Halifax, Haligonian

I just spent four days in and around Halifax, Nova Scotia. I was there to attend the annual Editors’ Association of Canada conference, which was a marvellous fun event (and not without its educational aspect). During the conference, I hosted some word tasting breaks. Two of the words we tasted were Halifax and Haligonian.

These are words with a notable vertical extension. The capital H’s make me think of the uprights on the two bridges that allow motorists to cross the harbour from Halifax to Dartmouth, or vice versa. Halifax has that eye-catching x at the end, which, in this instance, makes me think of the word meeting an abrupt stop, cutoff, collision, or even explosion. Haligonian, on the other hand, just goes on, the f replaced by g, the ax dulled to onian.

The effect on the sound is similar: although both begin with the breath and liquid (the same as start halitosis, which reminds me that I had just eaten smoked salmon with onions when I conducted the tasting of these words), Halifax fires off the teeth and lips and flies back to the back of the mouth to hit at [k] and then hiss away with [s], like broken glass or a punctured tire or a few other percussives with entropic dénouement. Haligonian skips the fire-off and goes straight to the back, but the bounce isn’t as hard, and instead of immediately hissing on the tongue tip with [s] it goes through a long, lip-rounding /o:/ and touches twice softly on the tongue tip with the two nasals.

Are you wondering what the relation between Halifax and Haligonian is? Unless you’re from Halifax, you may well wonder. On the other hand, if you’re from Halifax, you know what a Haligonian is: you are one. Haligonian is the adjectival form for people and things pertaining to, or residing in, Halifax.

Hmm. It does not from this follow that gonian is the adjectival form of fax. Someone from Carfax is not a Cargonian. Your fax machine’s toner and paper are not gonian supplies. The real reason for Haligonian lies in etymology – false etymology.

Where does the name Halifax come from? Well, the city in Nova Scotia took its name from George Montague-Dunk, the second Earl of Halifax. The Halifax of which he was earl was (and is) a town in west Yorkshire. It has existed since before the year 1100, which makes it harder to know for sure where the name comes from. In the 1500s, some scholars proposed that it was from Old English halig feax, ‘holy hair’. Why would it be called that? Well, there is a legend – possibly started around the same time – that the head of John the Baptist is buried there. There’s also another legend about a maiden who was murdered by a lustful priest whose advances she spurned.

From this halig feax, anyway, came a Latin version of the town name: Haligonia – that’s halig plus the common onia suffix you see on many place names. And it is from that that the adjective comes: Haligonian. Of course it could be Halifaxian or Halifaxer or Halifaxish or whatever, but those are obvious and expected. People love an in-group thing, an unexpected deviation that gives you special knowledge. And, certainly in the Nova Scotian city, there is a pride in knowing that the denizens are Haligonians. It’s just one of their things.

But do you remember that I said that it was false etymology? Yeah. It very likely is. It’s more likely that the town’s name comes from Old English halh-gefeaxe (which would have been pronounced similarly to how we might say “halhyafaxa” now). This means something like ‘coarse grass area in nook of land’. Which is a more sensible and plausible name for a place, really, if you can say it in one or two words.

But the designation Haligonian is established now and isn’t going anywhere. You may find it to be like polygon or goon or Lego or goalie or haggle or any of quite a few words that use some of the sounds. That’s rather different from hallux and Carfax and Shadowfax and fax machine and effects and fix and such like. You may or may not find the Hali connection to be strong enough to override the difference in the ends of the words.

Halifax in Yorkshire apparently had a reputation as a place of draconian punishment (including a decapitation machine that anticipated the guillotine by centuries). The 17th-century poet John Taylor wrote, in his “Beggar’s Litany,” “From Hell, Hull, and Halifax, Good Lord, deliver us!” I can tell you that I felt no need to be delivered from Halifax, Nova Sc0tia, when I was there. (As to Hull and Hell, Canadians will tell you the former no longer exists, now being part of Gatineau, and the latter was looking set to freeze over until the Leafs were knocked out of the playoffs.) You may wish to be delivered from Haligonian, but you are unlikely to get your wish unless you leave Halifax. Regardless of its origin, it seems it won’t be gone any time soon.

acanthaceous

What’s not to like about a word that has twelve letters, nine phonemes, four syllables, one spot where there are three consonants together and another where there are three vowels together, and two instances of ac?

