Tag Archives: word tasting notes

CamelCase

Does this look like a brand name for a company that makes packing cases, either for camels or somehow purporting to have camel-like qualities? That’s because CamelCase (also called camelCase and camel case) is often used in branding – indeed, ordinary non-tech-geek people seldom have any reason to encounter it in anything else.

CamelCase is one of those nice words (like hiss) that exemplify what they name. (So is camelCase, but camel case is not). What it refers to is the practice of putting capitals in the middle of a word – or, most typically, in the middle of a concatenation of words, to make it easier to see where one word ends and another starts in the conglomeration. (CamelCase capitalizes at word or morpheme beginnings; random or quasi-random capitalization, lIkE tHis soRt Of ThinG, is called studlycaps.)

The reasons for even needing camelCase come down to one: theNecessityOrDesirabilityOfLeavingOutSpaces. There are circumstances where spaces are inconvenient or simply unavailable. In brand names, a phrase of common words may not be trademarkable, whereas a concatenation may be (e.g., MasterCard, WordPerfect). In much computer coding, a space separates terms, so if you want to name a variable or similar entity with a phrase, you have to do so without spaces. (Back when you only had CAPITAL LETTERS on computers – until the early-mid ’80s – camelCase wasn’t even an option.) The same goes for things such as hashtags. In fact, I was reminded of camelCase yesterday when I saw this tweet from @benjyraymunson:

You’d think that the whole #nowthatcherisdead hulalbaloo would lead to a discussion of parsing ambiguity & the importance of CamelCase

Indeed. Context tells us that the hashtag should be parsed as #nowThatcherIsDead, but an uninformed reader could take it as #nowThatCherIsDead. CamelCase could also help some rather unfortunate website URLs, such as penisland.com (should be PenIsland.com) and speedofart.com (meant to be SpeedOfArt.com, nothing to do with bathing suits and flatulence) – although for very good reasons URLs are not case-sensitive, so you can’t keep your camels humpy.

There is another condition in which camelCase is often seen: syllable acronyms – words made of the first syllables of other words. These used to be more popular, but letter acronyms (made with just the initials) have taken over now. They can still be seen in place names, and CamelCase survives variously in them – it often wears down to standard capitalization: SoWeTo, from South West Township, now often Soweto; SoHo, from South of Houston (in New York; Houston Street is at the bottom of the numbered streets), now often Soho; and so on. It arose naturally enough in this context because these names have become single words but they bear the traces of their clipped proper nouns. It can also be argued that CamelCase is also used in chemical formulae, e.g., NaCl, but those are not pronounced as written (NaCl is said as “sodium chloride”), so it’s a different case.

An alternative to camelCase, not available in all contexts but popular in file names, is snake case, or should I write snake_case: spaces are replaced with underscores. This is clearer but requires more characters, and the underscore is a minor nuisance to type. (Hyphens in place of underscores can be used in some places but not in others.)

I just assume it is clear why camelCase is called what it is: a word thus capitalized has humps like a camel. The term was apparently invented by Newton Love, a computer programmer; the first citation for it is from 1995, although he came up with it some time before that. The practice therefore predates the name considerably; the older way of naming it is medial capitals or any similar descriptive term. There are two types: upper CamelCase, wherein the first letter is also capped, and lower camelCase, wherein the first letter is not capped. I’m tempted to call these Bactrian and dromedary, respectively, but no one else does, and anyway, there’s often more than one medial hump per word.

situated, located

Dear word sommelier: I have several Francophone colleagues who use “situated” rather than “located” everywhere, since the usual French word is “situé(e).” How do I explain the difference to them?

Geez, ask me something easy sometime. This is actually a tricky one because Anglophones tend to use them interchangeably a lot of the time, and in many cases it’s unnecessary stuffing either way:

The washrooms are located on the second floor.

The washrooms are situated on the second floor.

You can argue about which seems better, and it’s a viable argument, and we’re about to talk about it, but you should not overlook the fact that the best way to say that is

The washrooms are on the second floor.

But the question remains what difference it makes when you do use one or the other. And it does make a difference, not so much of denotation but of tone and of expected entailment and context. Each word has echoes of other words and is seen in particular collocations.

