feckful, feckmore, fecksome

You know what feckless is, of course. It means ‘ineffectual, aimless, hapless’, and various other words that all seem to have negative prefixes or suffixes. 

And you may or may now know what feck is that you may be without it. If you don’t know, I’ll tell you briefly, because my friend and colleague Stan Carey has given a good in-depth look at it, in particular from the perspective of someone from the place where it’s used most (Ireland). Feck is, in short (literally), an aphetic (hacked-off) form of effect. And so feckless is, in origin, effectless. It came about in Scotland first, but it has really latched on in Ireland, perhaps in part because of some other fecks there, including Irish feic, ‘look’. And it is used most often as an expletive, substituting for another word that is identical to it in the consonants.

That’s all well and good. But what is the opposite of feckless? Is it, as my friend Tony Aspler suggested to me, feckful or feckmore? Or could it be fecksome?

First let’s get a grip on what the -less is. It is not the same as the less that stands by itself. When we say feckless we don’t mean ‘with less feck’, we mean ‘with no feck at all’, just as senseless means not simply ‘having less sense’ but ‘having no sense at all’ and sugarless means ‘utterly without sugar, pinky promise’. The two, less and -less, merged in form from similar Old English words. Less comes from lǣs ‘smaller, less’, from a Proto-Indo-European root meaning ‘shrink’; -less comes from lēas ‘without, false, loose from’, from a Proto-Germanic root meaning ‘loose’ – and, yes, it is related to loose (hmm, feckloose and fancy free?). So -less and less are alike in form but not in effect.

Which means that feckmore, while it has humorous potential, doesn’t have the backing of etymology. Also, we don’t use -more as a suffix. On the other hand, Feckmore would make a great name for a country home in Ireland – perhaps one that’s quite the, uh, thing to look at, since in Irish feic as a noun means ‘sight’ (though usually derisively) and mór – always the source of -more in Anglicized Irish place names – means ‘big’. Feckmore could be the acme of Irish fugxury.

Fecksome seems reasonable to me. It’s true that some is not an antonym of less, nor for that matter of -less, though the presence of some does mean that there is not none. But the suffix -some is not related to the word some (here we go again – can these word-suffix doublets not get their feck together?); it denotes the presence, usually ample, of a certain quality, as in tiresome and cumbersome and quite a lot of others. So fecksome is a perfectly fine antonym for feckless. But English speakers have not put this word into effect – no one uses it (at least not yet).

Feckful, on the other hand, can be found in a dictionary. Wiktionary defines it as “powerful, effective, efficient, vigorous” with the note that it’s from Scotland and northern England. The Oxford English Dictionary also has it. And it just happens that the -ful you see on it does come from the same root and have the same sense as full – even if -ful is one letter less full than full. They differ in form but not in effect. So perhaps the lesson here is that when your suffixes get their feck together, so does your word. For which let us be effectively thankful.

avoidoing

Sorry I’m late with this one. I’ve been avoidoing things.

No, that’s not a typo. (OK, maybe it was once, but I immediately saw its potential.) Even if you’ve never seen avoidoing before, you’ve surely engaged in it at some time. Famously, writers with something they need to write end up doing housework to avoid writing, and writers with housework to do end up writing to avoid doing housework. Between the two, ideally, they end up with a clean house and a finished manuscript, each of which was done while avoiding doing the other. By avoidoing one and then the other, they avoidid them both. But avoidone is a form of done!

You can see it, right? Avoiding + doing = avoidoing. And the past tense is naturally avoidone. You can also say avoidoes, avoidid, and avoido. The only question is whether, if you do A to avoid doing B, you are avoidoing A or B. I say you are avoidoing A.

