nog

A word you could almost say while swallowing. Come, take a good drink: nognognognog… Naturally, for most people, this word goes neatly with egg. It doesn’t hurt that it rhymes with grog, sounds a bit like glögg and may seem like a condensation of nutmeg. Ah, those guzzling, glugging g‘s – whether from glass, mug or jug, have a big swig and try not to gurgle. On the other hand, if you think this word sounds like a wedding of knob and peg, it so happens that it’s also a word for a cylindrical piece of wood. That version of the word, however, comes from knag or knagge, meaning a short spur from a tree trunk or branch – the k gave a suitable snag. There’s also a South African nog, which is short for nogal (stress on the second syllable), which means “what’s more” or “besides,” but the g in this case is a voiceless velar fricative, and it has nothing to do with drinks, nogal. The nog we drink is another thing… among other things, it’s not clear where it comes from. Oh, we had an idea, you know, but that was last night at the party, and no one wrote it down… Um, it may have something to do with noggin, a small drinking vessel or measure, but no one knows where that’s from either… It might be related to the northern Scottish nugg, which is ale warmed with a hot poker, and that in turn might be related to knag (see above)… or not. Or maybe it’s related to Norwegian nugge, “nudge” (what they do to you to see if you’ve had too much? probably not). One thing’s for sure: nog originally, and still in some parts of England (e.g., Norfolk), is strong ale. So we know that eggnog is supposed to have alcohol in it – if you left the rum or brandy out, you’d be unhistorically abstemious, and participating in yet another meaning shift, nog.

quarter

Does this word have a wide range of uses? As is said in Britain, “Not half!” But all of them come from the same source: Latin quartarius, from Latin quartus, “fourth,” which unsuprisingly is similar to quattuor, “four,” and on back to the Indo-European root kwetwer-. It came to English by way of French, from which we also get related words such as quart, which is a quarter of a gallon. But how does a fourth part relate to some of the quarter words and phrases? One avenue starts at the use of quartier in French to refer to a portion of a territory, originally a fourth but of course these things can broaden in meaning; from this we get an area of a town, whence Latin Quarter and French Quarter, as well as the military use of quarters for sleeping areas. And so too a safe place for an army to withdraw to when lifting a siege was a quartier de sauveté, and if quarter is rest, relief, respite, or retreat, then asking or giving quarter is requesting or showing mercy – note how much more often the word no interposes in those cases, however. But is a quarter horse merciful or pitiful? No, it’s good for racing a short distance – a quarter mile. Meanwhile, in football, the position farthest back from the forwards is the fullback, and closer is the halfback, and closer still is the quarterback. Three-quarterbacks are not in it, as this appears to be going by halves, but eighthbacks and sixteenthbacks are also out of the question; this isn’t music. (And why, many students of music may wonder, is the standard note a quarter note, while a whole note is typically a full bar? It was not always thus. Look at older music, including older notations of still-popular songs – e.g., Christmas carols – and you will see that, over the centuries, the notations have gotten more fractional. I leave it to music historians to account for this. But forgive them if the subject makes them crotchety, and they address it with some brevity, minimize it, or speak with a quaver.) All of the above – along with the coin worth a quarter of a dollar, of course – lend their voices to the chorus echoing in the background whenever you hear or speak this word. But what else may you get if you listen for the echoes of other words and taste this in your mouth as you say it? It depends on how you say it, of course. Many in my country say it the same as courter, giving a light taste of court and core. More in line with the dictionary is the [kw] onset, which connects the word with oh so many Latin-derived qu- words, quite a few of which are quaint, querulous or quizzical or, simply, questioning in nature; this onset seems almost akin to a rising intonation. And why not? It’s not so far from the words we use for inquiry. What? You think not, perhaps? Well, what was, in Old English, hwæt – even now, those who pronounce the [h] put it before the [w], not after – and you will find in Scandinavian languages equivalents beginning with hv, pronounced [kf]… Velar stop or fricative coordinating with the lips for a following glide or fricative. Back to that Indo-European kw. Does that make Latin fours and fourths somehow inherently questionable? Surely it’s a mere coincidence of sound, like the one that makes Chinese fours so baleful. But sounds echo, and that feeling of pursing the lips while the tongue stops the back will always have the muscle memory of the times we would do it spontaneously… as when we may ask for quarter. Which, at the end of this long tasting note (with so much more that could be said!), I will give.