Located is often used with centrally, conveniently, ideally, strategically, physically, and abroad; things can be located at, between, close to, in, near, on, outside, within, etc. It’s used, in short, to establish the location – a spot on a map, a set of coordinates. It’s a common word, sometimes used in conversation, often used in stiff business writing and real estate ads.

Locate is also used to mean ‘find the location of’ and ‘put in a location’:

I have located the water fountain in the northwest corner of the garden. [This can mean you found it there or you put it there.]

Situate does not have the ‘find’ meaning; you can only mean one thing when you write

I have situated the water fountain in the northwest corner of the garden.

(In either case, if that’s what you mean, put or placed or installed would also be a viable option.)

Situated is less used in casual conversation, but it also used in the real-estate-ad kind of prose, in collocations with beautifully, delightfully, ideally, picturesquely, pleasantly, well, conveniently, inconveniently, centrally, remotely, and quietly. Notice the emotional tone: situated sits more pleasantly in the mind. And for many users, situated bears the context more in mind. You are located on a spot, but you are situated in a… well, in a situation. Situate also tastes of site (related) and sit (not related).

So when you’re talking about where something is, just as a spot on the map, located works:

Hamtramck is located in Wayne county, Michigan.

But when you’re talking about the context, situated can work well:

Lhasa is situated at the bottom of a small basin in the Himalaya mountains, on the northern bank of the Lhasa river.

You can use located in that sentence as well, but you may find it less natural to use situated in the sentence about Hamtramck, above.

Because situated carries the idea of context, you can also use it in to call forth the context in a more cogent way:

This sylvan abode is beautifully situated.

You get the idea of its being set in a lovely location surrounded by trees; your imagination likely fills in some more of the picture. Compare that with this:

This sylvan abode is beautifully located.

This seems to mean that the location is beautiful, or that whoever chose where to put it did a nice job. But it’s not quite as idiomatic. Add a bit more and you may see even clearer how situated seems to call forth context:

This sylvan abode is beautifully situated in the Green Mountains of Vermont.

This sylvan abode is beautifully located in the Green Mountains of Vermont.

Compare this with the dot-on-the-map approach:

I’m trying to find West Clarksville; I don’t know where it’s located.

I’m trying to find West Clarksville; I don’t know where it’s situated.

Inasmuch as you’d use the second one, you’d probably be talking about the surroundings, not just the coordinates – unless you just felt you should use a word that’s one syllable longer.

There’s one more thing that affects the sense of the two words: situate also carries an echo of situation, which has a much broader range of usage than location:

How did you get me into this situation?

How did you get me into this location?

There’s also the question of the sounds – located has the liquid /l/ and the hard /k/, while situated has a voiceless fricative and affricate hissing and catching – and the rhythm, with located a dactyl and situated two feet of trochaic rhythm. Indeed, you will often make the choice less on the basis of semantics and connotations and more on the basis of where the word is located. Or, rather, where it is situated.

Hamtramck

This name of a small city surrounded by the city of Detroit first caught my attention long ago just because of its appearance. First of all, it has the mck, which you just don’t see in English. How is that supposed to be pronounced? Secondly, it looked to me like an overstuffed version of Amtrak. And it has that ham-sandwich note as well.

I haven’t spent long hours contemplating the name of this city, but I haven’t forgotten it. And then this evening it came up when my friend Brian was telling me about his recent trip to Detroit. Detroit, it turns out, is in some ways a place very much worth a visit; in fact, Brian is planning to go back. Yes, it’s famous for being a hollowed-out city, its population reduced by more than a million in recent decades, block after block after block of abandoned houses, and even abandoned office buildings in the heart of the city. But there are still people who live there, and they like to do and be the same sorts of things as people elsewhere.

And it’s currently a very good place for internet startups and art studios and other funky small businesses that can choose what city to be located in and may very well choose a city where real estate is currently very inexpensive. Brian showed me a couple of real estate ads he had seen: one for a 9600-square-foot mansion with seven bedrooms and eight fireplaces and a ballroom and hardwood floors and so on, all for about $400,000; and one for a two-storey building, formerly a Polish veterans’ association (if I recall correctly), looking to be over 4000 square feet, for about $120,000.

The latter property was in fact in Hamtramck. Hamtramck has a few distinctions. The village of Hamtramck was established in 1901; a Dodge plant opened there in 1914, and the village incorporated as a city in 1922 to resist absorption into Detroit. It was able to do so because its population had grown to about 50,000, thanks to the manufacture of cars (so much for Amtrak!). And most of them were Polish.