Avoidoing has some juice, not just in usability but in form. It’s a nice merger of two well-known words (plus conjugational endings). Do is a classic basic verb that has come up from Old English and beyond that all the way to Proto-Indo-European, with many cognates in many languages with many forms due to sound changes, and speaking of which, it is the Great Vowel Shift in English that caused the original /oː/ (long /o/) to become /uː/, as in some other words too (two, to). Avoid, on the other hand, comes – as the presence of a v hints – from Latin by way of Old French, and the void is the same void as in the word void and is also related to vacuum. Which means that its first senses were on the order of ‘empty out’, ‘clear out’, and from that ‘leave’, ‘get out of the way’.

And so avoidoing takes avoiding and adds a void in the middle of it, o, which paradoxically takes on the stress – just as avoidoing does – and voids the avoidance by doing another otherwise evitable thing, and often avidly. And at such a busy time of the year, it’s a great way to get a lot of things done, since we can always have the relief of not doing something while we are avoidoing something else.

fudge

“Oh… fudge.”

Maury trudged out from the kitchen of Domus Logogustationis. His apron and various parts of his physiognomy were smudged. In fact, they were smeared with a sort of sludge.

“A bad day for the kitchen drudge?” I said.

“Don’t judge.”

“Oh, I don’t begrudge a bit of mess in the making of good things,” I said. “But… what is it you’re producing?”

He paused for a moment, looked over his smirched appearance, and raised an eyebrow.

I gave a verbal nudge: “My nose says it’s sweet.”

“And sticky,” Maury said.

“And apparently chocolate.”

“Well,” Maury said, “I was attempting the Vassar recipe.”

“Ah,” I said. “Fudge indeed.” Vassar College is widely credited as, if not the birthplace, then at least an early vector of fudge, and the recipe is readily available.

“Well, in thought and perhaps in word,” Maury said. “But in deed, well, you judge.” He ducked into the kitchen and came back out with a bowl in which an uneven dark slurry oozed unfortunately. “As you see, it will not fadge.”

Here is where I insert a little etymological explication: fadge, a now disused verb meaning ‘make do, be suitable, agree, get along’, is generally thought to be the origin of the word fudge. Or at least it’s the origin of the verb fudge as in ‘fake, cheat, cut corners, approximate, misrepresent’ – as the Oxford English Dictionary says, fudge is an alteration of fadge “with vowel expressive of more clumsy action.” The interjection “Fudge!” may or may not borrow from that, but it takes little effort to think of another word it is euphemizing. The family name Fudge is unrelated to fadge, but may have been at least a partial origin or model for one or more of the uses of fudge. And the confection? Probably drawing on the ‘make do’ sense, but we can’t be entirely certain… all of the etymologies involve, yes, a certain amount of fudging.

Which making fudge probably should not. 

“It appears to have broken,” I said.

“I found that we did not have all the specific ingredients required, so I tried to…” Maury looked at the bowl and pursed his lips, searching for a way not to be trite and repetitious, but the word lodged in his cortex wouldn’t budge.

“Make do with a substitute,” I said.

“Indeed,” Maury said. “Several substitutes. We had only icing sugar. We had only pure dark chocolate. We had only, for some reason, margarine. We had only, for reasons that escape me, low-fat milk.”

“No cream?”

“No cream. No evaporated milk. What have we come to, James.”

“We have come to the kitchen without having shopped for the necessary ingredients,” I said.

“Oh, and no thermometer.”

“And yet you went ahead.”

“Don’t judge! I was taken by a fancy. Also, I wanted to have some for tonight’s event. When it failed to budge, I thought perhaps the addition of some elbow grease would resolve the problem.”

“Meaning you stirred the heck out of it.”

“I would rather say,” Maury said, holding the bowl up, “the heck is all that’s left.”

“Well, fudge indeed. And now we are without.”

