My boyfriend is the dashing type.
He writes – whips off – with vim – and hype.
He goes – he comes – cycle completing –
and yet – I feel – he may be cheating.
Last week he sent a note – “Dear N –
I hope – so soon – we join – again!”
But then – missent – another too –
“Dear M—can’t wait—to meet—with you!”
From N – to M—his life’s a whirl!
He’s dashing—yes – from girl to girl!
I think I should have picked a man
with more breath & attention span.
I’ll find & marry someone bland
who’ll come & stay with ampersand.
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).
A word such as by is really too basic and multifarious to do a tasting of the usual sort on it. Instead, I present a poem – another from Songs of Love and Grammar.
Joined by fate by April
Last fall I was hit by a stop sign
by a truck that failed to stop;
the driver was caught by a red light
and sent off to jail by a cop.
I was taken away by an ambulance
and laid by a nurse in a bed
in a hospital built by a river
and by morning was back from the dead.
I was kept in a room by the river
by the nurse to heal and stay.
I was seen by my bed by the window
by the nurse twice every day.
I was healed by the power of beauty:
I was struck by the nurse’s face
and blown away by her lovely lips
by the time I left that place.
The nurse was known by April
by friends and by people about
and, by George, she was called by the next month
by me to ask her out.
By April she had been courted
by me for half a year
and by then it was time for a ring
to be given by me to my dear.
We were wed by a tree by a lake
by a hill by the moon by a priest
and the joining by God was feted
by the stars by our friends by a feast.
Now I’m joined in my life by April
and by fate we will never be parted,
and my wall is bedecked by the stop sign
by which this all was started.
By the wall a cradle’s been placed,
and by April all will know why:
by and large, my April’s grown pregnant,
and we’ll have a child by and by.
At first glance, English may seem to be going through a paradigm shift, with a dizzying array of ways to put lipstick on the pig. This naturally provokes some push-back, even withering criticism, as we struggle to wrap our heads around it. But the upshot remains to be seen. Should we just run with it? Or should we step up to the plate and think outside the box? If you talk about the elephant in the room, will that mean you’re not a team player? Will you get thrown under a bus? And, on the other hand, at the end of the day, are we even truly at a crossroads?
More to the point, did that paragraph provoke you to hyperemesis?
We Anglophones have an apparently inexhaustible facility for creating clichés. A sharp turn of phrase or a particularly engaging image sparks interest and spreads like wildfire, and soon enough it’s tired and stale. This is not a new thing. Some hackneyed clichés of yesteryear have become so cemented that we continue to use them even though we no longer quite remember the literal reference. The result is sometimes what are called eggcorns: misconstrual of idiomatic words or phrases into things that make more sense to the modern eye and ear. This is how just deserts becomes just desserts, tide me over becomes tie me over, strait-laced and strait and narrow get straightened, sleight of hand gets slighted… Forget about trying to nip these in the bud in the nick of time; many of them are as old as the hills. You may look for the silver lining and try to make lemonade, but…
What? Oh, fine, I’ll stop. What I’ve really been doing is illustrating a central point of all of these: they’re all picturesque. They all involve metaphors. But in many cases the imagery is etiolated. The words are still there, and we could play with the images if we want, but for general use they are like posters or pin-ups that have been on the wall too long and are now faded to pale shades of cyan.
But that is how language works. Most language you use is made of metaphors and images that have lost their vividness and, in many cases, are no longer recognizable as imagery at all. Let us look at some “plain” words that could replace the clichés. Going through a paradigm shift – well, we could say changing, but that comes (much changed!) from a Latin word for bartering and exchanging, and may deriver further from an older word for bending or turning back. We could replace push-back with rejection, but reject is from Latin for “throw back.” If we prefer to understand rather than wrap our heads around, it ought not to take us too long to see the under and stand in understand. And if we go with comprehend? There’s the Latin again, meaning “grasp, seize” (remember that anything that can grab things is prehensile, from the same root). If you prefer betray to throw under a bus, you may want to know that the tray in betray conceals a Latin origin in trans plus dare, meaning “hand over.” And so it goes. Look back over this paragraph and try to find one verb I have used that isn’t a figurative use of a word with a physical reference: work, make, look, go… even prefer comes from Latin for “put in front, carry forward.”
