is most likely just [n], syllabic.

A rule of thumb: If it’s singable, it can be the nucleus of a syllable.

There can be consonants before and/or after the nucleus. The ones at the start, if there are any, are the onset; the ones at the end, if there are any, are the coda. The nucleus and coda together are the rime (normal people spell this rhyme, but linguists go with the more nonstandard spelling, because they can – and to make it clear they mean the technical term).

So. Identify the onset, nucleus, and coda in the following words: bad, bird, bra, alp, scalp, eye, strengths.

How did you do? Let’s go over them:

b/a/d – Should be easy enough.

b/ir/d – Remember, when we talk about vowels, we mean the sounds, not the letters! Here the ir represents a syllabic /r/ for most North American speakers and a mid-central vowel (without [r]) for the millions around the world who “drop their r’s.”

br/a – No coda!

a/lp – No onset!

sc/a/lp – You’ll notice that we can put /s/ before most other consonants in the onset, but not after them, and we can put liquids after most other consonants in the onset, but not before them. Remember that these rules are specific to English! Other languages have other rules. Some can use almost terrifying clusters of consonants; others can use very few or only one, and some don’t allow any codas.

eye – There is no onset or coda; this is just a diphthong, [aɪ]. The fact that we spell it with two “vowels” around one “consonant” is just to mess with your head – though it does sorta look like two eyes around a nose, doesn’t it?

str/e/ngths – I included this one just because we can really stack them up in the onset and coda in English, as long as they’re in the right order.

Next: Breaking words