Thursday, 7 November 2013
word lovers: a rant
John Simpson, editor of the Oxford English Dictionary, is retiring.
He's taken advantage the occasion to let off a bit of steam.
'There is so much waffle and woolly-mindedness,' he says in an interview in The Telegraph. 'Our job is to analyse data, not to love words.'
Well, if there's anyone who knows about the editor of the OED's job it's John Simpson, so I can't argue with that.
But the interview also says that 'In common with most lexicographers, he has an innate distrust of people who claim to "love words" '.
I don't know if that's a fair representation of John Simpson's opinion. I hope not, because I love words.
Is it really a sign of untrustworthiness to take pleasure in the sound of the word ruffian?
Is it wrong to be cheered by the bounce of boing, or to cherish the pernickety precision of penultimate?
May I not have an affection for lush, wombat, sizzle, schloss, acciaccatura, bouteille and tingo?
Ah well. Away with respectability! I am going to love them anyway.
So there.
Word To Use Today: one you love. Go on, be a bit of a rogue...
Wednesday, 6 November 2013
Nuts and Bolts: cynghanedd.
So what is this poetry thing, anyway?
As far as I'm concerned, poetry is the stuff that doesn't get as far as the right-hand margin. Having to start new lines all the time means that you read more slowly, and it also gives a bit of a thump to the beginning of the line. This means you can make the rest of the stuff sound quite jiggy.
If that sounds simple, well, perhaps English poetry is. French poetry works rather differently, and so do Japanese haiku; but the cleverest and most complicated way of making poetry in the world is said (and by no less an authority than the Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics) to be Welsh poetry of the sort called cynghanedd.
Cynghanedd was first written in the 1300s and is still practised today. Some English-language poets have had a go at it, too.
Cynghanedd is mind-boggling stuff. For instance, in one form of cynghanedd all the consonants surrounding the main stressed vowel in the first half of a line must be repeated in the second half. But, on the other hand, the final consonants of each half of the line must be different.
In another form each line is divided into three. The first two bits rhyme, and the third repeats the consonants of the second.
In yet another form (there are quite a few) the last syllable of the first half of the line rhymes with the last but one syllable of the second half.
Cynghanedd is to be found in poems at the National Eisteddfod. I'm completely amazed at the cleverness needed to write the stuff.
It's solved one problem, though: I realise now that the reason their great poets wear sheets on their heads:
is because no one makes hats big enough.
Thing to marvel at today: cynghanedd. This word is the Welsh for harmony.
As far as I'm concerned, poetry is the stuff that doesn't get as far as the right-hand margin. Having to start new lines all the time means that you read more slowly, and it also gives a bit of a thump to the beginning of the line. This means you can make the rest of the stuff sound quite jiggy.
If that sounds simple, well, perhaps English poetry is. French poetry works rather differently, and so do Japanese haiku; but the cleverest and most complicated way of making poetry in the world is said (and by no less an authority than the Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics) to be Welsh poetry of the sort called cynghanedd.
Cynghanedd was first written in the 1300s and is still practised today. Some English-language poets have had a go at it, too.
Cynghanedd is mind-boggling stuff. For instance, in one form of cynghanedd all the consonants surrounding the main stressed vowel in the first half of a line must be repeated in the second half. But, on the other hand, the final consonants of each half of the line must be different.
In another form each line is divided into three. The first two bits rhyme, and the third repeats the consonants of the second.
In yet another form (there are quite a few) the last syllable of the first half of the line rhymes with the last but one syllable of the second half.
Cynghanedd is to be found in poems at the National Eisteddfod. I'm completely amazed at the cleverness needed to write the stuff.
It's solved one problem, though: I realise now that the reason their great poets wear sheets on their heads:
is because no one makes hats big enough.
Thing to marvel at today: cynghanedd. This word is the Welsh for harmony.
Tuesday, 5 November 2013
Thing To Do Today. Possibly: pant.
I have spent the vast majority of my life wondering what on earth is going on.
Take these lines:
As pants the hart for cooling streams
When heated in the chase
It was at least a decade before I realised that a hart was a deer, and even longer to work out that the whole thing was utter tosh. I mean, surely a cooling stream comes rather a long way down a hunted hart's wish list, below faster legs, bigger lungs, and someone to come along and see off all those blasted hunters.