In this way (as in a few others) English is like Chinese. I’m not talking about the Chinese use of imagery and metaphor, which is considerable; I mean the written form, the Chinese characters. People who aren’t familiar with Chinese characters may think of them as pictograms, resembling closely what they refer to. People who try to learn Chinese find very quickly that the characters generally give the reader nothing obvious to grab onto. This is because the characters are like our words and phrases that have had the imagery worn off them.
Let me give you a couple of examples. Look at the character for “look”: 看. Does that look like looking? How about after I tell you that it’s made of two parts, and the 手 was originally a hand (see the fingers? it has changed somewhat) and the 目 was originally an eye (it rotated 90˚ a long time ago; make the outside box curved and see the inside lines as making the edges of the iris)?
Now look at the character for “good”: 好. How does that look good, or like anything good? Well, the 女 part is the character for “woman,” and originally looked like a line drawing of a standing woman with her hands held in front of her. The 子 part is the character for “child,” and if you curve the top part and bend the crossbar down, you might begin to see an infant in swaddling clothes. It seems that, to the scribes who determined this character, the epitome of goodness was a mother and child.
Such is the way it goes, too, with our picturesque language. Time and tide, change and overuse, leave the imagery behind. But if you know how to look, it’s still good – and not altogether lacking in character.
A friend recently got a tweet from an interested chap in which he used quotation marks in a way she, as an editor, did not approve of. I was put in mind of this poem from my book Songs of Love and Grammar:
Unrequoted love
I’m getting letters from my dear,
but I’m not sure that she’s sincere.
I see the way she ends her notes:
the phrase “I love you” is in quotes.
I really don’t know what to do,
for if she’s quoting, quoting who?
Although I know it seems absurd,
her every gift is but a word: I send you “hugs”, I send you “kisses” –
That’s it? Some kind of present this is!
She writes, I “miss” you, and I see
the missing is mere irony!
Well, I think I know what to do:
I’m writing her, I “miss” you too. My “love” is such, if you were here, you’d get “a diamond ring”, my dear. My “life” shall be at your disposal – I wait for “yes” to my “proposal”.
She sends mere quotes? I send her same!
She’ll know that two can play this game!
If you enjoyed that, there are five dozen more in Songs of Love and Grammar, available for just $12 on lulu.com and amazon.com.
I think it’s about time for another poem from Songs of Love and Grammar (my book of salacious verse about English usage, available at Lulu.com and Amazon.com). This one is a naughty chemistry poem – by which I mean both a naughty poem about chemistry and a poem about naughty chemistry. It is larded with abbreviations from the periodic table – e.g., Fe for iron. To read it correctly you need to read the abbreviations as the full names of the elements. If you’re stuck, no worries: I’ve made a video of it.
The elements of lust
I met a chemist just by chance
in the Pd at a dance.
I’m a bit of a B the dancing floor,
so I thought I’d try a little more.
I asked, “Would it be much amiss
to lead a Rn your mouth with a little kiss?”
She said, “Oh, please, don’t get me wrong.
It’s just – your W inches long.”
“I know,” I said. “It’s fun for play,
though when I it’s in the way.”
She said, “Then let’s be somewhat bolder,
with my right Ne your left shoulder.
The days Ar when I would shy –
they’re dead; let’s Ba, say bye-bye.”
My sense of shame I’d S a Ni,
so we commenced some slap and tickle,
but even I turn Cd red
to think of where our actions Pb…
The host told us we had to stop or
we’d be dragged off by a Cu;
it took some Au to Fe it out.
But this adventure left no doubt:
in love, I’m not so sentimental…
I’ll take a girl who’s elemental.