Hamtramck has a long history of being a very, very Polish city. In 1970, 90% of its residents were of Polish origin. That has changed – now it’s more like 15% – but the city is a city of immigrants, with a very international flavour, and the Polish culture is still very important, with the St. Florian Church in the heart of the city (its cornerstone is inscribed in Latin and Polish) and much of the culture and celebrations Polish in origin.

So it’s not all that surprising that many people think Hamtramck is a Polish name. It’s a non-English-looking name, after all, and the city has a strongly Polish culture. But Hamtramck is not a word that could occur in Polish any more than it could in English. And the Polish residents moved to Hamtramck after it was founded. The village was actually named after the township of which it was a part. The township was founded in 1798.

Where did the township get its name? From the commandant of Detroit at the time, a colonel who had served in the Revolutionary War. Who was he? A native of Québec: Jean-François Hamtramck. Yes, Hamtramck is a name from France. Not that it looks much like one. The m’s would thus be just nasalizations of the preceding vowels.

But that, of course, is not how it’s said in Hamtramck, Michigan. After all, it’s surrounded by a city with a French name that is not said in the French way at all (I mean Detroit, from French détroit, ‘strait’). Nope, they don’t say it the French way and, although it’s physically possible to say “amk,” that’s not an English set of sounds. So it’s “ham-tram-ick.” Which means it has become one of those uncommon words with a vowel that is said but not written, sticking in there like a little city in the middle of a much bigger city.

delicacy

Language learning du jour number 1: Delicacy is very often preceded by the words It’s considered a.

Life learning du jour number 1: When someone says of something “It’s considered a delicacy,” the odds are pretty good that it’s something that you would not find in your local deli – and that you probably can’t imagine stomaching.

Corollary suspicion: Some people in some places call things delicacies just to see who they can get to eat them.

Life learning du jour number 2: When people have to eat something exceptional due to force of circumstance for long enough, a certain culinary Stockholm syndrome develops and they come to love it. See haggis and retsina.

Googlefacts du jour: If you Google “considered a delicacy” you find the following things declared to be considered delicacies:

spider monkey meat
humans
camel hump
prime grade USDA beef
worms
eyeballs
urine-soaked eggs
Maine lobster
sea turtle meat
horse meat
cat meat
bear paws
duck
armadillo
shark fins
young goats
caviar

And that’s just the first two pages. On page 3 of the results I get a link to a PopCrunch article, “12 of the Most Disgusting Delicacies,” which I was going to list here but I would actually lose readers permanently. And some of them would actually lose their dinners permanently.

And yet people eat these things. And enjoy them. Apparently.

Do some of the things in the list seem a bit out of place? Prime grade USDA beef, perhaps? Quite disgusting to many a vegetarian. (“I’ll have yours, then,” is my usual response, but…) Some people love horse meat, but apparently Brits are shocked at the idea of eating it. Caviar? Have you seen Tom Hanks reacting to it in the movie Big? And how about Maine lobster? They used to be considered sea garbage, bottom-feeders. And even now not everyone likes them. My wife calls them disgusting sea insects. The whole phrase, every time, in place of the word lobsters. And usually accompanied by a shudder.

So I’ll have hers, then, of course. But I grew up in Alberta, where they serve lobster in restaurants all neatly filleted and set on top of the shell. In New England, you’re expected to don a bib and rip freshly boiled lobsters apart with your bare hands, which is messy – and there’s this gross green goop that comes out of the middle. Someone will inevitably school you: “That’s called the tomalley. It’s considered a delicacy.”

Meaning you’re supposed to pretend you’re not disgusted by it.

I am a bit of an adventuresome eater, to be sure. When I was eating with some friends in Puebla, Mexico, there was a dish made with maguey worms on the menu. I considered ordering it until I was told by the young woman whose presence was motivating mine there that if I did, I was eating at another table and they didn’t know me.

But everyone draws a line somewhere. And on the other side of that line, pretty much all those horrid things you would never dream of eating are “considered a delicacy” somewhere.

So evidently they’re considered delicacies because they will leave your stomach feeling mighty delicate.

