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Monthly Archives: May 2026

snork

Posted on May 22, 2026 | Leave a comment

Ugh, we were seated in a restaurant last week right next to a table with a family with three kids who were snorking and snotting. One was less than a metre from me. Just what I wanted: to catch a respiratory virus. It also didn’t make for the pleasantest dining experience soundscape.

OK, now, question, though. I like to use “snorking and snotting” to describe a certain thing, and I suppose not everyone uses that turn of phrase, but you know what I mean, right? For snotting one could say “blowing the nose and sniffling,” perhaps – the idea, anyway, is ‘producing a lot of mucus’. But snorking, now: is there another word that conveys that quite as well? If asked to define it, would you come up with a string of words, or would you just demonstrate: “sssnnoorrrrkkkkkk!”

Because it’s not simply sniffing or sniffling, is it. It’s inhaling loudly through the nasal passages for the purpose of swallowing loose mucus. It’s a common enough thing for people with head colds to do – especially the youth and any other uncouth. And yet our vocabulary for exactly that act is broadly wanting. Perhaps because it’s disgusting.

But people do snork, and we need to name it from time to time. So it’s odd to me that I rarely see the word snork. It’s not a new word. Aside from being imitative, and having the /sn/ phonaestheme that is so commonly associated with things nasal, it’s been in the language for centuries, though not strictly referring just to that gross ingression of catarrh. It’s attested in the OED from the 1500s meaning ‘snore’ and from the 1800s meaning ‘snort, grunt, breathe noisily’.

That is certainly broader than what I have in mind here. ‘Snort, grunt, breathe noisily’ puts me in mind of the eponymous vagrant in the song “Aqualung” by Jethro Tull, so named because of his noisy breathing (including, as specified in the lyrics, snot). But this is not quite aqualung territory. It’s more like… a snorkel, I guess.*

But, really, what other word could you use that would be equal? I’d be tempted to use sknx but it’s canonically a snore (and, almost unique among English words, strictly requires an ingressive airstream). Snorking (in the sense I mean) and snoring are produced by almost exactly the same means, though. Only, ironically, while a snore is somnolent, it is the snork that is more phlegmatic. Which is, for all the subtle gradations, a gross distinction.

*By the way, snorkel comes from German Schnorchel, which first named an exhaust pipe for diesel-powered submarines; it is formed from the same root – with the same meaning – as snore, which is also the most likely etymon of snork.

compunction, qualm

Posted on May 14, 2026 | Leave a comment

The point of compunctions, more often than not, is that one pointedly does not have them. Now and then is there a momentary compunction, a slight compunction, perhaps a single compunction, but the majority of times compunctions are spoken of, it is their absence that is remarked: a person has no compunctions about something – not even the least compunction.

Which means what, by the way? What are compunctions? Emotional complications? Moral conditions? Points of punctiliousness? Punctures in your composition? Or, simply put, qualms?

Wait… what is the difference between compunctions and qualms? When you inquire into qualms, you find that they, too, are most often remarked by their absence: nary a qualm, without a qualm, no qualms about doing it, no qualm with what someone has said or done, not even the least qualm… Occasionally someone may have a sudden qualm, or a slight qualm, or perhaps even a few qualms, but qualms, like compunctions, seem in short supply, at least when spoken of.

And a qualm is what? A quaver? A break in the calm? A mild queasiness or quaking? I could look to Wiktionary and see that it can be “a prick of the conscience; a moral scruple, a pang of guilt.” That brings to mind “a pricking of conscience or a feeling of regret, especially one which is slight or fleeting”… which is the definition of compunction. But a qualm can also be “a feeling of apprehension, doubt, fear etc.” or “a sudden sickly feeling; queasiness,” which goes beyond what one might think of for a compunction, which seems more a mere point of order or politeness.

Which allows me to get to the point – or points. The punct in compunction, you see, is indeed the same as in puncture, punctual, punctiliousness, and so on: a point, a needle, a prick – in this case, as said, a pricking of conscience. But compunction was not at first a slight needling; the com- made it more commanding and complicated. It was a bed of nails for the moral sensibility. It was the sting of remorse. It is only over the centuries (in particular between the 1300s and the 1700s) that the sense became less intense, as the usage slipped into the negative. Now a compunction – if you have one at all – might make you come to a stop, but it won’t kill you.

Unlike, perhaps, a qualm. We’re not quite sure, mind you, where qualm came from; there are a couple of theories, and not enough evidence to solidify either. But one theory connects it to quell, which, originally, meant ‘kill’. Indeed, in Old English – and up to the mid-1500s – qualm (or an earlier spelling such as cwealm) meant, to quote the Oxford English Dictionary, “Death, esp. of a violent nature; (also) an instance of this.”

So the moral quake of a qualm could be a little murder of the soul, no? Well, aside from the last known instance of that qualm being from 1532, and the first known instance of our modern qualm being from 1531, there isn’t much other than the coincidence of form to connect the two. Our first known use of the latter sense is from William Tyndale: “When Jonas had bene in te fishes bely a space … the qualmes & panges of desperacion which went ouer hys hert halfe ouercome.” I just don’t think “qualms and pangs of desperation” works with the ‘death’ sense, ya know? It is true that the older qualm could also mean ‘torment’ or ‘pain’ or ‘injury’, but, as the OED says, “evidence for a direct connection of the two words is lacking, and on chronological grounds it is unlikely that there is continuity between the two words.”

Which is why there is the thought that our compunctious qualm might be connected to modern German Qualm and Dutch kwalm ‘smoke, mist (especially noxious)’, perhaps from a root meaning ‘gush forth, well up’ or connecting through a sense of ‘dizziness, stupefaction’ – you know, that little queasy feeling.

Either way, you probably don’t have any, nor compunctions either. But how do you decide which of them in particular you don’t have? The sound and associations certainly help: compunction is longer and more technical, qualm short and visceral. Perhaps you could combine the two, to connote a sickening pricking of the conscience – a sort of food poisoning of the soul: qualmpunctions. It looks and sounds pretty bad. But, of course, you have none.