durian

Well, isn’t this a prickly word to figure out. Not prickly in sound, certainly, with voicing from start to finish (and three apical consonants for Brits, two plus a laminal liquid for North Americans), but prickly because if you don’t know what it signifies its form gives a variety of miscues. Is it someone who is from, or believes in, Dury? Or in hardness (French dur)? Is it a misspelling of a French forgiveness (de rien)? Has it anything to do with dhurries? If you hear it, you might think it’s Chinese, der yin – say, does anyone remember Der Hoi-Yin, the CBC business reporter with smooth hair on one side and prickly hair on the other? Well, that’s fitting, since the durian is a fruit that’s prickly on the outside and smooth on the inside, and has a smell that is quite charitably described as prickly (“disgusting” is a more common word, but the descriptions are usually more graphic and not suitable for polite company – it is banned on Singapore’s public transit, and I mean both the description and the fruit) but a flavour that is smooth and quite popular, especially among Southeast Asians. It’s from that neighbourhood; the name is Malay, from duri, “thorn” or “prickle.” I’m sure Der Hoi-Yin has eaten it many times, living as she now does in Hong Kong. And, with her straight-razor-sharp pronunciation, she would probably pronounce it more like “doo-ree-an” than “der-yin.” That’s more in line with the Oxford English Dictionary’s listed pronunciation. And I imagine more than one British tourist, smelling these oversized tawny hand-grenade-looking stinkbombs (with heavenly flesh), has converted it to “do-yer-in.” Pity they didn’t taste it…

cacao

A level, round kind of little word. Two couples and a ring – perhaps each c is like a mouth and each a like a hand feeding it something (and what would that be?). And after two bites, nothing – or a closing dot, or a mouth open in satisfaction or calling for more, or… The experience of saying this word certainly comes with two sounds not so unlike that of a hard bar of chocolate breaking as it’s bitten (twice). At the end the mouth is indeed in a ring; one version of the pronunciation bends the tongue forward to make it a stuttered KO (is it such a knockout?), while the other is more like the name of the animal that says “m-moo.” And that m-moo c-cow m-makes m-milk, which some people for some reason blend with their chocolate or their hot cocoa. Ah, yes, cocoa, the word that this word may seem like a mistaken version of. It’s the other way around, of course: cacao is the Spanish version of cacauatl (or cacahuatl), “caca tree” (a tree an Italian might refuse to stand under, but of course caca means something different and rather better in this case). The cacao seed grows on the cacao tree, and by the time it has been crushed and thus set on its journey to the modern consumer its name, too, has undergone the mutation to cocoa, which really is just a further mixing up of the original word (cacoa and cocao were also seen at one time, but the repetition is catchier). The tl ending of cacauatl should tell you that this is a word from Nahuatl, the language of the Aztecs, which also gave us axolotl, atlatl, and an assortment of others ending thus, as well as chocolatl, which has been brought down, mutatis mutandis, to become the name of the processed product made from the cacauatl – but this is not really a return to origins at the end of processing, as chocolatl was half cacao and half pochotl. Still, whatever it is, you may have a little but you’ll want a lotl.

pinguid

A fat little word, not a fat little bird. This word comes from the Latin pinguis, meaning fat, plump, etc. Ironically, it starts with a pin – but thin it isn’t! Nor does the metallic percussion (and computer and sonar action) of ping bring to mind the lard of this word, even though there is a full family of fat-flavoured ping words, including pinguefy, pinguescence, and pinguitude. The taste of of pig gets closer to the sense. The second syllable has a movement like the second syllable of liquid, but that word has a [k] where this has the ng, and what a difference some nasal and voicing can make: so much fuller and fatter a sound. You can’t say this word without kissing the air; in fact, with the opening p, it’s like kissing it on both cheeks, like a fat little baby. As an added bonus, the word will look about the same if rotated 180 degrees, as long as you use a typographical g with its figure-eight-ness: the pin simply spins to be uid. It could blow in the breeze like an anemometer – or like one of those spinning sidewalk signs in front of greasy spoon joints. Not to force it, though: this word has an assortment of characteristics not suggestive of fat. Its obvious primary overtone is of a bird that looks like a waiter (or a chorister). But are these birds notably fat? Not really (Opus notwithstanding), though this word might make you think of them as such. They do, on the other hand, have a white head – in Welsh, pen gwyn. (Yes, an Antarctic bird has, it seems, gotten its name from a Welsh phrase.)

odious

A word for those things that get “oh dears” from us. The opening o is well suited to the moue of disgust most appropriate for this word – accompanied by a contraction of the nostrils (perhaps from looking like d to more like i, as the o‘s of the eyes glare balefully on either side). And, indeed, this word may be said with the nose firmly pinched shut. The hiss at the end adds to the effect. This word has nothing to do with odes (unless bad) or odours (ditto); it is not necessarily onerous, either, but that does seem likely, doesn’t it? Readers of Garfield may think first of a long-necked nitwit dog; users of drugs may be stopped by the first two letters (or, when said, syllables). Students of international law may know odious debt as a theory holding that debt should not be enforceable if incurred by a regime for purposes that don’t serve the nation’s best interests. (Apply that theory to personal debt and many a credit card loaded with booze tabs and impulse shopping binges would be wiped clean.) Fans of clerihews may know the noun from which this word is derived, as the first known clerihew declares “Sir Humphrey Davy / Abominated gravy. / He lived in the odium / Of having discovered sodium.” And what is odium? In Latin, hatred; it comes from the verb odisse, “hate,” which comes from the Indo-European root od-, from which various words of hate have come. If you find this all a bit of an odyssey, well you may; odyssey comes from Odysseus, whose name is said to have come from his being hated by gods and men. And no doubt many an unwilling student of classics has found the Odyssey odious too.