Its first consonant is that hard back [k], but then, after landing on a pillow of a tongue-tip [n], it does the three voiceless fricatives that use the front of the tongue: [θ], [ʃ], and [s]. Soft and fresh like a spring shower. When you look at the word, you see the words can, cant, ant, nth, ace, and us. But in the main it just looks like a heap of curly foliage with a couple of spiky bits sticking up.

So what is it? It’s what you always wanted but never knew it: it’s an adjective referring to being like an acanthus.

And what is an acanthus? It’s a thorny plant with spiky-shaped leaves (rather like big dandelion or thistle leaves, really). Its leaves are featured curling at the tops of Corinthian columns.

The word acanthus is a Latinization of the Greek ἄκανθος, which may come from an ἄκ- root for pointy things (such as acupuncture needles) plus an ἄνθος root for flowers. So pointy (thorny) flower. And then that Greek assemblage gets a Latin-derived adjectival suffix and we have acanthaceous. You are at this very moment probably thinking about a coelacanth eating a herbaceous anthurium. Rest assured that the roots of those words are just as they look.

And where will you use acanthaceous? When describing the tops of Corinthian columns, perhaps, or some foliage sprouting from a sidewalk crack. Or someone’s hair. Apparently styles like that are a thing again.

parenthesis, parentheses

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).

quetzal

Visual: A small feast of loops, lines, curves, and zags. Those rare letters q and z always stand out, the z for its angularity but the q just for its rarity; the long, straight tail also exists on p.

In the mouth: A small, fairly smooth movement of the tongue. It starts at the back with [k], then pushes against the front with a vowel [ɛ] closing in to [ts], then a neutral vowel releases to let the tongue pull back just a bit to touch its tip with [l]. It may be like the pattern of a tapdancing shoe, or it may be like a finger making a simple two-touch caress.

Echoes: The qu and z together will likely call forth quiz and quartz; the sound is much like kettle and a little like kits and just vaguely like shptizel; you may think first of quetzalcoatl, the legendary plumed serpent of the Aztecs, which has the same quetzal in it.

Etymology: This is a Nahuatl word, converted to Spanish. In the original, it comes from quetz [kets] ‘stand up’, which was the root for quetzalli [ke’tsal:i] ‘large, brilliant tailfeathers’; that was added to tototl ‘bird’ in Nahuatl to make quetzallitototl, ‘bird with large, brilliant tailfeathers’. The Spaniards simply chopped the word’s tailfeathers (ironically cutting the bird morpheme and leaving the feather morpheme) and left it at quetzal.

Semantics: Yes, this is a bird with long tailfeathers, especially the male when in mating. It’s a bird with bright green plumage over most of its body, except for its chest, where it is red or yellow. The word quetzal now names any of several species, but the original and still the model is the bird now called the resplendent quetzal. That bird was revered by the Aztecs; it was illegal to kill one – they would be caught and their tail feathers plucked for use in high-status costume, and then they would be released again.

Where to find it: This is a word for a bird, and so will most often be seen when the bird is spoken of. But of course it can be used in metaphor, especially because of its place in Aztec culture. And the striking look of the word helps, as may the crisp progression of the sounds. “Is Keith a peacock, with his fine clothes? No, a quetzal, darling. Fit for adoration – and for catching, plucking, and releasing.”

Your iPhone is using ancient linguistic technology

If you have a smart phone, it’s quite a handy device, with a combination of features inconceivable two decades ago: phone, camera, computer, internet browser. All new things in the grand scheme. And yet we’re using ancient words to speak about them. Find out more in my latest article for TheWeek.com:

4 very old words for very new things

 

You can get far by acting immature

That article I wrote for TheWeek.com about teenage noises, and its accompanying video, have grown slightly longer legs yet. It’s been reposted and featured on several sites, including PopSci.com and even in a column on Australia’s Crikey.com.au. The Huffington Post presented the video with a write-up.