At that moment the doorbell rang. Maury handed me the unfortunate bowl and went to it. It was a food delivery driver, who handed a nicely wrapped package to Maury. Maury said thanks, took it, closed the door, and then set it down on a side table and took out his phone to acknowledge receipt. I looked at the package. It was a pound or so of quality fudge. I looked up at Maury and raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t judge!” Maury said. “I think it is perfectly fungible.” He took the bowl from me and went over to a serving plate that had been waiting empty; he dipped a finger in the bowl and smudged the plate a bit with it – to give it a home-handled air, apparently. He looked again at me. “Now would you like to help me arrange my fudge, and dispose of the evidence?”

scelerocracy

Democracy means ‘government by the people’. Aristocracy means ‘government by the best or most noble’ (no comment on whether it really is that; that’s just what the word means etymologically). Kakistocracy is the antonym of aristocracy; it means ‘government by the worst or basest’. And kleptocracy means ‘government by thieves’.

There are various governments around the world that might seem to fit either of those last two. But I have an itch for a word that conveys more of the moral reek that some governments have. When a government is run by people who, however venal and vicious they may be, are not of low status or low achievement, kakistocracy might not be le mot juste. And when their effect on the government is not simply bleeding money and goods off but rather opening the gates to a complete takeover of criminality, an installation of a method of governance that is a sort of civic cancer, so that using it for actual good would itself require a sort of diversion or subterfuge, then kleptocracy doesn’t really cover it.

There are various terms that have been used for governments that have run this way: some of them are monarchies or autocracies, some oligarchies; some have been fascist, some communist; but none of these terms describe the kind of people who are running them. Which is why I prefer scelerocracy.

To hear scelerocracy, it sounds like seller-ocracy, as in everything is for sale, and in a way that’s true, if the price is right, but at the same time some things will be pocketed and some things will be subverted and some things will simply be killed or left to wither away. It also sounds like accelerocracy without the ac, and indeed a bit of criminality in government can, if it takes hold, accelerate in a spiral. And it looks a bit like sclerocracy, with the same scler- as in sclerosis, which refers to a hardening (as in hardening of the arteries), and this has an appropriate tone of sickness, though there is at the same time a kind of softness of decay that pervades a scelerocracy.

Scelerocracy is, in brief, criminal government. The root sceler- is from the Latin root for ‘crime’ and ‘criminal’, scelus – which can also mean ‘criminality, wickedness’ or ‘evil deed, crime, wicked thing’. From scelus we get scelero ‘I defile’ – and indeed scelerocracy is a defilement of government – and sceleratus ‘criminal, villain, wicked person’. So the root covers all levels and aspects, and it presents an entire orientation that built on lies, deceit, greed, hatred, degradation… the fundaments of a criminal organization, in which all those who are “in” view those who are not “in” as suckers and marks, and all kindness is seen as weakness. It is not merely being bad, and it is not merely theft. It is a whole way of being, exemplified by the quote from Agamemnon by Seneca: “Per scelera semper sceleribus tutum est iter” – the safest way through crime is by further crime. Once you have started the way of crime, honesty is your enemy, for it will weaken you.

English has other words that contain scelscelerate, scelerous, scelestic, scelestious – but they’re hardly ever used. However, French has the commonly known word scélérat, which means not just ‘criminal’ but ‘major criminal’ – as Littré says, “Coupable ou capable de grands crimes.” It’s like English villain but worse, and it hisses contempt in the saying. (It is also used for humorous exaggeration: a cat that has killed a mouse might be called un scélérat, as might someone who has toyed with your heart.)

Do we truly need this word scelerocracy? English does have the word corruptocracy, and it’s clear enough, but I don’t really fancy it; it’s too… obvious. Also it focuses merely on the corruption, whereas scelerocracy presents an image of an organization not just venal but bent on subjugation and degradation. And it hisses with a vicious erudition. The objection that corruptocracy mixes roots from different languages is valid, but it also holds for scelerocracy: the -ocracy is from Greek, not Latin. But in a scelerocracy, rules are whatever the people running the show decide they are, and consistency is mere weakness. So why shouldn’t the word embody that too?