yule

Long a quaint, archaic, seasonal word restricted mainly to a narrow set of contexts (although in more general use still in the northern parts of Great Britain), this word got a bit of a boost from J.K. Rowling, who used it rather than, say, Christmas. Most who know this word will likely think of a yule log or or yuletide, or perhaps of the song “Welcome Yule!” Its main use outside of that for many people has likely been seasonal wordplay (“yule love it” as a phrase gets 8750 hits on Google). But it is an evocative word, smooth like a glass of eggnog and just as ready to bring thoughts of the season to mind. The y may help it to maintain its “olde tyme” air, as y‘s tend to show up in faux archaism, not just in silliness like olde tyme but in the well-known ye olde. (The thing about that ye, however, is that it’s not the same as the pronoun in ye shall die; in fact, it’s not really ye at all. Old English had a character, thorn – þ – which was not present in the continental type faces English printers bought, so they used y in its place. Ye olde is really þe olde, i.e., the olde. This is unlike the y in yule, which, if it were a thorn in disguise, would make the word þule, thule – which, one must admit, would at least be appropriate to the wintriness of the season. But it’s a y fair and proper; in Swedish yule is jul.) This is a concise word, four letters, which means three days of partying per letter. Oh, yes: the twelve days of Christmas (which, retail ads notwithstanding, start on December 25 and end with twelfth-night just before Epiphany) were first the twelve days of yule. So what’s the difference? Well, yule was the pagan celebration that the Church co-opted (if you can’t beat ’em…) by making it a celebration of the birth of Christ. Some might complain that if we now call it yule we’re leaving the Christ out of Christmas. Fair enough, although most people seem to do so anyway; but it would at least make it parallel to another pagan celebration co-opted by Christianity, a spring celebration of fertility (eggs, rabbits) that kept its name, mutated by time: originally named after Eostre, the goddess of dawn, we now call it Easter. And speaking of eggs, I fancy a sip of some nog now.

wassail

A word of Christmas, drinking, and song. Most who know it will immediately think of one or more lusty old English yuletide tunes enjoining all to wet their whistles. Those pronouncing it can be forgiven for stressing the second syllable, as though it were some nautical term, since one well-known song does just that, but actually it is stressed on the first syllable, with the second often reduced so much it might sound like Ensign Chekhov referring to a vassal (perhaps one of the vassals drinking to his master’s health in the same song). So what are we looking at? The w could be two cups, and the ss two wisps of steam arising from a warm beverage made with spice and ale (ail?). And when you’ve had too much, you might meet a copper who will say, “Wass all this, then,” and book you as an (w)assailant. After all, the idea was often to go from house to house singing and being rewarded with beverage, and after an evening of full-throated singing followed by full-throated drinking, one might be excessively boisterous – and perhaps a bit green about the gills… ironically, because wassail comes from wæs hæil, “be healthy,” a drinking toast.

gossip

A word like a half-whisper over a cup of coffee. The central hiss, like a snake (or two snakes: ss), seems appropriate, for when gossips go sip coffee to gossip their gossip, we think it a very sordid thing practiced by small-minded people getting little digs in. And surely the faint hint of guess must be relevant, for how often is gossip founded firmly on fact? The image is further backed up by the g, the ugly letter found in gargoyle and goblin and pug: gossips are as unpleasant of face as of voice, no? Well, you tell me – go look in the mirror and report back. For who doesn’t share reported tidbits about others behind their backs? The worst of this is of course destructive, but in the main it serves valuable social functions, negotiating and constructing our worlds. (Besides, there is no other way to talk about celebrities than behind their backs, unless you happen to know them in person – though they all seem so familiar we find them suitable subjects. Note that next to idle and monger among common collocations for this word is columnist.) Gossip the verb comes from gossip the noun, which, before it was anyone who liked to share stories, was a close friend, and before that, specifically a godfather or godmother. The original word was godsibb: the god from god (not from the other Anglo-Saxon god, which became good), and the sibb from sib. Oh, and sib, not much used by itself anymore, means “blood relation.” A diminutive derivation of it is still common: sibling. (Odd, isn’t it, to see a more formal – scientific or bureaucratic-sounding – term coming from Old English rather than from Latin or Greek?) Fair enough: even still you may go and gossip with your sistahs and hear something that makes you say “Oh, brother!” …or possibly words more related to the first half of this word.

When an “error” isn’t

This is the text of a presentation I made to the Toronto branch of the Editors’ Association of Canada, Sept. 24, 2007. Certain parts were sung; you can guess which.

It ain’t necessarily so, no,
it ain’t necessarily so,
the things Strunk and White
want to tell you are right,
it just ain’t necessarily so.

Getting pissed off about grammatical errors is a favourite activity of a surprisingly large portion of English speakers. Continue reading →