Category Archives: word tasting notes

sultry

The sultry season: the sun’s sweltering assault and the incessant insult of the sweaty thick air. Your skin drips and your lips are salty; you are swimming and your fingers seem as sultanas. Unless you are a sultan, you are likely to become sulky and sullen… and truly thirsty.

Or, if you follow Noel Coward, you could be a mad dog or an Englishman and survive. Coward’s jaunty (and somewhat racist) song glorifying the oblivious hardiness of the pasty imperialists has this stanza:

In tropical climes there are certain times of day
When all the citizens retire to take their clothes off and perspire.
It’s one of those rules the greatest fools obey,
Because the sun is far too sultry and one must avoid its ultry-violet ray.

Truth be told, I find the word sultry almost too alluring in that context. Although it refers to heat, and by typical implication humidity too, it has overtones lacking in, for instance, sweltering. That word has a welter of heat in it and a strong sense of sweat. Sultry, on the other hand, though it has such negative echoes as sullen, sulk, and insult, somehow has something silky in it too. It has come to be used figuratively in reference to sexual allure, especially feminine and especially in specific performative aspects. The most common word seen in the company of sultry is voice – speaking, singing, growling, murmuring, what have you: it is a voice that will make you sweat. There are also sultry eyes. And there are sultry days, afternoons, nights, scenes of languor and of lust.

The attribution to a sensuous siren is a recent one – less than a century old in this kind of use. References to passions and lusts go much farther back, as we may expect: to the 1600s, not long after the word first appeared. But even in the poetry of the 1800s the references are nearly all literal or barely extended: sultry dawn, sultry day, sultry mead, sultry breeze, sultry silence, sultry scents, sultry leagues of tropic seas, sultry stars of summer, sultry passion-flowers, sultry wings, a sultry, yellow sky, and much sultry heat.

Sultry is heavy, hot, sweaty, yes, but somehow almost alluringly so, at least sometimes. It is an ulterior sweltry. Quite literally, in fact. Sultry comes from sulter, which is an alternate form of swelter, which gives us sweltering and sweltry. And where does swelter come from? It is an old word, one that has always been in the language, but at first it referred not to heat, nor just to fading away from heat. Here it is in the third verse of the third chapter of Genesis, in Old English:

and of ðæs treowes wæstme þe is onmiddan neorxnawange, God bebead us ðæt we ne æton, ne we ðæt treow ne hrepodon, ði læs ðe we swelton.

Do you see it? The last word, swelton. Here is what the above means:

and of the tree’s fruit that is in the middle of Paradise, God commanded us that we not eat, nor that we touch the tree, lest we die.

So we see from the story of the creation of the world how the word has evolved, in its form and in its sense: Die. Evanesce. Fade away. Then fade away from hunger, from heat. Then experience the heat. Then be the heat. Then be hot. But from the first to the last, it is wrapped up in fatal desire…

harpy

The first time I saw this word, context told me it was referring to a celestial being, so I assumed that it was some magnificent angel with a harp. Until it became clear that it was not. At all. It didn’t take long. The realization was like that scene at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark.

A harpy does not carry a harp. And, in the original, it does not harp on about things. It just shows up and deals horrible punishment. This is the Oxford English Dictionary definition: “A fabulous monster, rapacious and filthy, having a woman’s face and body and a bird’s wings and claws, and supposed to act as a minister of divine vengeance.” More generally, as applied to people, it describes not someone acting as an agent of righteous retribution but simply a vicious, predatory person.

Or, in commonest use, a belligerent, captious, verbally abrasive woman. The kind who won’t stop harping on about things. Often, in fiction, an ex-wife, or an ex-girlfriend, or a mother-in-law, or someone’s sister or aunt.