It would be nice, of course, if we had no need for this word. But there are too many scelerocracies around the world, at various levels of government from nation all the way down to town, and their numbers increase from time to time. But take heart: their numbers also decrease. “Per scelera semper sceleribus tutum est iter,” but when they run out of consistent crime, or when they run up against those who robustly confront and punish crime, they may eventually find themselves on a plane out of the country, or caught like a rat in a dirty little hole, or on public display in a way they would not have chosen for themselves. Or even, sometimes, mercifully, just voted out. And then follows a lot of clean-up and repair.

gore

“Aw, man, were you watching the toro and the matador? Did you see the gore?”

“The mess of blood? I mean, I wasn’t looking for it, but—”

“No, I mean—”

“When the toro speared him with its horn? Fortunately, I didn’t—”

“No, I mean the gore of his costume.”

“The what?”

“You know, the triangular panel in his vest. That’s where the horn pierced. It made a big hole. And a big mess.”

“So… the gore is covered in gore because it got gored, is what you’re saying.”

Yes, there are three kinds of gore. One is a noun referring to blood, particularly after it’s been exposed to the air; one is a verb referring to puncturing with a horn or spear or similar; one is a noun referring to a triangular panel or clothing or piece of land or similar shape, such as the space between two close lines of longitude as they converge at a pole. In surveying and cartography, this third gore refers to an area that is unincorporated due to a gap between two competing surveys or a similar error; it can also refer to the triangular patch of land between two converging or diverging roads (like that bit that people do screamers across when they realize they’re missing their exit).

If you take a moment, you can discern connections of sense: gore, as in blood, is produced when you are gored, and you are gored with something pointy just as a gore of land or clothing or whatever is pointy. So, then, which came first?

Ha. They all did. They’re three separate roots.

They all come by way of Old English, mind you – this isn’t one of those cases where you have words that look the same but one came from Latin and one from Germanic. But they were different words in Old English.

The gore that means ‘drying blood’ comes from Old English gor ‘dirt, filth, muck’, from a Germanic root for ‘manure’ – the sense extended onto drying blood and then largely shrank to it. It is traced to a Proto-Indo-European root meaning ‘warm’.

The gore that means ‘pierce’ comes from Old English gar ‘spear’, from a Germanic root for ‘spear’, traced to a Proto-Indo-European root meaning ‘spear’ from an older root meaning ‘fling’.

The gore that means ‘triangular piece’ comes from Old English gara, from a Germanic root for ‘wedge-shaped piece’, traced to a Proto-Indo-European root meaning ‘spear’ from an older root meaning ‘fling’.

Oh, wait, those last two do come from the same root… way back in PIE. Then they sort of… diverged. At an angle. Meanwhile, the first one comes from somewhere else altogether; there’s a sort of unsurveyed gap between them.

But now all three have converged – in form, though they continue to diverge in sense. It’s all kind of messy. Well, words will do that sometimes (cleave and cleave are a prime example). It’s an inconvenient truth.

Incidentally, the family name Gore probably traces to the triangular patch of land. But until AD 2000, “bush versus gore” was just your two choices when walking by the forested edge of a field and seeing a bull charging towards you.

Cochrane

There are several Cochranes.

I mean that in several ways. 

There are, as you may know, several places in the world named Cochrane (all pronounced “coc-run,” if you’re not sure). People in Ontario, where I live now, tend to think of Cochrane, Ontario, a small town with the main distinction of being way north where most people never go, between Iroquois Falls and Kapuskasing. In its Wikipedia article, the first subhead under “Attractions” is “Polar bears.” Its motto is “Wonderfully Unexpected.” 

People in Alberta, where I grew up, think of Cochrane, Alberta, just to the northwest of Calgary, a town draped over hills and a river valley, with 230 metres difference in elevation between its lowest and highest points. Its motto is “How the West Is Now,” which is, in my opinion, reasonably accurate. 