Why, in fact, are foods that some people consider great treats (at least supposedly) and are willing to pay a lot of money for (because of their rarity, which may be the real motivating factor) called delicacies? Delicacy is, after all, the state of being delicate, or a thing that is delicate. The word itself has a certain delicacy on the tongue, touching off the tip and then licking and crackling and hissing – sounds and senses of many an exquisite dining experience, to be sure, but that’s not enough.

In fact, it’s because delicate had many more senses originally than it generally has now. The Latin source, delicatus (or, depending on gender, delicata or delicatum), meant ‘alluring, charming, tender, dainty’ – all those positively delicious traits that are often associated with both fine food and attractive women. In modern usage, it is mainly the ‘fine, dainty, fragile’ senses that have persisted. But the word delicacy has retained the ‘exquisite fineness, delightfulness’ sense much more.

It’s almost surprising, really, given our historic association of fine dining with the French, that we’re not using a directly French version of this Latinate word. The French word is délicatesse, and it’s rarely used in English. But, as it happens, German and Dutch borrowed it. The German/Dutch plural form of the word was then used to name an establishment that sold fine foods: German Delikatessen, Dutch delicatessen. We usually call such a place a deli for short.

So next time someone offers you worms, or eyeballs, or chicken feet, or sea insects, if you don’t feel like eating them, you can opt for pastrami. You’re covered. It’s a delicacy.

boon

Visual: Just look at that pair of expectant eyes in the middle of the word, oo. At the same time, you may see the word as like a soap bubble: you blow it from the bubble wand b; it floats along o o, but ultimately pops, perhaps when it hits something, n.

In the mouth: Saying this word is also a bit like blowing a bubble – or a kiss. You make the puff of air from the lips and hold them puckered to blow, finally diverting the air through the nose by stopping the flow with the tongue.

Echoes: You might think of Daniel Boone or Pat Boone (or you might not); you will probably get the tastes of boo, boom, and bone. You might think of a boon as a sort of benny, and that could bring you to notice the modest resemblance between boon and benny.

Etymology: Boon is not related to benny, but it is to bene – not the Latin word for ‘good’ but the now-obsolete English word for ‘prayer, petition’. The noun boon comes from the Old Norse sister to that word; a boon was originally a prayer request, and then a thing granted in prayer, and then any good thing granted – or simply a big boost, maybe a mini-boom. This is also influenced by the adjective boon, which means ‘good’ or ‘convivial’ (as in boon companion) and comes from French bon.

Collocations: The verb to go with boon is generally grant (although one may first ask for one). Boons are often great or tremendous; they may be economic or financial. There are a few little-used compounds, generally relating to old English agrarian customs: boon-day, boon-man, boon-work, boon-ploughing, boon-loaf, boon-shearing.

Overtones: Although this word starts with boo, it really draws on boom and boost and has the warmth of a bosom. It is a consciously literary word, but not an ornate one; it suggests formality, but the formality of either a robed supplicant or a spokesperson in a business suit.

Semantics: Probably the best synonym for boon, as Visual Thesaurus points out, is blessing. That relates back to its original use and yet also draws on the looser sense for many current usages: “Increased tourism has been a real [boon/blessing] for this small town.”

Where to find it: You probably won’t find it in casual conversation, friendly emails, text messages, et cetera. But you can find it in newspapers, articles, and assorted other non-fiction; you may even find it in fiction – novels and plays – although my suspicion is that it will be more common in the older ones.

jiggery-pokery

Have you ever had the feeling the English language is some kind of trick? A slick cup-and-ball with peas under jiggers, except there are no peas? A juke box that takes your quarter to put your song in queue but never gets to it? A pig in a poke, a perverted sick joke, some kind of hocus-pocus that leaves you feeling like you’re juggling hot pokers after a few too many jiggers of potcheen? In short, a load of jiggery-pokery?

Never mind English grammar. We know that’s a bit odd and loaded with idioms and other exceptions, and that it’s stripped down from what it used to be and that it’s affected by centuries of influence from other languages. And never mind English spelling. It has its reasons for how it is, even if they’re not necessarily good reasons. No, even just English words, and what they look like and where they come from, may end up being like Peer Gynt’s onion: you peel away the layers only to find that there’s nothing inside the layers. Or at least nothing you can lay hold of.

