recalcitrant

This word sounds like an old piston engine that is giving you some trouble getting it started. Maybe it’s your lawnmower or chainsaw; more likely, given the sound, it’s your Harley-Davidson. “Recalcitrant. [pause] Recalcitrant. [pause] Recalcitrant recalci. trant.” “Aw, come on.”

Once you have the word going, though, it’s more like a printing press: “Recalcitranrecalcintrantrecalcitrantrecalcitrant.” Or perhaps like a step-dance performance, something involving a lot of dancers stomping in rhythm with big boots, their heels landing hard on the stressed syllables. Recalcitrant recalcitrant recalcitrant recalcitrant.

It’s a good word, isn’t it? Tetrasyllabic with antepenultimate stress, a fluid mix of voiceless stops and liquids plus a gliding sibilant and a nasal, all like various hard, padded, or lubricated parts of a machine, bound by a cycle of vowels like a four-stroke engine or a back-and-forth step: /i æ ɪ ʌ/ (if you have other versions of the vowels, adjust as needed; I’m going with the singing, shouting version, not the spelling-bee-pronouncer version). The word itself can run very nicely, though if articulation is any problem for you (as for example if you have had several too many drinks, or you are reading the news on the radio station I listen to every day), recalcitrant may kick back at you.

Whether it kicks you or you get your kicks from it, though, this word definitely has a kick. Take it apart and see what’s driving this machine: re, ‘back’; then calcitrant from calcitrans or calcitrare, all of which look like something to do with calculus or calculation or calcium – but something else is afoot. They trace back to calcem, inflected form of calx; you may recognize calx as meaning ‘pebble’ or ‘limestone’ and being the etymon of calculus and calculation and calcium, but this is the other calx, the one that means ‘heel’. (The two appear to be unrelated, etymologically – which is fine, because any time I’ve had a pebble by my heel I have not liked it.) Calcitrare means ‘kick’ and recalcitrant is made of bits that mean ‘kicking back’.

So, yes, something that is recalcitrant is, at root, something that kicks back at you – though not something that gives you kickbacks. I guess we could picture the heel action for starting a Harley as like kicking back, though it’s more like stomping down. In truth, given the way this word wheels, and how it’s powered by a heel, it’s almost more of a bicycle. Sure doesn’t sound like one, though… unless something’s stuck in the spokes. But you can take your bicycle (once it’s rolling smoothly) and go see a step-dance performance, and as you kick back and watch and listen, you can think about all those heels stomping the calx.

Thanks to Jens Wiechers for suggesting this word, in response to a tweet by Swift on Security.

thyme

Thymus vulgaris, called vulgaris not because crude but because common – as common as the wordplays of which it is the patron and protector herb. By extension it is the patron herb of the names of bistros and catering companies: About Thyme, Thyme to Dine, Thyme 4 Pasta, Meal Thyme, Wild Thymes, Thyme to Indulge, Nosh Thyme… also an enormous chain of maternity shops. Continue reading

rosemary

An herb of distinction and great flavour, long known as Rosmarinus officinalis, but now – following on the discovery of an ancient family connection – Salvia rosmarinus. Yes, rosemary is a sage, too. But a sage with a difference! Continue reading

Some old theatre

Aina and I pulled out some old VHS tapes and have started digitizing them. I found two of me in my twenties performing in plays, for those who are curious and have some time to waste.

The first is a great British farce, One for the Pot. I’m the lead, playing three different characters. I was 21 years old. It was a community theatre production at the Walterdale Theatre in Edmonton. As I watch it now I can see plenty of things I should have done differently, but it was pretty funny nonetheless, and it had a good cast overall.

The second is a workshop performance of Othello adapted into Jingxi (Beijing Opera) style, not including the vocal technique – just aspects of the movement and plot devices. It was the output of a summer course at Tufts University in 1994, when I was 26. It was directed and taught by Fan Yisong and Sun Huizhou (William Sun), and it included Balinese performer I Nyoman Catra plus a few people who are now professors of theatre. I played Cassio. I don’t think I was very good, frankly (the Othello and Desdemona were much better). But it’s worth watching at least the beginning (after the introduction by Laurence Senelick) so you can see what I looked like when I was very skinny and had very long hair.

plummet

A plummet, as you may know, is a little bit of lead (hence the name: from plumb, from Latin plumbum ‘lead’, plus diminutive –et) used to weight a line for sounding depths or determining vertical. It is also a word for a stick of lead for writing with. We have had the noun since the 1300s. The verb plummet first (in the early 1600s) meant to use a plummet to sound the depth of water; more recently (from the mid-1800s) it has meant to fall precipitously – like a plummet being dropped, I guess. It has nothing to do with plums… except when they fall from the tree, of course.