There is also a Cochrane in Wisconsin, really a suburb of Buffalo City, which is a metropolis of over a thousand people on the northern reaches of the Mississippi River. And there is a Cochrane in Chile, towards the southern end of the country, in a river valley surrounded by mountains. There are also various smaller places of the name, such as Cochrane Street, in Hong Kong, which hosts the world’s longest outdoor covered escalators, which ascend (and descend) more than 135 metres.

All of these Cochranes are named after people who had the surname Cochrane, no two the same: Frank Cochrane, former mayor of Sudbury, Ontario; Matthew Henry Cochrane, a cattle baron and senator; a railroad conductor, first name not given, who had the bad luck of being injured in a village in Wisconsin; Thomas Cochrane, 10th Earl of Dundonald, the first admiral of the Chilean navy; Rear Admiral Thomas John Cochrane, commander-in-chief of the East Indies and China Station of the Royal Navy. 

But of course there are many other Cochranes. By this I don’t just mean that there are many people named Cochrane, though there are (I have a good friend by that name; an old friend of my father’s also has that name; the lead singer and songwriter for the group Red Rider, known for such hits as “White Hot” and “The Lunatic Fringe” and “Cowboys in Hong Kong,” is Tom Cochrane; and so on). There are also many other versions of the name: Wikipedia lists Cochran, Cocrane, Cocran, Cochren, Cockram, Cockran, Cockren, Cochern, Colqueran, Coughran, and Cofran. And they all trace to the same several origins.

Yes, several: two Scottish and one Irish. The Irish origin is from Cogaráin (family names Ó Cogaráin and Mac Cogaráin), which probably comes from a root meaning ‘confident’, though I can’t be entirely sure of that. One Scottish origin is a place near Paisley. Its etymology is disputed; it may mean ‘red’ or it may mean ‘skilled’ or it may mean something else. The other Scottish origin is as a modified version of the name MacEachrain, which means (as far as I know) ‘son of a horse lord’.

Which brings me back to the largest place called Cochrane, the town of Cochrane, Alberta, population over 30,000 – it could be incorporated as a city, but it doesn’t want to. This is the town that was named after a horse lord, Matthew Henry Cochrane. There are still horses in the area, and cows too. But when you walk in the western-themed centre of town, or drive from big box parking lot to big box parking lot in the shopping sprawl across the tracks, or stroll on the paths of Bighill Creek as it winds its way through the heart of typical Alberta 1970s-era suburban neighbourhoods, or stroll through the new neighbourhoods up above the Cochrane RancheHouse (I would gratified if they could replace that excrescent e with a decent space), or ascend (or descend) the town’s most famous feature, the hill on Highway 1A with its 200 vertical metres and a frankly spectacular view of the Rocky Mountains to the west, you are more likely to see spandex than leather. It’s an outdoorsy, sporty place. Cowboy hats are seen, but less often than trucker caps. Pickup trucks, of course, but Honda Civics too.

I see Cochrane often. My parents live there. But I didn’t grow up there; when I was a kid, it was a town we’d pass through on the way to or from Calgary (but only if we didn’t take the Trans-Canada, which we usually did) or, quite infrequently, stop in for ice cream. It was a lot less prepossessing in the 1970s. It has grown quite a bit since then, and it is still growing. 

And when I say it I really mean the several Cochranes, the whole patchwork of places overseen by the Man of Vision horse-and-rider statue dominating a hill above the intersection of highways 1A and 22. My parents moved there about a quarter of a century ago and have become thoroughly embedded and well known in the town. And I enjoy my visits, especially the lengthy strolls I take around town with my camera in hand. 

I can’t show you what every bit of Cochrane looks like, because there are some things I don’t feel like photographing (the huge parking lot in front of the Save-On-Foods, for instance). But here, by way of adding some of the particular flavour that Cochrane (the town and thus also the word) has for me, are some of the parts I have pointed my camera at.

balm, balmy, barmy, barm, balsam

It’s been a bit balmy lately, more than one might expect. 