Take jiggery-pokery. It’s a perky, jiggly word that brings to mind jiggers of liquor and finger pokes and elbow nudges and who knows what else. It’s been seen in English for at least ten dozen years (or sixscore, if that’s how you keep score). Where does it come from, this word for deceitful manipulation? The Oxford English Dictionary says “compare Scots joukery-pawkery.” So we do. That term, known since at least 1686, is formed from joukery (‘underhand dealing, deceit’) and a derived form of pawky (‘artful, sly arch, wry, sardonic’, etc.).

OK, so where is joukery from? The verb jouk (also jook), ‘dodge, duck, dart’. And where is jouk from? The OED says it is “A Scottish word of uncertain origin.” It notes the sound resemblance to duck.

Ummhmmm. And pawky? Apparently from the noun pawk, the OED tells us. And pawk, which used to mean ‘trick, artifice, cunning device’ and now in northern English dialect means ‘impertinence, sauciness’? The OED says “Origin unknown. Compare pawky.” In other words, at the end it loops back to just before the end. It’s like the inner groove on the original Sergeant Pepper LPs: once the needle has played the record to the centre groove, it plays a track that repeats infinitely until you lift the needle.

So. You thought you would get somewhere. Maybe this word is related to jigger? It seems not to be. Or to poke or poker? Again, no. In both cases, the original words have just been shifted so that they sound like the new words. Imagine someone who started hanging out with you and who then got cosmetic surgery to look like a member of your family. Creepy? Happens all the time in English.

I’m telling you, when you hang with English words you get into some pretty louche territory. But that’s hardly surprising, given that English is a language that, as James Nicoll is famous for having said, “has pursued other languages down alleyways to beat them unconscious and riffle their pockets for new vocabulary.” The dodginess is part of its charm. And if it jigs you and pokes you and slips a jigger in your drink and knocks you out with a poker, well, that’s just in its nature.

fadfix

Is -ist the next -ly or -ster?

Does that make sense? How about this: After e- and i-, what’s next?

That might make more sense. With the e prefix (for electronic) on email came a welter of other e– branded items. And with Apple’s iMac and iPod and iPhone, there have come to be numerous other i- branded items wanting to ride the crest. It was the latest thing for a while. Once some brand leader comes along with a new prefix, expect a fad for that. So what next?

Likewise with suffixes. A few of us may remember Friendster, a proto-Facebook, and Napster, a music file-sharing network. They drew on a popular jocular -ster addition to names and nouns (“Hey, Rickster! How ya doin’?”), taken from the still-productive suffix as in gangster, mobster, teamster, and so on. A few other website names with -ster have also shown up, for example a speed-trap warning community, Trapster, and a tea-lover community, Steepster. There are other brand names such as the Veloster, a Hyundai car. And of course there are hipsters.

And there was -ly, as in bit.ly and various other websites – because .ly is the Libya domain suffix and domains registered to it are available for a reasonable rate and it allows formation of words such as visual.ly and futurefriend.ly, but also as a fad on the English suffix; it shows up in other domains such as graphicly.com and optimizely.com.

And now there is -ist, as in the whole chain of -ist websites for cities – my local one is Torontoist.com, but there’s a network, and it has clear hipster tones: Gothamist (New York is Gotham for geeks, fanboys, and other “in the know” people), Austinist, DCist, SFist, Chicagoist, and a few others. I am beginning to see other -ists as well, perhaps spurred by the city websites. There’s todoist.com, a task manager. There’s Eyeist, an online photography review service. There’s Contemporist, about contemporary culture.

Perhaps next will be -age. It’s already popular for colloquial formations of mass nouns: if you can have verbiage and sewage, why not feedage (already the name of an RSS directory) and trollage (also in use, because trolling is not nounly enough, I guess)? What website and other brand names may show up with it?

I raised the question today on Twitter of whether -ist was the next -ly or -ster. A fellow Tweeter, @maxbaru, asked, “isn’t ist already a suffix in SE?” I answered, “Suffix, sure, but fadfix?” I clarified: “You know, affixes that are used faddishly in brand names. (Actually, I think I just made up the word “fadfix.”)”