Yes, a common usage of this word is inescapably misogynistic. The original beast had a woman’s face, so you may say that’s just how it is, but do stop to wonder why it didn’t have a man’s face, and whether it would have been given a different character if it did. What, in fact, is our equivalent word for a man? I mean, I don’t want to harp on about this, but…

Oh, and while the ‘go on and on about something’ sense of harp has quite evidently helped shape the current usage of this word, the instrument harp and the beast harpy really are not related. The musical instrument’s name comes from an old Germanic root. The nasty celestial being, on the other hand, comes to us by way of Latin harpyia, usually seen in the plural harpyiæ; that is taken (as the y strongly hints) from Greek, in this case ἅρπῡιαι harpuiai ‘snatchers’, which have actually been different things in different myths: personifications of winds and storms in Homer, goddesses in Hesiod, and later on the winged creatures, which carried people and things off, such as the souls of the dead to Hades.

Snatchers? That sounds rapacious. Could we imagine the harpy is a raptor? We could – in particular if we refer to the harpy eagle, which is an eagle of the Americas, larger than the golden eagle. It’s named after the mythical beast, reasonably enough. Your soul may be safe around it, but your cat probably isn’t.

plutocracy

In the most recent news cycle, much of our attention has been ruled by a distant object, a body entirely beyond the reach of the simple citizens of Earth, cold, presenting a surface with an odd combination of smoothness and roughness but undented by the usual expected projectiles, a body that might appear to have a heart but of course we know it is just an icy illusion, a body drawn to our attention by a fantastically expensive endeavour…

But enough about Donald Trump and his presidential bid. I’d rather read about the Pluto formerly known as a planet. It truly is amazing to me that while we have all learned about the “ninth planet” since our childhoods, only now is it being seen in any surface detail at all. And it is fascinating – see for yourself.

We can, of course, go about our lives quite happily without directly concerning ourselves with Pluto, fascinating as it may be to at least some of us. But we cannot go through our lives without being affected by plutocracy: rule by the rich.

Donald Trump is slightly unusual in the openness of his plutocratic philosophy. Most US presidential candidates are rich, but even the rich ones try to pretend to have the view of a common person, at least when talking to general audiences (some of them have been caught making more plutocratic comments to audiences they assumed were entirely well moneyed – hey, who let the help have recording devices?). But there is a common assumption, often followed even when overtly denied, that people with money are more virtuous or at least more worth listening to. After all, we learned in our youth that you get money by working, so those who have more money have worked harder and smarter and must thus be worth following (and perhaps one of these stars will throw some money our way as they pass nearby too, no?).

This turns out not to be altogether reliably the case. The way you get to have a lot of money is by finding the most efficient means of accumulating more of it. Once you come to have a certain amount (by work, cunning, luck, or inheritance), you can use that to give you a considerable advantage in further accumulation. Those of us who play poker know that if you have a big stack of chips you can make big bets that will bully many of the people with shorter stacks off the table, and even if you lose one or two hands a stack advantage tends to compound itself unless you get reckless and fritter it away. And many of us in the working world have noticed that a company with a big bottom line can use it to squeeze out smaller companies. Beyond that, though, the way they get all that money is simply by extracting value disproportionate to their investment of time, money, and effort.

This is true for everything at root: the sun constantly sends us energy that drives a renewing cycle of growth; without it we would not have plant life, which gives us food (and the food that eats that food, i.e., meat) and, over much longer periods, such things as petroleum, which we are currently extracting faster than it is being made (see above about reckless gamblers). We would be as cold and lifeless as Pluto if we did not have the abundant free heat and light of our nearby star. Similarly, in the world of business, you as a company owner are able to increase your wealth by taking a share of the value created by your employees. A person like Donald Trump does not have billions because he works a million times as hard as a person who has thousands. He has billions because he has found ways to take a goodly cut of the value created by millions of people. Those people have thousands because they do not get the full value of their own efforts, and they don’t get all that much of a cut of the value of anyone else’s efforts either.

Well, that’s how the system works. It has been popular, too, and not without reason. We have created laws to help keep the most egregious ways of extracting values from others from happening too much. People such as Donald Trump manage to keep their businesses generally legal, or anyway not to get caught and punished for doing illegal things. But in the eyes of many, there is only an artificial line between a plutocrat such as Trump and some lord of the underworld.