When I say weather is balmy, I mean it is pleasant, even soothing (leaving aside worries about why it might be so warm in November). That word, balmy, is indeed balm plus the adjectival -y. A balm is a fragrant soothing resin, and something that has balm is balmy; by extension, something pleasant and soothing, such as warm sunny weather, is also balmy.

I have been thinking, though, of this passage from Jeremiah 8:20–22 (I’ll use the King James Version, since it’s so often quoted):

The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved.

For the hurt of the daughter of my people am I hurt; I am black; astonishment hath taken hold on me.

Is there no balm in Gilead; is there no physician there? why then is not the health of the daughter of my people recovered?

That’s not quite so gentle and soothing, is it? But it gave rise to a quite graceful African America spiritual, the refrain of which goes like this:

There is a balm in Gilead,
To make the wounded whole;
There’s power enough in heaven,
To cure a sin-sick soul.

I’ll leave Gilead aside; in the Bible it refers to an area on the east side of the Jordan River, south of the Sea of Galilee, in what is now northwestern Jordan. The name has also gained another cultural currency thanks to The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood. But I’m here to talk about balm.

The balm of Gilead is a specific balm, storax balsam, still produced in the same area. But there are other aromatic resins also called balsams. (And other pleasing extracted vegetable matter can also be balsamic – notably balsamic vinegar.) The word balsam comes from Hebrew by way of Greek and then Latin, always referring to fragrant substances. But when it got to Old French, the Latin balsamum was distilled down to basme, and that became our English word balm (the l was added back in the 1500s to display its classical origins, like the o in people and the s in isle). So, yes, balm and balsam are two versions of the same word, and balmy could have been balsamy.

However, there’s another use of balmy that is not quite so pleasant: to mean ‘insane’ or ‘foolish’ or ‘not right in the head’. It’s not quite so clear how it gained that sense, but eyes quickly turn to the British equivalent, barmy. Some people believe that balmy is the origin of barmy, with some other influence, but others believe that the “other influence” is the whole thing, and that this use of balmy is just based on a mishearing.

The other source is definitely something to do with the head – at least if you’re a barmaid or barman. It’s barm, which has in the past also been used to refer to the head on a glass of beer, but originally – and still – refers to froth that rises on the beer during fermentation. It’s an old Germanic word.

You can see how barmy comes from that, yes? Either from being light in the head, or similarly excrescent, or from foaming at the mouth. Probably not from being scum, though; barm is actually useful – it’s full of yeast and can be used in dough.

With unwanted shifts in the climate, some would say that what we have experienced this week is not balmy but barmy. But what can you do? The summer is ended, and we are not saved.

But now the sun is down, and it’s cooling off. I’ve poured myself a beer and can soothe my soul for the moment. And tomorrow, however balmy it may be, there will be work to do.

Facts follow feelings

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

I was 14 years old when I found out what it feels like to hit a wall in a car that’s moving at 8 kilometers per hour. That might not sound very fast — it didn’t to me — but let me tell you, it felt plenty hard. If I hadn’t been wearing a seatbelt I would have catapulted right over the front of the demonstrator and into my onlooking classmates.

Yes, it wasn’t an accident. It was a thing called The Convincer that was being taken around to high schools. It cranked a car seat up a short ramp and let it go down again to an abrupt stop at the bottom. Sounds like a carnival ride, eh? You get in, buckle up, crank up, it lets go … and BAM. And when they tell you what a crash at higher speeds is like after that, you listen.

That was an early lesson for me in structural editing of general nonfiction. In fact, it taught me something about structure that my English teachers didn’t.

You remember how you’re taught in school to write an essay? Start with the thesis statement, expand the theory and reasoning, then add examples to illustrate. This is easy for teachers to grade. It’s also a generally boring way to write.