You can find fadfix with a Google search, true, but not with this usage: there is a publicity consultant for fashion companies, and a Saudi finish building material company belonging to the Fadl Al-Ashey Group, and a lot of usages of fad fix (as in getting your fix of the latest fad). People who are not linguistics geeks are less likely to have suffix, prefix, and affix in their mind. But I think it’s a perfectly good coinage for the purpose at hand – a portmanteau of fad and affix. If affix is not a familiar term for you, I will clarify: it refers to any bits that can be attached onto words but can’t be independent words themselves. They can go at the start (prefix), at the end (suffix), or even in the middle (infix) – though we don’t do infixes in English, just colloquial tmesis. As a bonus, affix is from Latin ad ‘to’ plus fixus ‘fastened’. So it would be adfix except there was assimilation in the Latin. In the Latin, though, not the English! We will not make faffix out of fadfix.

So fadfixes are any affixes used faddishly, especially for brand names. I wonder whether we might even include pseudofixes – not real affixes, but simply catchy replacements of existing elements, such as X in a million places where there might otherwise be ex, or the various replacements of to and for with 2 and 4 (such as in In4mation, In4mants, and even a Spanish website that uses the English replacement in the middle of a Spanish verb: In4mateinfórmate is “inform yourself,” but incuatromate is nothing…). Maybe, to be extra-hip, we can de-X the X and call those fadfickses. Or would that be just too fickle?

mist

In word country, where the realms of different languages meet, there is mist. The view is unclear; on peut perdre le sens. There is a mystique. The greenery hisses as you brush past it, all mixed: insalata mista. You hear it: “mist, mist.” But be careful of what you may have missed.

You know this word mist, of course, this good old word of Germanic origins, recognizably cognate even with Sanskrit (mih). You know where you hear it, coming through the morning mist, a fine mist, a light mist; you see the mist-covered mountains of home. You see mist on bottles of beverages, shampoos, cleaners. You cannot mistake it, the fountain m, the spray-top i, the sinuous s, the capped-off t. You say it: the mouth starts warm, /m/, and then the nozzle opens and tightens to a spray, /ɪs/, and then stops, /t/. Short. Simple. Clear.

But mists are not clear. They are things you get lost in, and not just the mists of time but the mysteries of language. Even with so few letters, you can get mixed up, ISTM. Wandering in English, you may smell must and find your shoes messed. This cannot be dismissed. Perhaps you have wandered over into German, where Mist means ‘dung’ or ‘rubbish’. Your ears and eyes and mouth may have taken you astray, and now you find you are in something you do not want to be in at all.

skulk

Visual: This word looks like its hair is standing on end. It has an interesting pattern – it starts with the curvy s and then mixes verticals with the racy cross-angles of the kickers on the k’s. The u in the middle seems like a little receptacle (perhaps a cryoconite hole) or something small just hiding.

In the mouth: It’s smooth on the tip of the tongue but knocking at the back: an up-front gentleness belies a knockabout behind the scenes.

Echoes: There are a few words this one brings to mind: skull, skullcap, skunk, skink, hulk, sulk, shirk, and perhaps dulcet and sultry and lurk and maybe milk. And inculcate. It has a sound of something metallic being retracted or sheathed. Or of someone being choked.

Etymology: Like many words in English, skulk seems to come from old Scandinavian sources. It appears to be cognate with Norwegian skulka ‘lurk, lie watching’ and Danish skulke and Swedish skolka, ‘shirk, play hookey’. One interesting thing is that after being in common use in the 1200s and 1300s, this word pretty much disappeared in the 1400s and 1500s, and then reemerged after two centuries of skulking.

Collocations: Skulk around, skulk off, skulk away, skulk behind [something]. It’s not a common enough word to have a clear set of usual people who skulk.

Overtones: Skulk seems like a more mobile version of lurk, the very shape of its articulation suggesting to my mind a kind of ducking and peeking. You lurk in one place; you skulk around like a would-be ninja or a pervert or some other kind of guilty party. The nucleus of the word (that vowel plus liquid) has a very dark, cloaked feeling, and the fact that it’s followed by /k/ (especially /lk/, since the /l/ has a velar coarticulation – the tongue is up at the back of the mouth) joins it to words like lurk, dark, cloak, murk, and similar words with obscure images.

Semantics: This word refers to sneaking around or to lurking in concealment. One thing is certain: it imputes dark or cowardly motives.