Now here’s the video:
The various chemical symbols, which have to be pronounced as the full name of the element, are: Pd = palladium, B = boron, Rn = radon, W = tungsten, I = iodine, Ne = neon, Ar = argon, Ba = barium, S = sulfur, Ni = nickel, Cd = cadmium, Pb = lead, Cu = copper, Au = gold, Fe = iron. Note that the I in line 10 is iodine, not simply the first-person singular pronoun. Cadmium red is a bright red.
I think it’s time to feature another poem from my book Songs of Love and Grammar, saucy verse about romantic and morphosyntactic difficulties. This one revels in the rich depth and frank economy of lexis of a certain adolescent idiom. I have done you the favour of reading it in a video. You’re welcome.
Here’s the text:
She’s like all that you know
by James Harbeck
I know this girl, and she’s all that –
she’s like, you know, she’s got it all,
and she’s all “Guys are all like that,
but you’re, like, not like that at all.”
So I’m like, you know, “What’s all that?
So did you dis me? Do you like me?”
And she’s “You know it’s not, like, that.
You know I know you don’t dislike me.”
So I’m “Like that’s just all I know!
I know you know I know, you know?
So no, it’s not a dis, I know.”
And she’s “I know. I’m just, you know.”
But no, you know, it’s not like that.
That’s just, like, all. It’s just, you know?
Cuz that’s just her and I’m not that.
I like her, like you know, you know?
But now, you know, it’s all “That’s all,”
but, like, no, that’s not all at all,
cuz she’s a girl who has it all,
and, like, I’m just like that, is all.
Where to start? The martini is perhaps the ultimate high-society cocktail. It is strongly associated with suaveness and James Bondage (in his case a vodka martini, shaken, not stirred). It is also likely the most legendary cocktail of the entertainment world. It has managed to work its way into more wit than just about any other drink. I think of Dorothy Parker:
I love to drink Martinis,
Two at the very most
After three I’m under the table,
After four I’m under my host.
George Burns said, “I never go jogging, it makes me spill my Martini.” Someone or other famous from the ’20s or ’30s (there are different attributions) said “I must get out of these wet clothes and into a dry Martini.” And then there’s the story of the man who walks into a bar and says, “I’ll have a martinus.” The bartender says, “You mean martini.” The man says, “If I’d wanted two, I would have said so.” (Ever wonder why we keep plural forms with borrowings but no other inflections, not even the possessive, and certainly not conjugations of verbs?)
But ordinary people drink martinis too. Salesmen used to go for “three-martini lunches.” Even Jack Torrance, who is taking care of a mountain resort hotel over the winter in The Shining by Stephen King, thirsts for martinis (which he calls “Martians”).
So why all this attention? The image of the conical glass helps give it good branding. The fact that it’s usually stronger than the average cocktail helps too (it’s the pale counterpart to a Manhattan: lotsa liquor plus vermouth). No doubt the fact that martinis are delicious can’t hurt.
But there’s certainly something about martinis that turns otherwise sensible adults in geeks having the kind of hair-splitting prescriptivist and categorizing arguments usually reserved for YouTube comment threads on heavy metal videos – or, of course, inane grammar assertions. Either shaking or stirring (depending on your source) is supposed to “bruise” the gin (really). There is an amazing amount of pretentiousness regarding the amount of vermouth to use: some people famously used to set a bottle of vermouth nearby, or whispered “vermouth” to their gin, or nodded in the direction of France or Italy (countries where vermouth is made). Arrant silliness: if you want a straight gin, just call it a straight gin.
And for some reason many people seem to assume vodka when one talks of martinis. James Bond drank vodka martinis, true. (And in one episode of WKRP in Cincinnati, Johnny Fever, sober, is said to have the reaction time of someone who has had “nine vodka martinis” – I would like to point out that gin martinis are the same strength.) Mind you, that’s still reasonably close to the standard form. There are many drinks called “martinis” in various bars now that are fruit juice with some liquor in a spilly glass – things we used to call highballs when they were served in non-spilly glasses. Of course they’re “built” by mixologists… It’s as though the word martini is a licence to be pretentious.
