Tag Archives: word tasting notes

populism, populist

Language change is, generally, organic. It usually doesn’t happen by fiat (especially in English); it also doesn’t happen by vote. There may be some influence from “above” by people such as English teachers, but that mostly affects what rules people think they’re breaking when they’re speaking the way they want to speak anyway. You could say that language change – grammar, the meanings and pronunciations of words, and so on – happens by mass popular movement.

Which is not to say that it’s populist. Populism is a political stance that advocates the people – the general populace, hoi polloi – in opposition to a ruling élite. Language change is not the product of a program leading a movement of the populace in opposition to English teachers, editors, and others. There could be such a movement, of course, but de facto language change happens by popular will anyway. We’re all part of it, not just the people at the top. (The situation can at times be different for languages with official deciding bodies, such as in France.)

So, you could reply, if we all decided that the meaning of populism should shift to ‘following the will of the people as with a general tide, without a specific political program’, then that would be the meaning. Well, yes, if that sense shift happened and ultimately overcame opposition. The change would probably take quite a while and not be without some controversy. But it could happen.

But there are shifts that we have every right and reason to resist, no matter how many people use the new sense. We are all streamkeepers of this flowing language. When a word is being used as a euphemism to let something slide that should not, or when its use carries implications that have negative consequences, we should not let these pass unnoticed. If we speak up and point out the problems, we may help these shifts to become unpopular.

So, for instance, for a long time there was a default assumption that people in certain roles were masculine, and so he and him were used. Around the time that such assumptions started to be a bit less tenable, a common line from prescriptivists was that he and him were the natural universal gender-neutral pronouns. (Poor men, having to sacrifice the uniqueness of their pronoun! Ah, such sacrifices must be made.) At long last enough people pointed out that this did, in fact, convey the default assumption of masculinity – words carry resonances and implications whether you say they should or not – and so use of masculine pronouns as a universal has lost general acceptance. (Read more about this in my article on they.)

Which, I suppose, you could say was a populist movement – the neglected masses against the prescriptive authorities – though it was in particular a movement by and on behalf of the more neglected moiety of the populace, to influence the more dominant segment and thereby produce a fairer outcome for all.

But now let’s say that people start using populism to refer to a movement focusing on the desires not of the whole population but on a minority of it who consider the remainder to be of lesser status. Say, for instance, that there is a group we’ll call X in the population, and they feel that the government has been giving too many rights to that larger part of the population that is not X. This group has traditionally been the group that, for all its internal differences, has been ceteris paribus the more-advantaged group, and they’re seeing non-Xes get similar rights. This doesn’t involve the loss of any rights from X – unless you consider it a right to have things that other people you consider inferior can’t have. If some political leader or party rallies members of X against the government just so they can protect their perceived right to have more rights, would you call that populism? Would you accept seeing it called populism? When the movement is for the rights of not all the populace but just a subset of it, and strongly against the rights of others?

This is not a hypothetical question. I’m seeing populist used quite a lot by news media and the commentariat for racist, nativist, frankly sexist and reactionary movements. In countries across Europe and at least one in North America, leaders who advocate or enfranchise not just xenophobia but racism and sexism are being called populists, and the reactionary groups that support them are being described as having populist sentiment.

Which implies that women and non-white people are not part of the populace, or anyway are not relevant parts of it. In spite of being, in sum, the majority. And, for that matter, it also implies that white men are, en masse, in favour of such movements. Which is also not true.

I think we owe ourselves and everyone else a duty to make this use of populist and populism unpopular.

niveous

We went on a trip through niveous countrysides and cityscapes. The three pictures above are the views from our three successive hotel rooms on the mornings of our checkouts. The land is covered with snow, smooth and white as Nivea, frothy as Evian, delicate and naïve, ovine in its fluffiness.

In our peregrinations we passed white churches and picnic tables.

We skied niveous riparian plains with veinous trees and red paint.