Hmm. Pluto was the lord of the Underworld. So why would not plutocrats be lords of the underworld?

Ha ha. That pun works in English because we don’t have contrastive vowel length between the two roots. It keeps us from telling two things apart that seem similar but actually have nothing in common other than coincidence. On the one hand is classical Latin Plūtō (they didn’t write the macrons, but we do to keep track of which vowels are long), which comes from ancient Greek Πλούτων. He’s the brother of Jupiter and Neptune and is the god of the underworld (by the way, to fill in the planets, Uranus was a Titan, but Titan is a moon of Saturn, who was a god; the gods are descended from the Titans, but… oh, never mind). On the other hand is πλοῦτος, Greek for ‘wealth’. Note the difference between ω, which is omega (meaning ‘big o’), and ο, which is omicron (meaning ‘small o’). The former is long; the latter, short. Also note that the accent mark is different between ού and οῦ – an intonation difference that is made now only by classicists, and not them always either.

So there is no more connection between Pluto and plutocrats, really, than between people who gain political influence by being able to pay to look like they care and those who gain it by actually caring (I think there are some), or between government of the people by the rich people for the rich people and government of the people by representatives of all the people for all the people. Or between the planet Pluto and the Disney dog Pluto. Or, for that matter, between the dog Pluto and that other dog, Goofy.

How does that happen, now, that they’re both dogs, but Goofy gets a voice while Pluto just barks? Hm. Well, I’d rather listen to someone who makes some kind of sense, however goofy, than someone who just makes noises for attention.

chert

Sing to me, muse, of silicon dioxide,
of flint, of jasper, of agate, of onyx;
sing now of opal, of quartz and chalcedony.
Shiver a sharp-edged carol to chert.

Sing of its greys, its browns and its reds,
its greens and its blacks, its solids and stripes;
sing of its beds, its diatom sediments,
sing of its nodules in lime, chalk, and marl.

Let now this chert be my teacher, my razor:
conchoidal fractures will bless it with edges.
Strike it to break it and strike it to spark it:
arrows for hunting and fire to start cooking.

Chert for creation, chert for destruction,
cher for my dear, and черт for my devil,
harder than teeth, than steel, than spite,
holder of fossils and cut-off remembrance.

Local to Kent, this word without tracings,
found round the world and used through the ages,
red edged for hunters in times lost to words,
red underlined in my Microsoft Word.

Chert is a flint, or flint is a chert,
or chert here and flint there, or no line to draw:
gravel and gemstones and axes and headstones,
fire and earth rock, microcrystalline muse.

clint, grike

Here comes Clint and his pet grike!

Actually, there are two clints, and the grike is a sort of rift between them…

Noticed that I lower-cased clint? Yes, I’m not actually talking about the name Clint here, which is short for Clinton, which is an English toponym that I’m not going too far into. Rather, I’m talking about something even more chiselled than Clint Eastwood’s face and more flinty than his voice. And grike, though it may look like a word for some squawking white seabird, is, per the OED, “a fissure between clints.”

Well, that’s the technical use of it in geology. More generally (inasmuch as it is used more generally), it is (OED again) “a crack or slit in rock, a ravine in a hill-side.” I don’t know about you, but to me something that hard and cut should be crike. But it’s not. It’s grike to me and grike to you. Address any gripes to a crack in a rock.

From that you may have some notion of what a clint is. It is not a cliff (though it may be part of one), not a cleft (though it is between clefts); it is a flat bare slab of limestone, that bit between the grikes. It can also be a hard or flinty rock projecting from a hillside or standing out between fissures. In a sense, then, it may be to rock as a glint is to light. But then it again perhaps not. What it surely is is obtrusive and obdurate, like some clients.