Here is a poem. I hope it goes down well. Continue reading

sage

Salvia officinalis: kitchen sage. One of many kinds of sage (many kinds). A plant of purple whorl flowers and soft, textured, furry, spear-shaped leaves. An herb to help make you healthy and wise (wealthy is at your discretion). The ancients noted it for its many and varied medicinal effects and so named it from salvus, ‘whole, healthy’. Continue reading

trebuchet

This is a word that can really throw you.

I don’t just mean its object, that butch tree, that brute tech, that better-than-catapult that can hurl large stones, small cars, and any old piano or organ through the countryside:

Continue reading

But is it art?

Originally published on The Editors’ Weekly, the blog of Editors Canada

Is writing art?

And if it is, what is editing?

If we say writing is “artful,” or “artistic,” or “an art,” we mean that we appreciate it aesthetically and admire it for the skill it evinces. But if we say not “writing is an art” but “writing is art” – or “this text is a work of art” – we connect it to an identity that is simultaneously nebulous and overloaded. Continue reading

parsley

Petroselinum crispum, an herb both savoury and ornamental, in some cuisines seen fit to be a principal ingredient, as in tabbouleh; in some to be a key seasoning, as in its role as a component of a bouquet garni and as one of the four axiomatic herbs of English folk-song; and in some to be a garnish appended to a plate of steak and tomato and returned to the kitchen most often uneaten, therefrom perhaps to be recirculated. Continue reading

sweetheart

Some lovely day, seven hundred and thirty or more years ago, sweet and heart came together.

Both were words that had been in English since before English was English, with roots far, far back, and cousins from India to Iceland.

Sweet, a word everyone loves, had grown from a Proto-Indo-European root that also became Latin suavis ‘sweet, delicious’, now bequeathed to us as suave, and Greek ἡδύς (hédus) ‘pleasant’, now at our masquerade ball as part of hedonistic, along with a swath of other words meaning ‘sweet’: स्वादु (svādú), soave, süß, zoet, søt, sætur

Heart, which beats blood but also pumps emotions, had a similar history at the heart of languages strung between Kangchenjunga and Snæfellsjökull, from हृद् (hṛ́d) through καρδία (kardia, whence cardiac) and Latin cor (whence courage) and cœur and serce (whence serduszka as in “Dwa Serduszka Cztery Oczy”) and Herz (even if your heart beats at less than 1 hertz, it is still dein ganzes Herz) and hart and hjarta

As when two famous and glamorous people are in the same restaurant at the same time, it was inevitable that these two would soon enough spot each other and come together. And by 1290 they had, as swete heorte, which is how they looked when they were young and wild and free. For Chaucer, the happy couple were swete herte; for Shakespeare, sweet-heart. And for Dashiell Hammett, sweetheart.

Like any famous couple, they show up in many places, even where you don’t expect them. You can buy small sugar hearts called Sweethearts, each bearing a message (like a confectionary fortune cookie); you can make a sweetheart deal if you’re negotiating a contract. They also have their imitators, such as the band Streetheart. And of course “sweetness heart”:

But you want your true sweetheart, especially at Valentine’s (which, as a celebration of romance, is newer than this word, sweetheart). And you will want your sweetheart to let you call them sweetheart:

That was a hit in 1911, and it kept coming back…

Sweet and heart, together once and forever in English, though their cousins in other languages have never paired off in parallel.

Not all sweethearts are forever, though we can hope. But all sweethearts are like sugar in the spirit, a treat to enjoy, even if just for one day, as Charlotte Mew wrote a century ago:

Fin de Fête
by Charlotte Mew

Sweetheart, for such a day
One mustn’t grudge the score;
Here, then, it’s all to pay,
It’s Good-night at the door.

Good-night and good dreams to you,—
Do you remember the picture-book thieves
Who left two children sleeping in a wood the long night through,
And how the birds came down and covered them with leaves?

So you and I should have slept,—But now,
Oh, what a lonely head!
With just the shadow of a waving bough
In the moonlight over your bed.