We walked streets nixed with flakes, past trees spruced with invasive lights.

Envious of our niveous souvenirs? Snow is pretty but problematic. You can march with boots or glide with skis, but if you are consigned to driving from point to point you may be disappointed by the slowness of the snowiness. Beauty may be paralyzing, and if you think snow is baleful, allow me to introduce you sometime to the ice storm, a singularly lethal beauty. Weather is the hand you are dealt, and you play it as you may and must.

Words, too, are dealt to you. You have more of them in your hand than you probably remember, and more ways to play them than you probably think the rules allow.

The word for now is niveous. It means ‘snowy’ but without the Tintin reference but with various other overtones and a vibe at its heart. It comes from Latin, of course: niveus, an adjectiving using the combining form niv- referring to snow. The nominative form of the noun for ‘snow’ in Latin is nix. Which may not sound very soft (except inasmuch as it reminds us of Stevie) but reminds us of the obliterating effect of a snowfall, nixing the picture. Cecidit nix: snow has fallen, snow has snowed, neige a neigé. And all is as gnomic as a sphinx, buffered with billions of flakes, each unique and evanescent. A presence that makes an absence, but a textured, soft one.

For the time being. Until it breaks and melts and mixes with dirt. Well, never mind. There will always be more.

carousel, carousal

The life of leisure and revelry is a merry go-round. Do not get on your high horse and look down on us in our carousal; we are on horses, high, and looking down on you from our carousel. Drink life to the bottom, drain the glass, get in a lather, rinse, and repeat, go back, Jack, and do it again. It’s like Arthur Schnitzler’s play La Ronde, where A sleeps with B sleeps with… all the way to J, who sleeps with A, through all the levels of turn-of-the-century Viennese society, a carousel, a ring-around-the-Rogers. Except with carousal we’re just talking about consumption of food and beverage, exchange of convivial fluids, not vital fluids.

What is the difference between a carousal and a carousel? One is a round-and-round ride that will leave you dizzy, perhaps a bit sick, and feeling like a kid again, and the other one is a fairground attraction involving fake horses. One has an a and one has an e. And then there’s that pronunciation, which is messed up as all-get-out: the stress is on “rouse” in carousal, though you may well have trouble being roused after one, and on “care” in carousel, though it is a carefree ride. Well, OK, that’s if you’re an Anglophone North American. If you’re a Brit, according to Oxford, you are expected to say it /karuːˈzɛl/, which is as close as an Anglo can come to the French pronunciation.

Oh, yes. That’s another thing. The word that involves a fairground ride with fake horses comes to us from French, and to French from Italian, and traces back to horseback tournaments of knights. The word that involves drinking a lot comes to us from German, and traces back to… drinking a lot. Going all out, in fact.

All out? Gar aus! Different accounts link it to drinking all the beer from a glass or to drinking until the innkeeper says “Everybody out!” But it often has the implication of a pub crawl or multiple-itinerary bender, perhaps under the influence of cruise. Anyway, gar aus is what gave us (via multiple different spellings) our modern carouse, and somewhere along the way we started voicing the s and devoicing the g (as may happen when one has had a few). So now its noun form, carousal, rhymes with arousal, which seems usable enough, as the two have an inevitable yin-yang relationship: carousal can lead to, and defeat, arousal; and, on the other hand, the morning after you have caroused, you must perforce be aroused, so you can do it again… maybe not that day, though.

And carousel? From French carrousel, from Italian carosello or garosello (and there’s that g/c alternation come round again), which named a tournament with jousting or riding in formation or feats on horseback. The ultimate origin is much disputed. Could come from a word for ‘quarrelsome’, or a word for ‘chariot’, or a word for a Neapolitan ball game that traces ultimately to a word for ‘shaved head’. I suggest debating it on your next carousal. You’ll go round and round and won’t get anywhere in the end, but it will be fun. Even if it’ll probably leave you with a headache.

naughty

Naughty or…?