Does it seem that the ologies are all agee in geology? How does clint not call forth a crevice, a cleft cloven as with a cleaver, at least a crack? But the Scots who brought it into the tongue got it honestly from old Germanic roots, reflected in Scandinavian languages: Danish and Swedish klint, in particular. And grike, should it not be a great spike, if it can’t be the bird its name may seem to suggest? But it is not, and in limestone lands such as England, grikes are not mere empty crevices; they are places for greenery to grow. In the deep crack in the rock, the dirt builds up and the plants root down, and it can be as green as you like. James Joyce used it in Ulysses, so it must be a word to use (had he used it in Finnegans Wake, you could rest confident of the opposite): “He climbed over the sedge and eely oarweeds and sat on a stool of rock, resting his ashplant in a grike.”

So there you have it. Faced with a fissured limestone surface, you see clint, grike, clint, grike, clint, grike, clint. Do you notice, on saying that, that the onsets are quite similar? /kl/ – velar stop, liquid; /gr/ – velar stop, liquid. The vowels are the two ways to say the letter i, as /ɪ/ or /aɪ/. The word that rests flat up front gets an ending up on the front of the tongue, /nt/; the one that is cut to the depth gets the /k/ at the back. So we do have some topological iconicity. And a bit more knowledge of the nooks and crannies of the lexicon.

ochlocracy

To my eyes, this word tumbles forward like a landslide of eggs and eggshells, of eyes and calling mouths, biting mouths, with the repetition of letter forms o o c c c: “Oh! Oh! See! See! See!” as the various busy bodies spot, point, call others, gather the forces, tumble down on the object…

Tumble? Perhaps more like tweet. You recognize the –cracy, of course: you’ve seen it in democracy and autocracy and theocracy and so on. It’s from Greek κρατία kratia ‘rule’. But ochlocracy is not a form of government any more than a fever is a durable state of health. Ochlocracy is a stampede, an avalanche, a corybantic frenzy; the very leaders of the group may be ripped to pieces as though by Bacchae. Ochlocracy is a Twitter-pile, when a strident voice calls out an infraction, gathers the censure, and within hours thousands or even millions have ridden the group emotion focused on the destruction of the miscreant. In a slightly less acute way, ochlocracy is demagoguery that loses control of its hounds.

Most basically, ochlocracy is mob rule. The ochlo comes from ὄχλος okhlos ‘mob, crowd’. Mob, by the way, is a clipping of Latin mobile vulgus, where vulgus – yes, the source of our vulgar – refers to the common people, and mobile is the same as in “La donna è mobile”: it means ‘changeable, fickle’. So a mob was originally a fickle crowd; now it’s just any crowd – but, then, any crowd is fickle, so the sense hasn’t really changed, has it…

Crowds may be fickle, but they are fickle en masse. Change races through them like divine fire, as though by echolocation or a psychopathic telepathy. A mob may be ridden or directed for a time, but if it does not finish the fast-burning fuel available before the rider has achieved his or her end, the rider too will be consumed. Mobs may serve noble goals, to be sure, and in fact members of any ochlocratic caucus will almost always feel certain of their moral rightness. The ideal of the collective good and the rights of workers are beautiful goals and yet they fuelled some of the worse ochlocratic catastrophes of the world’s various communist revolutions – and gave way to authoritarianism, as all those who had lost their minds in pursuit of a cause gladly accepted a head to lead them.

Which leads me to the other thing ochlocracy makes me think of: Okhlopkov. Nikolai Pavlovich Ohlopkov was a Russian theatre director of the 1930s. He was a very good, thoughtful, innovative director. In his aim to make theatre more direct, he pulled it away from the thoroughly detailed realism that had been prevailing, stripped down the stage, highlighted the theatricality. It was involving and engaging, and at the same time it made the magic of theatre obvious, put frost on the window that is the signifier, pulled back the curtain on Oz. He wanted to serve socialism, but in some ways he helped people notice the glasses they had been wearing – and so he was forced to be less “formalist.” I wrote a paper on him, still one of my favourites from my academic theatre career: “Okhlopkov and the Nascence of the Postmodern.” (That link is to a PDF.)