And today listeners of National Public Radio’s Weekend Edition Saturday heard Scott Simon interview me about it – listen to it on their website. The segment is 3 minutes long, which means I still have 12 minutes of fame coming to me. I hope it’s not for something humiliating.

quest

Purse your lips, as if to blow. But instead suck in. Not with your lungs. Put the back of your tongue at the back of your palate and make a [kw]. Do it quickly, like you are drawing into your mouth the magical smoke of an ancient peace pipe, or the perfumed breath of a lover carried on a breeze. Pull your mouth full open, quickly. Keep doing it, quickly, sharply, until the intake of air produces a short dripping whistle of a sound.

You are drawing in dry air. Once you were an infant, drawing milk with this gesture. Now it quests, it thirsts, it seeks to suck in nourishment but it gets none. A fish feeding this way might catch a morsel floating past, but in this empty atmosphere you are merely saying “Quoi?” “What?” You are not simply requesting, you are demanding, you are gasping, for… what?

And when you see, or when you realize what there is to see, when you fully assess your position, its implications, it rewards, you make a sharp intake of breath. “Sst!” Your tongue controls it, then stops it. The breath is held in suspension as you are held in suspense.

The “what” is first felt, then appreciated: [kw], then [st].

So follows the query of existence, the question, the questing. Not for this the release and dismissal of the [ts] in quits. Here we stay true to the Latin root, quaerere, ‘seek’: quesita ‘sought’ became quest (and that was not quaesitus; what was sought was female), and quaestio ‘a thing sought’ became question. What we require, and what we inquire. The request, and the inquest.

A quest is a monumental thing, epic, legend. We quest for gold, sometimes. But mostly when we speak of a quest it is deeper: it is a spiritual quest, a personal quest, and we quest for truth, knowledge, vision, justice. The quest is what we truly seek, the eternal question. We ask “what” and then we realize the magnitude of what we are asking. For a brief moment the lips push forward to kiss – what? And then it subsides as the question goes enacted but unasked. But if we quest, if we seek without laxing, do we need to ask? Or does our quest embody the question?

And do I need to ask?

Allow me to append a poem I wrote some time ago. It deals with this quest, this question:

The damp flowers

The damp flowers in the bicycle basket
Lie splayed in the dawn as if to say
“If you know the question, I don’t need to ask it.”

The sun crawls out; the fresh mists mask it –
The night leaves blooms to rebuke the day,
The damp flowers in the bicycle basket.

The handlebars and bell in brass kit,
The wheels and seat, came late this way
To seed a question, and not to ask it;

Bereft of box and bows and flask, it
Makes its simple one act play:
The damp, flowers, and a bicycle basket.

But be it barque or be it casket,
It needs the word you won’t betray.
You know. The question. Must I dare ask it?

And so my tulips have one task: it
It is a drawn breath, this bouquet,
The damp flowers in the bicycle basket.
You know the question. I don’t need to ask it.

I thank Eric Démoré for raising this question and for writing about it.

bershon

My article on teenage noises has become fairly popular and been talked about a little, and has no doubt inspired a few teens to react to it in ways suitable for inclusion in it, eye rolls and all. One little boon that has come out of this is something I picked up from a Metafilter thread discussing the article’s topic. One commenter mentioned a word for a typical teenage female attitude, a word I’d not seen or heard before: bershon.

Specifically, commenter Lou Stuells declared “This post is so bershon,” and linked bershon to the article “Would It Kill You To Smile?” by Michael Bierut in The Observatory. Bierut in turn cites the prime vector for such widespread use of bershon as there may be: a post on Sarah Brown’s blog Que Sera Sera with the name “Stream of consciousness post that makes no apologies yet comes full circle because I am magic.” And there we find the definition:

the spirit of bershon is pretty much how you feel when you’re 13 and your parents make you wear a Christmas sweatshirt and then pose for a family picture, and you could not possibly summon one more ounce of disgust, but you’re also way too cool to really even DEAL with it, so you just make this face like you smelled something bad and sort of roll your eyes and seethe in a put-out manner.