Or nice, of course. Santa’s going to find out who’s naughty and who’s nice. We all know that thanks to a song written in 1934 by John Frederick Coots and Haven Gillespie. It was a huge hit when it was sung on Eddie Cantor’s radio show – within a day it had orders for 30,000 records and 100,000 copies of the sheet music. (Yes, that’s right. Think about that for a moment.) Nice, eh?

Nice, in case you didn’t know, comes ultimately from Latin nescius, meaning ‘ignorant, unknowing’, and has taken an interesting path since then to mean just about any quality you want it to mean – or nothing at all. Nice, eh?

Not nice. Naughty. Not just because such etymological wantonness may seem naughty, and not just because both nice and naughty have ‘wanton’ as one of their dictionary definitions (and yeah, we know what that Santa dude is really after), but because naughty comes from nothing.

Well, no, it doesn’t come from nothing. It comes from one thing that comes from not one thing but two things, and each of those things is two things. But it does come from ‘nothing’. That is, it comes from naught, meaning ‘nothing’, and that comes from both ne aught and na wight, the former of which means ‘not anything’ and the latter ‘no being’ (or ‘no person or thing’). Directly related, in fact intertwined and not really possible to separate, is nought ‘zero, zilch, nil, nada, nothing, bupkes, jack squat’.

So the oldest recorded sense of naughty, from circa 1400, is ‘having nothing’. Ooo – poverty bad. Well, being poor is often seen as a moral failing, isn’t it? At least by those people who worship a golden (or at least orange-ish) idol, seen as virtuous by dint of material wealth – and who claim to follow the teachings of a person who said “Blessed are the poor” but who grab money and tell the poor their poverty is their own fault. Well, “they have had their reward,” as the guy they claim to worship (not the one they really do worship) said.

But, even though having stuff is seen as a blessing and not having it as a curse, naughty didn’t get the meaning ‘bad’ because poverty is seen as a moral failing. Or at least it doesn’t appear that that’s the reason. Rather, it’s because bringing others to nothingness, to deprivation, especially moral deprivation and depravity, is seen as wicked. And the earliest ‘wicked’ senses of the word make it clear that it was not seen as lack of material goods: it was first used to mean ‘morally bad, wicked’. Which meant wayward, disobedient – and also wanton, particularly in the sexual sense.

We still believe by default that there’s something morally wrong with enjoying yourself – and something enjoyable about being morally wrong. Advertising makes that clear: if you see the word sinfully it’s probably followed by delicious or something similar, and decadent is now a lexeme kept almost exclusively for chocolate desserts. Guilt is something you are supposed to feel after consuming too many calories, at least in the view of those who sell “diet” food. Enjoy yourself and hate yourself; buy to be bad and buy to be good. A nice control cycle we have going, eh? Or should I say I naughty one.

We don’t use naughty in full severity anymore, though. Nowadays it is reserved almost entirely for (a) the peccadillos of children (and even those are winked at) and (b) sexual inclinations and activities, which of course are subject to the same control cycle as other primal pleasures, only raised to a higher exponent. This is not something that developed in the 82 years since that Santa Claus song came out, either. A popular song of 1871 was “It’s Naughty but It’s Nice.” The phrase naughty but nice has been in use as such since not long after that.

So why Christmas? I mean, yes, Santa as the jovial, agreeable version of an enforcer, a Big Brother who has you caged in a panopticon (e.g., modern England or any other surveillance state, including your computer, don’t kid yourself), dealing out rewards and punishments. But consider: What do people like about Christmas? Among other things, getting stuff. What are we always told? It’s better to give than to receive. How do you reconcile that? Easy: We organize an occasion where I give to you and you give to me. So we get that thing that is naughty – avarice, cupidity – while at the same time being nice, i.e., virtuous (but not ignorant; disingenuous, rather). A nice bit of subterfuge. Which allows us to merge an old pagan festival of consumption in the face of impending winter with a celebration of the birth of someone who proclaimed “Blessed are the poor” and enjoined us to give rather than take.

