Category Archives: word tasting notes

gargoyle

Arg, it’s ugly. Could it be the love child of Anu Garg and Olive Oyl? Perhaps not, but it certainly gurgles in your gorge grotesquely. But it will not gorgonize you: it is the gargoyle itself that has turned to stone – or always was! We all know what this word’s ugly referents are: those stone heads on Gothic buildings, representing demons, goblins, gremlins, and assorted other gnarly lugs. Does the name come from the ugliness of the g sounds? From the throatiness, rather. The Germanic and Romance languages have a variety of words in the garg, gurg, and gorg line that relate to the throat – unsurprisingly! The word gargoyle came from was Old French gargouille, “throat.” So, OK, throat? Yes, because gargoyles are water spouts. You have a roof. It gets rained on. You need to drain water off it, and you don’t want it just hitting the ground all around, so you drain it into gutters and they drain into spouts that pour the water out and away from the building. And before the advent of modernism, the idea was that things should be, you know, ornamented. Public fountains were built with water coming out of mouths and assorted other physiognomic orifices; why shouldn’t great public buildings also drain water through amusing or shocking heads? Well, at least until the early 18th century, when cities started requiring buildings to have downspouts that carried the water all the way to the ground rather than just gargling it down from great heights.

skeuomorph

Well, here’s another one of those Greek words. And it isn’t going to win any beauty contests, is it? That awkward k up front, that weird euo sequence – where the heck else do you find that? – and of course the ph at the end. You know it’s Greek because of the morpheme morph, which refers for form or shape, but morph always seems a little clumsy, perhaps because of echoes of Murphy (as in bed and ‘s Law) or pehraps because it seems like what you’d say if you had a sock stuffed in your gob.

But, now, by the by, why the ph anyway? I mean, we’re addicted to that weird little digraph – the New York Times tried unilaterally to replace it with f in the earlier 20th century and had to give up. Italian has successfully replaced it with f, though the spelling convention – and a number of borrowed Greek words – came by way of Latin. And why did the Latins spell it that way? Well, it seems to have reflected the way the Greek letter phi was pronounced at the time – as [p] plus [h] rather than, as it later came to be, as [f]. So it was something that arose from the nature of the source material, and then came to be an ornament. And now it’s used in words like phat and phishing in reflection of that convention even though they’re not derived from Greek (phat most likely came about as a respelling of fat, not as a shortening of emphatic). So it’s sort of like those seams that used to be painted on nylon stockings – an ornament there just as a reflection of a necessity of a different material.

There are quite a few things in the world that are like ph, actually – things that are either ornaments made from necessities of the material (heightening the grain in a wooden item, perhaps, or making the stitching in a garment an ostentatious design feature) or, more usually, things that emulate necessities of another material that have taken on an aesthetic valuation (fake stitching moulded into vinyl and fake woodgrain on, well, all sorts of things). These things are called – have you guessed? – skeuomorphs. And it’s not because there’s something skewed about putting non-functional spokes on a car hub, or making a digital camera emit a loud synthesized click, or any and all of the 3-D styling you’re looking at on your computer screen right now, or stone carved to look like fabric (oh, the modernists hated skeuomorphy!), and you won’t be skewered by them either. Greek skeuos means “vessel” or “implement” (noun). And although the ancient Greeks produced a lot of them – any stone statue is one (or many) de facto unless it represents, well, stone, and even then it might be one – the word seems to have been invented in the late 19th century by an Anglophone. Who, of course, couldn’t make an English word out of English parts. Noooo! He had to borrow bits from another material – ancient Greek – because that was more aesthetically valued.

intaglio

Here’s a word with a flavour like tagliatelle aglio e olio, perhaps to be eaten in the midst of an imbroglio in a seraglio while listening to Natalie Imbruglia. Ah, the great Italian gli! You may say it with glee, but don’t say it like “glee.” The closest we can come in English phonotactics is to ditch the g and say it like “lee,” but actually the l is palatalized, producing a movement of the tongue rather like one you might make while trying to free it from an excess of almond butter. But while the movement is a slinky sliding, the sense is cutting: intagliare means “cut” or “engrave,” and comes from the late Latin verb taleare, “cut” – also the source of tailor and, yes, tagliatelle (which names a noodle rather like linguine, but wider). In carving terms, intaglio is the opposite of relief – I don’t mean it’s more work, I just mean that it’s concave rather than convex. If you find it a lingo requiring extra effort, let me assure you that you will get gain with your toil. You very likely have examples of intaglio in your own abode. Go to your medicine cabinet and pull out the pills. If they’re the uncoated kind, made with lots of hydroxypropylmethylcellulose as inert filler, they probably have the company logo and indication of active ingredient intagliated (that’s the past participle of the verb form).