His name has no relation to ochlocracy. But the connection is heuristically useful. Those staring eyes o o in the ochlocracy: they are not wide-open eyes but rather goggles, focusing, colouring, and distorting your vision. They are uninspected metanarratives: overarching stories and schemas that guide the construction and interpretation of the stories you use to justify diving into the mob. You put them on to keep the blood out of your eyes, and then take them off when they are too spattered. But if you can get enough frost or dust on them first, you may take them off and then see more clearly before there is any blood flying.

Every mob, after all, is an Emerald City, so appealing just because each member has chosen to put on emerald glasses made of his or her own justifications. “To make an omelet you have to break a few eggs!” they say. But if you are not cool and chary enough, you will find yourself surrounded by empty shells, with egg on your face.

flamingo

Across the desert we walked, the sere heat flushing my face. Perspiration sublimated so that my skin was left with a fine powdery coating of my own salt. We had our eyes on one thing: the oasis, the pools, the cool drinks. Our respite waited in the decreasing distance marked by a flaming O.

Flamingo. Marked by a flamingo. The bird. The pink one. Sheesh.

Well, what do you want? We were in Las Vegas.

Pink flamingos are, as we all (I hope) know, an emblem of mid-20th-century American kitsch: lawn ornaments bespeaking a balmy plastic paradise. Florid like Florida – a blazing blushing colour like that ghastly “white zinfandel” that wine infidels marketed to the brunch set. Emblematic not just of middle America and its TV-dinner cult but of the louche underbelly of the same, the trailer park of Pink Flamingos, an early John Waters film that I would not recommend watching unless you are exceedingly fond of obscene deeds.

Or, you know, pink like shrimp. You are what you eat, and flamingos eat pink things. Those that don’t eat enough carotenoid-containing crustaceans and algae turn out pale. (This is a nota bene to my sea-insect-avoiding wife: if you wish to be in the pink of health…)

Did you think such obvious food-plumage linkage didn’t have a leg to stand on? It does. One leg. Flamingos are well known for standing on one spindly leg at a time, the other one retracted like landing gear. This is proof that they eat a balanced diet, for they could hardly be so balanced otherwise, no?

They probably stand on one leg for the same reason that people shift from foot to foot: to give one leg a rest. Mind you, they’re not standing on hard floors. They mostly hang out in water with muddy bottoms, and they scoop their pink food from the muddy water and filter it with their upside-down-smile beaks. Again, just like people: we are all standing in the mud, but some of us… are eating from the mud too, and grimacing while doing it. Never mind.

But a flamingo is not a big flaming zero in life. It’s in the pink. And it’s flaming, o, it’s flaming! That’s what the name comes from, after all: Portuguese flamengo, Spanish flamenco, and so on, all meaning ‘flaming’. Bright, blazing pink. Burning like a flamenco dancer.

Or a neon sign across the desert. Or the hot desert wind, and the neon signs beckoning to the pool…

IMG_2977 IMG_2994Me with my weight on one leg, standing in the water, having eaten plenty of shrimp, at the Flamingo.

Addendum: See comments below – it turns out the designer of the plastic pink flamingo lawn ornament died the very day the above photos were taken.

ubac

What do you call the caboose of a mountain? You know, the part where the sun doesn’t shine? If you’re standing on a peak, and there’s one side that’s facing south (or towards the equator, I should say) and another that’s not (so it’s always in the shadow), and you’re like, “You – front; you – back,” what do you call the “you – back” bit?

How about ubac?

Yes, it’s a real word, and yes, that’s what it means: the side of a mountain where the sun doesn’t shine. Or, as skiers call it, the part where the good powder is and the snow stays around late in the season.

But I have to be fair: ubac isn’t pronounced like “you back.” No, it’s like “oo bac.” Sort of like oobleck (you know, the non-Newtonian fluid named after some good from Dr. Seuss). Or like caboose said backwards without the /s/. And with an actual /a/ or /æ/ for the a rather than the /ə/ in caboose. Whatever.