Oh, by the way, do you like the photo at the top? It’s from the Christmas Market at the Distillery District in Toronto, part of the seasonal Saturnalia. It’s above the outdoor bar. Nice, eh?

tidings

“Glad tidings we bring to you and your thing!”

I’m sure that must have been someone else belting that out at the church carol-sing when somehow all the other people’s voices parted, Red-Sea-like, for a moment, right?

Well, look, it rhymes, OK? Unlike that “kin” version.

Just never mind. Stuff happens.

Anyway, I’m not on about the kin thing today. The more Christmassy word is tidings. Tidings of comfort and joy! “Glad tidings of great joy,” as the angel said (in the King James version).

What are tidings? They’re not tidyings, anyway. Those are what you get after all the wrapping-paper-shredding. And they’re not tithings, though those may happen around the same time as tidings is said and sung (oh, who are we kidding? the people who tithe do it year-round, while the Christmas-only crowd drop in fivers and quarters). They’re also not to do with the laundry detergent required to clean the spilled wine, cranberry sauce, eggnog, and other stuff. Although that last is at least related.

It’s Christmastide, after all, which is also Yuletide (for those who prefer the old pagan name). A great rising sea of music, food, light, decoration, and things (boughten and later forgoughten) washes over us all, leaving the seaweed and starfish of commerce when it later retreats. The coming of the new year is perfectly timed to allow us to resolve not to do all that again. For at least, um, 48 weeks. Ish. With occasional exceptions. Things happen, you know.

And time and tide happen to us all. Which doesn’t mean we all get inundated (though we do). Tide is, originally, something that happens, or a time it happens in. Woe betide our enemies! Meaning ‘Unhappiness happen to our enemies’! And all these Yuletides and so on. It’s a grand old Germanic root, the same one that gave modern German Zeit, meaning ‘time’.

And, from that, Zeitung, meaning ‘news’. That ung suffix is directly related to the ing in tiding. So tiding could be ‘happening’ but it also could be ‘news’. In fact, tidings may trace not so much to English tide+ing as to Old Norse tíðendi, ‘happenings, news of happenings’, since we may notice that happenings is not used as much to mean ‘news of happenings’. We may say “What are today’s happenings?” but we are less likely to say “Do you have any happenings?” to mean ‘…news of happenings’.

So. Tidings means ‘news’ now, except that to mean ‘news’ we usually use news, which is a plural of new and means, you know, ‘new things’. (No, it does not come from North East West South.) So for us now, tidings means ‘news, but momentous, old-style, and celebratory’. There’s a wine magazine that used to be called Wine Tidings (now it’s Quench); there are magazines of other associations, societies, or organizations, generally (it seems) with a Christian bent, with Tidings in their name.

Hey, words are known by the company they keep. And tidings keeps company with Christmas narratives. And with glad and joy and comfort. And, contextually, with all the comfort and joy of the holiday season (and/or with all the other stuff that comes with it, as the case may be for you). Which may include lots of, ah, “cheer.” Tides of it. And the kind of merry-making and singing consequent. And similar happenings.

reboant

Imagine a big, loose drum being beaten: “Bo! Bo! Bo!” Or a big bull bellowing: “BO—! BO—!” How it echoes! How it resounds! How reboant it is!

Reboant? You may not know this word, but I am assured it is current. It’s just not, um, resounding through the language very much. Perhaps it needs a roborant. Well, this word tasting is one, such as it is.

We do have other words that mean about the same thing: echoing, resounding, reverberating. But they all have different feels to them. Echo is a crisp word. Resounding has the pound of ound in it, and you can see the sound although the s is /z/. Reverberating has the vibe of /v/ and verb (such an action word!) and fairly reverberates itself through its five syllables. It sounds as though you had dropped a lightsaber in a cavern.