Not that I can make a reasonable plea for people to stick to the original. I don’t do that with words, after all. And, as it happens, nobody drinks the original now. Actually, nobody’s 100% sure what the original was, because there are different accounts, but it was made with sweet vermouth for sure, and perhaps maraschino cherry juice. My friend Reid has an old cocktail shaker with measures on it for different cocktails, one of which is a martini – and it gives half-and-half proportions of sweet and dry vermouth, and about three or four times as much gin as the total vermouth. But of course that’s why the dry-vermouth-only kind is specifically a dry martini.
Even the place of invention is up for dispute, though there are several stories putting it in or near San Franscisco around the time of the gold rush. One thing seems reasonably agreed on: the cocktail was first named Martínez, and the name was later modified probably under the influence of the Martini brand name of vermouth (now Martini & Rossi). Imagine its cultural position if it were still called Martínez. It would be thought of as Spanish, and you might be expected to have corn chips with it or to put a jalapeño in it.
Anyway, if you want as much martini geekery as you have time for – facts, opinions, recipes, all responsibly reported – I recommend The Martini FAQ by Brad Gadberry. (He doesn’t say so, but I think I can assert confidently that the name has no direct connection to the Latvian holiday of Mārtiņi on November 10, which marks the transition from the warm season to the cold one – yet another of the million good excuses for having a martini.)
And the name martini? It certainly is fluid, though it has that nice crisp edge with the /t/ in the middle – and since it’s on the stressed syllable, it has an extra puff of air on it. The mar doesn’t much seem to call to mind marring; rather, it has a purr as in Margarita, Marmaduke, marmalade, Martinique, marvellous… And the tini gives it a coy diminutiveness, like a “teehee” from a teeny-bopper in a bikini, perhaps. The high front sound of the /i/ vowels aids in the impression. As to echoes of other words – well, the cocktail has come to dominate the name, so that any other instance of the name (and it is a reasonably common Italian family name) will likely make you think of the drink.
By the way, I’m a bit of a weirdo when it comes to martinis: I keep my gin in the freezer and my vermouth in the fridge and simply pour vermouth, then gin, into a glass and swirl – no stir, no shake, no ice. Sometimes I add a drop of Cointreau or Chartreuse. And I usually use a wine glass. They spill less.
Will a quick phonetic tickle make you chuckle, quickly cackle,
or electrify your hackles so you heckle like a grackle?
Is your prickle frankly fickle – first you truckle, slackly buckle,
then in instant trick you stickle and commence to crack your knuckle?
We expect you not to suckle at a freckle on the deckle,
but we’d like to lightly tickle you till you elect to keckle,
so we’ll tackle you and rackle you and fix your cracks with spackle
so you’d crick your neck to ruckle with a sickle at your shackle,
then we’ll peckle like a puckle, first a trickle, next it’s mickle,
knocking like some ickle cockle: click and crackle, crickle, rickle.
And just when the focal vocal’s quackled you until you huckle,
we project you will effect a yucking racket like a yuckle.
These -ckle words don’t all have a common morpheme. Many of them have the -le frequentative suffix, but others share the ending just by coincidence. There is no -ckle morpheme. Some of the words may be less familiar, so here are some quick definitions: a grackle is an annoying noisy bird; to truckle is to submit; a deckle edge is a rough edge to a page (a deckle is actually a frame for making paper); to keckle is to chuckle; a rackle is a chain; to ruckle is to rattle; to peckle is to make a lot of little pecks; a puckle is a bogeyman; ickle is a play-childish way to say “little”; to crickle is to make a series of thin, sharp sounds, and to rickle is to make a rattling sound; to quackle is to choke; to huckle is to bend the body; a yuckle is a kind of woodpecker.
Sesquiotica 