Now you know exactly what bershon is, don’t you? You’ll recognize it in the photos of the I’m So Bershon flickr group, inactive for the past few years, no doubt due to a glut of ennui and weltschmerz. The archetypal face of bershon, depending on who you ask, may be this, or this. There are rules of what’s not bershon.

So fine. The meaning of bershon has been amply covered. Yay. Where does this word come from. As if I care.

Not really sure. Look, you read Sarah Brown’s blog, didn’t you? Sarah and her friend Erin grew up in two different cities and both had heard it in their youth. So there it is. It came from somewhere. Do you have to keep asking me? It’s someone’s family name. I don’t know why. Maybe it didn’t come from that. Why do you expect teenage girls to know or care about etymology. Is that even the right word. Can I go now?

But how does this word feel to say, what are its resonances? Does it feel like you have a mouth full of braces? Is the opening “ber” reminiscent of the bilabial puff of air let out in resigned protest by a girl who simply can’t avoid having to endure something odious for an extra few seconds? Or do you find that the word as a whole seems instead like something else, maybe the brand name of the sweater that the girl is wearing under protest? Maybe it’s the brush-on makeup she’s wearing. Maybe it’s her mixed-up snobbery, leaving you to wonder “Where was she born?” Maybe it’s sombre with syllables transposed and a little changed. It could be something from Hebrew, by the sound (there seems to be a notable Jewish-American influence), but I don’t find a Hebrew word בּרשון.

So fine. Maybe we’re not meant to get it. Maybe we’re just too stupid and time-consuming. There are so many better things. Fine. Go.

Prepositions, ductape, and beer coasters

My latest article for TheWeek.com takes a look at prepositions – their many and often somewhat arbitrary uses.

Prepositions: The super-handy and horribly confusing widgets of language

To, from, of, by: The little linguistic bits that we use to fit in gaps and hold things together or keep them apart. But it’s all rather arbitrary.

macaw

This is a pretty little word for a pretty little bird.

Well, yes, not all macaws are that little. Macaws range from about a foot to about a metre in size; the hyacinth macaw has a wingspan of 4 feet. So all are bigger than some birds, and some are pretty big, but there are many bigger birds, and all macaws are smaller than, say, I am. So there.

But they are pretty: their feathers are the kinds of colours that have long been used to advertise cameras, film, and TV sets. I associate them especially with Kodachrome, not so much because of specific ads but because they are well suited to the colour profile of the late great slide film, and vice versa. The feathers shine brightly.

But do you find macaw a pretty little word? Well, it is pretty little: it’s only 5 letters long. But it’s also just pretty. You may not like the sound, if it reminds you too much of the crow’s call “caw!” But you may like it well enough if you think it starts with a warm “mm” and then knocks off the back with a “k” as in call and kiss. And of course if you like Scottish names, it does sound a bit like one – ironically, since macaws are certainly not indigenous to Scotland.

But beyond the sound, look at the word. The m and w are, in their basic shape, rotations of each other, like wings pointing up and down. The vowels are both a, which has a shape that in some type faces can be reminiscent of a parrot’s head (you may think that a bit of a stretch, but I’ve always thought Roman type a’s look like perching birds). The c is crisp and clean, an incomplete circle. The word as a whole is nicely balanced, and there really is a partial rotational symmetry to it. In fact, you can write it turned 180˚ using IPA symbols: [ʍɐɔɐɯ] or [ʍɒɔɒɯ]. But except for the [ʍ], which is a voiceless [w], all the others are vowels, mostly in the back of the mouth; if you say either version you will make a sound as though someone were working in your mouth.

On the other hand, you could probably teach a macaw to make the sound too. Macaws are among the birds that can imitate human speech. They’re playful, intelligent, and social. You could certainly teach one to say “macaw” – though the name isn’t necessarily onomatopoeic. Actually, we get it from Portuguese macau (not related to the island Macao), which seems to have come from a Tupi word (the Tupi are a Brazilian indigenous group).

Where will you find macaws? In the wild they are in South and Central America. In zoos and private homes, all over the world. Where will you find macaw? Flying from the paper through your eyes, off your tongue, through your lips, and into the bright air.