But reboant!

I should first make sure you know that the stress is on the bo. That’s what really makes this word. If it were on the re it would be a rumbling bang petering off. But on the bo it has a wind-up and then a big bang followed by an echo. It gives you a sense of the sound it intends even as you’re saying it.

Where does this word come from? First from Latin – the re is the same one as in resound, meaning not so much ‘again’ as ‘back, in return’. The boant comes from Latin boare ‘bellow’, which traces to ancient Greek βοᾶν boan ‘shout, roar’. The origin of that is unknown, and I’m sure if etymological researchers had felt it traced to βοῦς bous ‘cow’ someone would have mentioned it. But it does at least seem a fitting coincidence, given that bellowing thing cows sometimes do, you know.

In Christmas music, there’s a lot of stuff about resounding and echoing and so on. Perhaps reboant is too boisterous a word for carols, or perhaps it really was always rather rare. But I recommend you use it on every occasion available this December, to describe bells and organs and baritones – and baritones’ bellowing organs – and choirs and whatever else you want. All those things that sent the Grinch snaky. Perhaps they send you snaky too. You can still use reboant. It’s a value-neutral word. For now.

phragmites

This word doesn’t belong where it looks like it belongs. Or it does, depending on where you think it belongs.

It sure looks like stalagmites, doesn’t it? You know, the stone spires in caves that stick up from the floor? (The ones that hang down from the ceiling are stalactites. As a kid I learned from some CBC kids’ show that stalactites have to hang on tite, while stalagmites grow up with all their mite. Of course they don’t; like coffee and comments sections, they increase drip by drip. But it’s memorable.)

It also looks like sparagmites, which are kinds of sandstones, conglomerates, and other fragmental rocks. Hmm… frag-mites. Only it’s phrag. As in phragma, a partition in the bodies of some insects. Or phragmocone, the chambered part of the shell in certain cephalopods. Or phragmoplast or phragmosome, which are subcellular things that show up during cell division in certain plants.

That phrag. It seems simultaneously erudite and ludicrous, perhaps even crapulous. It makes me think of attempts at locution while the mouth is stuffed with a rag. But no. Nor is it something to do with fragments. It does have to do with dividing, though. It comes from Greek ϕράγμα ‘fence, screen’.

So is a phragmite a fence kind of rock, then? No. It’s not a rock at all.

I first saw this word in an article in the New York Times. The sentence in which I saw it was “Friends of Ms. Vetrano said she ran frequently with her father along the trail, which is lined by the tall reeds known as phragmites.”

So. A phragmite is a kind of reed.

Nope. Wrong again.

A phragmite isn’t anything. Phragmites is a kind of reed. Yes, it’s a fake plural. It’s pronounced like “frag mighties.”

And what kind of reed is it? It is a common reed. In fact, it is the common reed. That’s its normal English name: the common reed. The author of the story might as well have just said the trail was lined by tall reeds.

Phragmites is everywhere. Its geographical spread is described as “cosmopolitan”; it’s a native species pretty much all over the globe. But at the same time, in North America it is described as an invasive species. What?

Well, there are different kinds of these reeds. Phragmites australis is native to North America, whereas Phragmites australis is an invasive European… what? Can’t see the difference? Oh, yeah, well, there are subspecies. The kind that was already here before the Europeans arrived is subspecies americanus. The other kind is the standard Eurasian kind. They look just slightly different – the Eurasian kind tends to grow in denser stands, have denser seedheads, and be lighter and bluer in colour. The main way you can probably identify it is that, unlike the americanus kind, it doesn’t grow mixed in with the other plants; it tends to crowd them out. Yeah, the native species was living here nicely, getting along with everything, and then the Eurasian kind came across the ocean and starting taking everything and crowding all the rest out. Even though they’re the same species. Huh.