virga

Does this word remind you of virgin, verge, or virgule? It’s related to two of the three, and presents an irony with the third. It has such a vigour of voice to it, it might seem to refer to something quite earthy, or perhaps to a low-cut blouse, as the v may suggest. But although this word comes – unchanged in form – from the Latin for “rod” or “twig,” it has transferred neither to root nor to branch but to the skies above, and the plunging neckline is replaced by a veil – one that doesn’t plunge far enough. If you look at clouds, you sometimes see a hanging fringe that looks like it might be rain, but, like a torture of Tantalus, it never reaches the thirsty earth. The aerial virgules (virgule: “little rod or twig”) may seek intercourse with the watercourse, but they merely whisk the air (whisk is also related, more distantly, to virga), perhaps brushing an airplane (on occasion, one belonging to Varig), but never reaching the ground, frustrating Fred Astaire and Burt Bacharach alike. It is but a verge on a cloud, merely verging on the ground – verge, referring at first to the rod (virga) of office, and then to an area subject to the jurisdiction of the Lord High Steward (within a twelve-mile perimeter of the king’s court), came thence to refer to precincts, bounds, limits, and ultimately fringes. So certainly, with this chaste veil of rain (chased but not met), this word relates also to virgin? Ah, but here is the twist to this taste. Virgin comes from virgo (remember, astrologists?), which, despite its apparently masculine -o, is a feminine noun. Virga is also a feminine noun, yet it refers to something more masculine (and verge has been used by zoologists to refer to molluscs’ male members). But how is it that with the -a you have the rod, and with the -o you have the maiden? And we see that virgo, agitated, can bring vigor, while virga may borrow a letter to produce a gravid result. Yet with this virga, never the twain shall meet.

fey

A word so short, like the brief candle that is life: a waking dream, a magical glimmer, a will-o’-the-wisp in the expanse of eternity. We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep. Life’s but a waking dream, and then… to sleep, perchance to dream… again. All of existence is perhaps a fevered fantasy of phantasms on a midsummer night. A fata morgana, perhaps. But what has all this to do with fey? ‘Tis fate, surely. To the old English, fæge meant “fated to die,” as fey can still mean today. More often, we use it to refer to a mystical, ethereal, otherworldly, fairy-like quality. This may be because of the giddiness attributed to those near death, but it no doubt is also because of fay, which comes from fae, which means “fairy” and like fairy is descended from faie, “person or place possessed of magical qualities,” which in its turn traces back to Latin fata, “fate.” It was a fated convergence. And the word opens with a puff of breath from teeth and lip and then fades away with a narrowing vowel, and is gone. Many today, on seeing this word, may think first of a famous TV face: Tina Fey. Although an accomplished comedienne with a following a decade long, she burst into the greater limelight by a twist of fate: a surprising resemblance to a politician whose abrupt elevation to high candidacy seemed quite out of the ordinary earthly run of things. But feh! That arctic charwoman (not au fait, just ofay) would pale in comparison to a true fey.

encomium

When you tell me what you think o’ me, um, I’d like it with encomium. I want praise as my income: “Yum!” Let not your apostrophe leave me – or you – in a coma. Ah, encomium. Doesn’t it have a nice, warm feel to it? Like coming home. It also brings to mind a comb, not just in the stressed syllable but in the two m‘s. Perhaps that’s the comb you use on your hair before you go out to greet your adoring fans; perhaps it’s the act of combing, e.g., the net for nice things people have said about you. This word comes by way of Latin, unchanged in form, but they took it from Greek egkómion (the g – gamma, rather – becomes a velar nasal before the k, so the standard modern pronunciation with [n] is farther from the source than an assimilated, more “relaxed” version). There is an alternate version based directly on the Greek, encomion, but who wouldn’t rather receive a “yum” than a “yawn” at the last? For “yum!” is what encomium is all about: it refers to panegyric, also known by a term taken from the Greek for “fine words”: eulogy. Of course, in the spirit of nil nisi bonum, eulogy is typically reserved for those no longer around to hear it. Agh. I’ll take mine while I’m still on the hoof, thanks. Mince no words and make no moue; to make my life eunomic, mm, I need the whole thing, and not just once and then mum: keep it coming in.