Sorry, but it is. There are times that you need to write that way, but that’s mainly when you have a captive audience who are reading impatiently to get the most information in the least time. If you’re trying to grab a reader’s attention, get them to keep reading and get them to care about and remember what you’re telling them, you need to follow the advice that I give every author I work with: Feelings first. 

Facts follow feelings. People take an interest in facts when they have strong feelings associated with them. People also remember abstract ideas better when they have clear images and examples to associate them with. 

This means start with stories, analogies and characters. If you start with the abstract and then play out examples, it’s better than not having examples at all, but the reader is having to keep a lot of abstract ideas in the air for a while until they have something concrete to attach them to. They may have forgotten some of the details by the time you give them reasons to feel things about them. If what you’re telling the reader is important, it needs to answer the questions “Why should I care about this?,” “Why should I keep reading?” and “How does this relate to my world?”

This is most important — and at the same time easiest to do — when you have a book-length manuscript. Then you can have stories that draw the reader in and give them suspense and resolution. You have enough room that you don’t have to just say “Do not put wine in your water carbonator,” you can tell the story about the guys who tried to make sparkling red wine: the moment they detached the bottle from the carbonator it fired a blood-coloured geyser that left a permanent stain on their ceiling and clothes. 

But even when you don’t have a lot of space, you can still grab readers by the feelings. I’m put in mind of warnings on transformer boxes. Some just say “Danger.” I saw one that had a cartoon on it of a bird squawking “No!” at a kid who was about to open it. But then there was another that had the text “Do not touch. Not only will this kill you, it will hurt the whole time you are dying.” You tell me which sticks with you.

impinge, expunge, impunge, expinge

We want to expunge those things that unpleasantly impinge on us, of course. But what about impunging those things that expinge?

Or why do we not even have impunge and expinge? Shouldn’t these words exist? We can make a two-by-two table with im and ex on one axis and punge and pinge on the other, and somehow only half the cells are filled with words you’ll find in an English dictionary. What’s up with that?

And, come to think of it, what are pinge and punge anyway?

I’ll start with that last one first. Punge is from Latin pungo ‘I prick, I puncture, I sting’, which gives us puncture and punch and pungent (and even poignant). So on the basis of that you might expect expunge and its Latin source expungo to mean ‘punch out’. But no, it means ‘cross out, strike out’ – or, originally, ‘mark for deletion’: the ancient Romans would mark a name in a list for deletion by pricking holes above or below it. From ‘mark for deletion’ the sense got transferred to the actual act of deletion – and now from ‘delete’ we have moved on to ‘remove’, ‘annihilate’, et cetera (we may compare obliterate, which originally referred to blotting out letters on a page, and is now also used for effacing someone or something from the ledger of existence).

It follows from that that impunge would like mean ‘punch in, puncture, prick’ or perhaps ‘thrust’ or ‘goad’. And in fact it does… if you speak Romanian. Where it’s properly spelled împunge. But in English? I guess we never saw the need for it; we have other words to the same point. The fact that expunge doesn’t obviously relate to puncturing or punching doesn’t help. It might make more sense to make impunge mean ‘enter in’ or ‘force in’ or ‘impose like some kind of prick’.

But, then, we have a word for that last one, too. It’s impinge. Which leads me to pinge. Which comes from Latin pango; strictly, impinge comes from impingo, which is in plus pango plus a change to the root vowel. Impingo means ‘I push against, I force towards, I hit’, et cetera; pango means ‘I drive into, I force into, I fasten, I fix, I set’. It comes from a Proto-Indo-European root meaning ‘fix, fasten, attach’. It is, literally, riveting.

So what about expinge? There is, in fact, a Latin word expingo. It means ‘I paint, I depict’. How does it mean that? Because it’s not ex plus pango, it’s ex plus pingo ‘I paint’. Could we allow expinge to mean ‘paint, depict’? I guess we could, but why?