And, like Cognac, Armagnac, Frontignac, Monbazillac, Sazerac, serac, and cul-de-sac – five alcoholic beverages, a glacial tower, and a dead-end street – it comes to us from French. (Various other ­ac words such as maniac and demoniac are formed from Latin sometimes coming by way of French, but I’d rather deal with alcohol and geography than with maniacs and demoniacs if you don’t mind.) Actually, ubac comes from Occitan, from a language of southern France that has resisted being completely eclipsed by French, but French did steal this word from it fair and square.

It’s an odd-looking word, isn’t it? Its etymology is opaque. Well, it’s opaque to the person simply looking at it – it doesn’t show you clearly where Occitan got it from. But it’s also opaque because that is where Occitan got it from. It came from Latin opacus, source of opaque. Not that the back of a mountain can’t be seen through – actually, come to think of it, it can’t; that’s why it’s in the shade, mountains are opaque – but the Latin word opacus means ‘shady’.

So there it is. A word taken from Latin that wore down and became unrecognizable in the shady corners of a post-Latin language. Many common words have gone through such transformations. They get mossy, as it were. (Moss grows on the shady side of things.)

I like mountains. I even like the shady sides of them. But if you prefer to be in the sun somewhere warm and flat and sandy rather than out of the sun somewhere cool and steep and snowy, that’s easy enough. Just hit the sea first. I mean the C. Take it from the end of ubac and put it at the beginning. Congratulations: now you have Cuba.

caliginous

You do well to be cagey when unlacing a language’s insouciant linguistic genius, for you may find its dark underside, its cabinet of Doctor Caligari, its closet of Caligula. But sometimes these dark undersides are callipygian: light and lithe on the tongue, prettily curved for the eyes, exquisite for lexical carousing. So fine, in fact, that they may slip into a party purely by pulchritude and do a star turn on a stage not their own.

Consider this line from The Wizard of Oz: “You clinking, clanking, clattering collection of caliginous junk!” So expressive, so sound-symbolic. But therein is an obscurity: caliginous. What is this abecedarian coelacanth or architeuthis dux doing scaling de profundis into the mechanical racket as a sesquipedalian expletive? What, in fact, would caliginous junk be?

I’m rather inclined to think it’s what one finds in a Jawa sandcrawler or perhaps the corners of an HR Giger painting or an issue of Heavy Metal magazine, or second after second of Blade Runner. We know what junk is, especially clinking, clanking, clattering collected junk. But what can make it caliginous is just darkness and mist.

Caliginous is not just an obscure word; it is a word of obscurity. It is obnubilation. Latin caliginosus means ‘misty, dark, obscure’; it comes from a root referring to fog. You may thus picture dim heaps of rusting metal dripping with oil and condensed smog. And yet they are named with this shining lexeme, so suited to lamprophony. It is a light and dry way to refer to wet darkness.

lamprophony

Is the meaning of this word clear when you look at it?

It’s a lovely long word with a nice balance on the page. If you are an inveterate word taster, you will surely see that phony and know that it’s not a fake: it’s the same as you see in symphony and cacophony. So this word refers to a kind of sound. And the sound of this word, you will also guess correctly, puts the stress on the pivot o in the middle. But what kind of light do we get from the lamp?

Too easy, isn’t it? There’s no way that that lamp could be the same lamp that lights your desk. Perhaps it is part of a lamprey? Or an electric eel on an electric guitar? Or perhaps it is softly glowing, lambent.

But in fact this really is one that you can see clearly through. Greek λάμπειν lampein meant ‘shine’; the derived λαμπρός lampros meant ‘shining, bright’. From the first we get lamp, and from the second we get lamprophony and a few other lampro– words. So lamprophony is bright, shining sound. Specifically, it refers to a quality of voice: loud and clear – good enunciation, good projection, good resonance. The sort of person you can hear across a crowded room, like a bright lamp in the caliginous fog.