zeaxanthin

An amazing word to pop the eyes of any Scrabble player. And it certainly has a zinfandel-like zest on the tongue. It appears to be made of a bricolage of bits of fashionable words, and it ends with that grail of fad nutrition, thin. The x, at the crossroads (or crosseyes) of the word, is, as often, a misleader; anglophones, certain they can’t begin a syllable with [ks], say [z] there instead, giving this word a double buzz. But where does this word come from, and what does it signify? If you’re not a Piers Anthony fan, xanth probably has at best faint resonances (xanthan gum, perhaps, spotted on ingredient lists). In fact, it comes from the Greek for “yellow.” As to zea, it’s a little Linnaean lingo: Linnaeus took the Latin for “spelt” (taken respelt from the Greek) and applied it to a different grain, Zea mays, maize. Well, but what breadcrumbs lead us now out of this lexical maze? Never mind – punch your way out, like Popeye; just make sure to have your spinach first. Although zeaxanthins were first isolated in maize, they are also found in spinach and other vegetables, and they protect them from blue light (isn’t that special?). They are a kind of carotenoid. And if you remember that carotene is supposed to be good for your sight, well, it is, and zeaxanthin is. Superfoods may be faddish, true, but it’s not just pop nutrition to protect the eyes.

brassiere

On the front of it, this word is as bold as brass – or as the waitress in a brasserie. The sound of it, however, puts it closer to Brazil, a country (coincidentally?) known for the display and enlargement of those things a brassiere supports. But, now, what does a brassiere support? I mean, we know, we know, but francophones may well ask, “What not arms?” French for “arm” is bras, after all. And in fact the term originated in French as a word for a soldier’s arm guard, and then for a military breastplate. Its farewell to arms came with its transference to a type of corset (not corsair, which would have a coarse air; the firearms involved now are not cannons but perhaps bazookas). Its use in English came about in the early 20th century, and the modern object to which it refers was patented in France (as un soutien-gorge) in 1904 by Herminie Cadolle and in America in 1914 by Mary Phelps Jacob. Oh, and Otto Titzling? So sorry. A hoax, a confabulation by one Wallace Rayburn in his 1971 canard Bust-Up: The Uplifting Tale of Otto Titzling and the Development of the Bra. Mr. Rayburn has made boobs of many people, including the devisers of Trivial Pursuit. (They also went for the red herring on Thomas Crapper, but that’s another scoop.) But… ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on, bra! (NB the bra in that song is actually a form of brother – the song is about a West Indian immigrant to Britain and ob-la-di, ob-la-da is a Yoruba expression for “life goes on.” Like a brassiere, I suppose.)

isogloss

When I must explain to some Americans that by pop I mean soda, there’s a word for the line between the areas using the two words I so gloss: isogloss. It’s even pronounced like “I so gloss,” though it’s not taken from it. Quite reasonably for a scholarly term, it’s a Greek compound borrowed from German scholarship. People who study dialects will map out where people say see-saw and where they will say teeter-totter, for instance, and discernible (if in reality often fuzzy and permeable) boundaries can be drawn. Isoglosses can criss-cross and defeat what one expects from dialects. The word isogloss, for its part, has a certain sheen uncommon in the typically brutish, percussive, or convoluted classically based terminology of scholarship. It slips on the tongue like wet silver, with perhaps a sweetness like icing on a cupcake – or a glass of sherry. When we think of speech, this word’s echoes conjure the mouth speaking it, with gloss on the lips like ice (ah, Rocky Horror fans, do we have you now?). The gl here is not, however, the Germanic gl of gleam, glitter, and other shiny things – that’s the other gloss, a mere coincidence of form with this Greek-derived gloss, with the gl of the mouth, as in glottis. Nor is it akin to glace, French “ice.” There is also no ice in iso. The iso that catches your eye so quickly is not the lonely start of isolated (which is related to island) but the Greek “equal” we see in isotonic, isomorphic, and those isobars you see on weather maps (the bar from Greek for “pressure,” as in barometer, but no, not bar mitzvah, pressure or no). Think of isoglosses as linguistic isobars. And see them in action at www.popvssoda.com.

petrichor

Does this word have the scent of a chorus of rocks? Oh, yes, it does, as the dry ground sings its musty smell when the spring rain hits it. The petr is the same Greek pet(e)r, “rock,” you see everywhere: petroleum, petrified, saltpeter. The ichor actually has naught to do with a chorus, being rather the Greek word for the ethereal fluid that flowed in the veins of the Gods in place of blood; it has in English taken on more practical meanings to do with emanating fluids. But it has been borrowed to blend in today’s word to refer more to the flux of aroma: not the mud made by the spattering rain but the recrudescent redolence that tells our noses the dry spell is done. The enunciation moves backward in the mouth, with the lips starting, then the tip of the tongue touching the alveolar ridge, then the dorsum at the velum, and a subsiding liquid to end it, as though tracing the flow of a fresh flood into your thirsting mouth. On paper, this word has a rich heart, and as the water mixes with the soil, and the earthbound springs to life, we see it ret the roots and leave us with an orchid (the p has risen to d). As the drops lash the ground, engage in that porch rite of watching it from shelter – but where you can still smell it.