So how the heck do you then expinge? Is it that you unfasten? But ex- doesn’t mean the same as un-; it means ‘out, away from’. Expel, for instance, means ‘drive out’, the opposite of impel, ‘drive in’. But ‘attach out’? ‘Fasten out’? Perhaps fix something to a point permanently outside?

Yes, maybe that’s it: if impinge is ‘get up in someone’s business’, then expinge can be ‘stay completely out of the way, out of sight, out of mind’. Which, to this point, expinge has. And there is no need to impunge it into the English language.

fist, punch

Did you know that, back in the mists of time, fist and punch come from the same root? It’s true (probably). But not the punch you’re probably thinking of. The other one.

Also, by the way, it is the fist you’re probably thinking of, and not the other one.

Oh, did you know about the other fist? To start with, it’s pronounced like “feist” (as in “feisty”) – which, in fact, it’s closely related to. You see, feisty started as a reference to a kind of dog: one full of spirit. Or of vapours. Noxious ones. A feist was (and is) a spunky or belligerent dog, but it first of all meant a dog that fists. By which I mean the fist that sounds like feist. Which means, brace yourself, ‘fart’. The source is the Old English verb fisten, with a long i; an alternate spelling led to feist. There are similar words in other Germanic languages: Dutch veest (fart, noun), Swedish fisa (fart, verb), German Fist (quiet wind)…

But that’s not the word that’s related to punch, etymologically. Nor to the other punch, for that matter. Though, come to think of it, we can find a commonality of sense or effect between each pair of words… except the pair that’s related etymologically. Here, let’s call them fist1 ‘clenched hand’, fist2 ‘fart’, punch1 ‘strike with fist; make a hole’ (they’re the same word, sort of… see below), and punch2 ‘mixed beverage of juice and (usually) alcohol’. The match-ups are:

  • fist1 and punch1: done with the clenched hand
  • fist1 and fist2: adds an air of unpleasantness to a conversation
  • fist2 and punch2: can make you queasy
  • punch1 and punch2: can render you unconscious
  • fist2 and punch1: an assault on the senses
  • fist1 and punch2: derived from a root meaning ‘five’

Yes, that’s right: five relations of sense or effect, and one etymological relation meaning ‘five’.

You might already know that punch, the beverage, comes from the Hindi word for ‘five’. This is because the original beverage that had the name was made in India and had five ingredients. (Never mind that in the Caribbean their recipe for punch names four things in proportion: “one of sour, two of sweet, three of strong, four of weak” – e.g., lime, sugar syrup, rum, and water. In India the fifth ingredient was spice, and that’s also often added in the Caribbean.) The Hindi word comes from the Sanskrit word, which in turn comes from Proto-Indo-European, a root reconstructed as *pénkʷe (the asterisk before it means we don’t have documentary proof of it, it’s just reconstructed by deduction and inference). This root meant ‘five’ and ‘hand’ – because, of course, of the digits of a hand. It is the source of the words in pretty much every Indo-European language for ‘five’.

It is also – or, rather, I should say, it may also be – the source of English finger and English fist. The phonological changes involved are plausible but not inevitable; there are no competing conjectural derivations that I’m aware of. So we can take it provisionally that fist and punch (but not punch1, just punch2) are related. Also finger and punch as in “five-finger death punch” – but only if the death punch in question is an overly strong drink made with five fingers of rum.

By the way, the other punch – the one meaning ‘hit with a fist’ or ‘make a hole in’ – traces via Old French ponchon to Latin punctus, from pungo ‘I prick’. But the ‘hit’ sense also draws on an earlier form of punish.

There is, by the way, one word that ties together all four words, fist1, fist2, punch1, and punch2. It’s a name of a place that was known for drunkenness (punch2) and was struck and punished (punch1) – perhaps by the hand of God but anyway by the hand of nature (fist1) – and wiped out by an enormous mephitic eructation of the earth (fist2). And its name also means, etymologically (via the Oscan language, in reference to how many districts the place had), ‘five’. It’s Pompeii.