Where to find it: It’s more often seen in literary or high-toned prose. It’s not that it’s no good for a tabloid newspaper; indeed, tabloids spend inordinate amounts of space on personages who are skulking around doing this or that – stories gathered by reporters who skulked around a lot to get it. But it’s become a less common word, and that raises the tone. You’ll find it in Dickens and Fielding and similar greats of the kind of literature that was once read by hoi polloi but is now a hallmark of a bookworm. The word, like its readers, has gone into skulking.

sleuth

Etymology is a great field for the amateur sleuth. Can’t you just picture a word nerd donning a deerstalker cap and piloting a big magnifier to ferret out early citations for a word? You know, there are some people who put quite a lot of time and energy into antedating words – finding citations that show that the word was in use earlier than previously thought, and perhaps giving some clue as to where it came from. One might imagine it as being like a bloodhound, sniffing the old foxed library books for the faint hints of a lexical trail.

Those of us who benefit from the lucubrations of such dedicated geeks can be more slothful. If I want to sleuth out the origin of a word, all I need do is consult a good etymological dictionary, as long as it has the info. If I want to know what words it is used with, there are corpus databases for that. And if I want to know what other words could be influencing it by resemblance… well, no one is doing formal studies on that, so the best I can do is taste, imagine, surmise.

What does sleuth mean to you? Yes, ‘detective’, certainly, as in the common collocation amateur sleuth; it is also a verb, as in sleuth it out. But what image do you get? Popular culture has some images it has determined, thanks to books and movies. But can you use the term for any detective? Is Mike Hammer a sleuth? Sam Spade? Hercule Poirot? Miss Marple? Jessica Fletcher? Sherlock Holmes? Are they all equally sleuthy, or do you tend more to have an image of, say, the Basil Rathbone version of Sherlock Holmes, with the deerstalker cap (as opposed to the Jeremy Brett version, top-hatted and more accurate to the books and also very entertaining, or the more recent Holmses such as Robert Downey Jr. or Benedict Cumberbatch)? Is a tough-guy detective not soft and subtle enough to be a sleuth slinking like soft silk through the dark alleys and drawing rooms?

If so, is this just an effect of which image is strongest- and longest-established, or does it have something to do with the sound of the word, coming and going with voiceless fricatives and, between them, the liquid /l/ and that dark, hollow high back vowel /u/? It slips and slides but sounds as though it seeks the truth like a soothsayer. Try this for comparison: in German, the word for ‘key’ is Schlüssel. Which sounds more like it would slip smoothly into a lock, key or Schlüssel? Now tell me what tones detective, private eye, and sleuth have for you.

But where does this word come from, sleuth? Ah, well, there’s an interesting trail. And it’s a trail that can’t be pursued without sloth. You see, sloth is the older form of this word. But this sloth is not related to the word sloth that we know and use today; that word comes from slow+th just as width comes from wide+th. But it happens that the modern word sloth also used to have a form sleuth, so it seems that the shift from sloth to sleuth is a more natural one than some might expect. (It’s easier if you’re an armchair sleuth.) Anyway, the sloth that our sleuth comes from is from an Old Norse word for ‘track’ or ‘trail’. That is what a sleuth (sloth) first was: the trail of an animal… or person.

And if you are tracking a person or animal, you may find it useful to have a bloodhound. What, since the 1400s (though less so today), is another name for a bloodhound? Sleuth-hound. It was not until the mid-1800s that persons who tracked other persons came to be called sleuth-hounds. But it took a mere couple of decades for that to be shortened to sleuth. The term was used for fictional detectives at least 15 years before the appearance of Sherlock Holmes (the Oxford English Dictionary has an 1872 citation naming a story called Sleuth, the Detective).

Was sleuth applied to Sherlock Holmes by his author? In “The Red-Headed League,” we see this: “his gently smiling face and his languid, dreamy eyes were as unlike those of Holmes the sleuth-hound, Holmes the relentless, keen-witted, ready-handed criminal agent, as it was possible to conceive.” That appears to be the one and only use of the term in Arthur Conan Doyle’s works (at least that I can find from sniffing around in the Project Gutenberg library), and that’s a sleuth-hound. But that’s not so surprising if you know that the use of the word sleuth for a detective first came about in America. And its use as a verb meaning ‘ply the trade of a detective’ appeared at the beginning of the 1900s.

So there it is: the fruits of amateur armchair sleuthing… a small amount of digging but mostly just looking things up. But the tasting is still up to you.