I’ll tell you one thing: rocks don’t do that.

jubilee

Blow a horn! Shout for joy! Celebrate seven times seven times! Break the chains! Let the land and the people rest! Forgive all! Light a flame!

Where shall we light a flame? Hmm… how about on some cherries?

Chef Auguste Escoffier created the dessert we call cherries Jubilee (cherries flambéd with kirsch and served on ice cream) for the diamond jubilee of Queen Victoria in 1897. Why was it a jubilee? A jubilee, in this sense, is a special celebration to mark a landmark anniversary (as, for instance, of the beginning of a reign): silver for 25th, gold for 50th, diamond for 60th. That is transferred from ecclesiastical special years: in the Roman Catholic Church, every 25 or 50 years there is a special year of universal pardon and remission of sins – pilgrimages are involved, to Rome of course – and other special jubilees may be declared in other years as well.

The Catholics in turn got the idea from the book of Leviticus in the Bible. The people of Israel were prescribed to have a sabbath year every seven years: the land was to lie fallow, to regenerate. After seven cycles of sabbath years, there was to be a jubilee year, when not only would the land lie fallow but slaves would be freed and property that had been sold would revert to the seller. It was to be a year of rest and restoration. And it would be announced by a blow on a ram’s horn during Yom Kippur.

A ram’s horn? A ram was, in the Hebrew of the time, yobhel; the announcing of the jubilee with a ram’s horn was, apparently, what gave it its name. But when that came via Greek to Latin, the word that should have been jobelæus appeared as jubilæus, almost certainly because of the pre-existing Latin verb jubilare ‘shout’ and its noun jubilum. So a year of liberation and rest became readily associated with shouting for joy. Everybody celebrate and have a good time! Jubilate! (Which comes from jubilare, not jubilæus.)

And, of course, observe the turn of an important year. In Alberta, two large auditoriums were built – one in Calgary, one in Edmonton – to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the province, in 1955. They are called the Jubilee Auditorium (specifically the Southern Alberta Jubilee Auditorium and the Northern same same same). I think that was where I first saw the word jubilee. But it shows up in all sorts of places. I especially like it when it shows up with cherries.

For me, though, its significance right now is that I have completed seven times seven years of my life, and today I have embarked on my fiftieth year (at the conclusion of which, in one year, I will be 50 years old). So, naturally, I took an extra day off from work to make a nice, restful long weekend of it. Now let’s see what I make of the rest of the year…

owsell

Sometimes you are kept in the dark. Sometimes you keep others in the dark. Meaning in language is a ball that is thrown from one to another. Sometimes the ball is not caught. Sometimes it is not even thrown but faked: a deliberate mystery, a perdition of meaning.

For tonight’s word, let me go to my bookshelf. But not the usual bookshelf. My much-photographed library shelves are not the only place we have books. They’re piled all over. And if you open this kitchen cupboard…

I have a collection of cookbooks. Sometimes I even open them. One or two of them. Some of them go years without being opened. I used to use them more. I wonder if there are words in some of them that have never been seen in that copy with human eyes – and never will be.

Some of these cookbooks are gifts. One of my favourites – though I’ve never made much actual use of it – is one my cousin the food-and-wine lover gave me. She sought it for years and it finally appeared in a reprint.

The Art of Cuisine, recipes and art by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, assembled by his friend Maurice Joyant, translated by Margery Weiner, with culinary notes by Barbara Kafka. Culinary notes? Yes, well, the recipes were not written for beginner audiences; they were noted down by a gourmet for use by other gourmets comfortable in the kitchen. So, for our rather more helpless and literal modern cookbook-buying audiences (who also may be unfamiliar with some things that were matters of course in the France of the 1800s), the noted cookbook author Barbara Kafka has given usable clarifications. We wouldn’t want the meaning to be missed.

It certainly has some engaging recipes, and it tells them in that lovely conversational way that old cookbooks often do.

Admittedly there are some recipes I am quite sure I will never make because I will never happen to have a key ingredient. They sit there on the page, connecting to my eyes and brain, giving me an aesthetic anticipation, but never eventuating in action.

At the very end of the book is a section called ULTIMA RATIO FINIS. It is (after its section title page) just this one page, facing another illustration.

As you can see if you look closely, it contains three recipes: grasshoppers grilled in the fashion of Saint John the Baptist; saint on the grill; and ancient recipe.

Here is ANCIENT RECIPE:

Full of mystery. It will never be known.

God revealed the knowledge only to his Prophet, who uttered no word about it. This recipe will, therefore, remain forever unknown to all other human beings.

A culinary equivalent of Arthur Sullivan’s lost chord.

An owsell.

Did you not see the word owsell in the recipe? Anywhere in the book?

It’s not there.

I first became aware of this word last week thanks to a tweet by Simon Horobin, professor of English at Oxford. He tweeted a picture of the Oxford English Dictionary entry for it.

The first thing you see is that the word is preceded by an obelisk, a dagger indicating the obsoleteness of the word: †. It is dead. No one uses it.

But at the time the OED was first assembled, it was found and noted in a book. So there it is. The OED has a few hapax legomena that appear just because someone used them once in a book. It takes rather more than that to get into it now, but they are loath to expunge an old entry.

The second thing you see in the entry, after † owsell, n., is

Origin: Of unknown origin.
Etymology: Origin unknown.

There is, below that, a little note about the sense as conveyed in the one text citation: “Although perdition is later sometimes described as black (following Milton On Death Fair Infant, 1673), and there are instances of figurative use of ‘ouzel’ (blackbird) in allusion to the colour black (compare ouzel n. 1c), it is not easy to see how this might be interpreted in the quot. here.” The text citation, which is at the very end of the entry, is a quotation from A six-folde politican by John Melton, published in 1609: “Neither the touch of conscience, nor the sense..of any religion, euer drewe these into that damnable and vntwineable traine and owsell of perdition.”

After the usage note, you see the characterization “Obs. rare—1.

Then you see the definition:

(Meaning unknown.)
Possibly a typographical error for some other word.

Say no more.

sulcus

Hmm, this is a succulent-looking word, don’t you think? A little lexical Lucullan delight? Or perhaps a sultry seducing succubus? Are you doing a mental calculus on how it inculcates its sense? Are you furrowing your brow? Do you dig this word, is it groovy?

It is a groove, that much is true. A furrow. A wrinkle. A trench. An involution, a mark of graving. That’s what it signifies in Latin, and it has come to English with the same general sense, but it has fit itself into more specific niches. It is a groove made with an engraving tool. Or a rut, or a fold in the landscape. Or it is a groove or furrow somewhere on or in the body. But especially it is a groove in the brain.

Your brain, as you probably know, is as wrinkled as a shar-pei’s face. Your cerebral cortex (that’s Latin for ‘brain bark’) has a lot more area than your skull does, so it just folds in and out like a T-shirt stuffed in a can. The parts that are folded out so you can see them if you’re holding a brain are called gyri (singular gyrus), and the parts that are folded in are called sulci (plural of sulcus, obviously). The brain also has a few deeper splits between parts; these are called fissures.

That plural, sulci. Think for a moment about how you would pronounce it. If you think about it from the pronunciation first, you may come up with “sulk eye.” If you start with the spelling, you may prefer “sull sigh.” Or you may get sulky.

I mean “sulky,” another possible pronunciation. All are attested, and all are acceptable (though the older English style is “sull sigh” and the original Latin is closer to “sulky” – actually more like “sool key”). You should decide which you like best, because sulci often come in groups.

Or you could just stick with the little ones. A little sulcus is a sulculus, and if that isn’t succulent I don’t know what is. And its plural is sulculi, so at least you don’t have to worry about that “k” versus “s” thing. But if you do worry about it, you have your sulci – and gyri – to thank for it.