On the other hand, I suppose the chase might merely be an area of land, as in Cannock Chase; in which case those responsible for the verse, Nahum Tate and Nicholas Brady, should really have made it plain.
Anyway. Panting is said to be good for the heart, if not a hart, and I suppose that's as good a reason to do it as anything.
If moving quickly enough to get out of breath is too much trouble, then you can always pant for an ice cream, a pizza (which would be nicely alliterative) or, indeed, a sit-down.
In any case, whatever you're panting for, do enjoy it when you get it.
Thing Possibly To Do Today: pant. This word comes from the Old French pantaisier, from the Greek phantasia, fantasy.
Take these lines:
As pants the hart for cooling streams
When heated in the chase
It was at least a decade before I realised that a hart was a deer, and even longer to work out that the whole thing was utter tosh. I mean, surely a cooling stream comes rather a long way down a hunted hart's wish list, below faster legs, bigger lungs, and someone to come along and see off all those blasted hunters.
Moche deer hunting scene, Larco Museum Collection, Lima, Peru
On the other hand, I suppose the chase might merely be an area of land, as in Cannock Chase; in which case those responsible for the verse, Nahum Tate and Nicholas Brady, should really have made it plain.
Anyway. Panting is said to be good for the heart, if not a hart, and I suppose that's as good a reason to do it as anything.
If moving quickly enough to get out of breath is too much trouble, then you can always pant for an ice cream, a pizza (which would be nicely alliterative) or, indeed, a sit-down.
In any case, whatever you're panting for, do enjoy it when you get it.
Thing Possibly To Do Today: pant. This word comes from the Old French pantaisier, from the Greek phantasia, fantasy.
Monday, 4 November 2013
Spot the frippet: something tellurian.
Tellurian: that's all to do with space, right?
For a start, there's this thing here:
That tellurian (it's sometimes spelled tellurion) was made in 1766 to demonstrate the motion of the moon and the earth in space.
Then of course there are the Star Trek Tellurians, an alien species known, rather endearingly, for their mint truffles.
There are tellurians all over Dr Who, too: in fact there's at least one tellurian in the large majority of the episodes. This being the case, it's a good job the Time Lord knows what a tellurian actually is.
And that's what? Well, a tellurian is anything relating to, and especially an inhabitant of, the planet Earth.
Yes, so that probably means you, that's right.
A tellurian...you know, it makes me feel quite dashing and cool. Almost (but fortunately not quite) cool enough to get myself a skin-tight playsuit in some gleaming metallic fabric and some silver killer heels.
Mind you, I wouldn't say no to a mint truffle, either.
Spot the frippet: tellurian. This word comes from the Latin tellū
For a start, there's this thing here:
That tellurian (it's sometimes spelled tellurion) was made in 1766 to demonstrate the motion of the moon and the earth in space.
Then of course there are the Star Trek Tellurians, an alien species known, rather endearingly, for their mint truffles.
There are tellurians all over Dr Who, too: in fact there's at least one tellurian in the large majority of the episodes. This being the case, it's a good job the Time Lord knows what a tellurian actually is.
And that's what? Well, a tellurian is anything relating to, and especially an inhabitant of, the planet Earth.
Yes, so that probably means you, that's right.
A tellurian...you know, it makes me feel quite dashing and cool. Almost (but fortunately not quite) cool enough to get myself a skin-tight playsuit in some gleaming metallic fabric and some silver killer heels.
Mind you, I wouldn't say no to a mint truffle, either.
Spot the frippet: tellurian. This word comes from the Latin tellū
Sunday, 3 November 2013
Sunday Rest: stirk.
Here's a painful belch of a word.
It doesn't help that stirk rhymes with shirk and berk. And jerk, now I come to think about it.
In fact, do any -irk words involve anyone having fun?
Hang on, I'll just go and get my rhyming dictionary...
...well, basically, no. There's patchwork, which can be glorious beyond belief (no, really, it can) but pretty much everything else is, well, irksome.
So what's a stirk? Well, it's a either a...hang on, is there a word for a...oh rats, there isn't, is there...the sort of animal which when dead turns into beef? There's cow and bull and calf and bullock and heifer and ox; and then there's cattle (but that acts as a plural); but there's no singular term for this animal that I can think of.
Well, so all I can say is that a stirk is a member of the commonest species of domestic cattle, either female and aged between six and twelve months old, or a specimen of either sex, heifer or bullock, aged from one to two years.
Good grief. That was difficult.
I think I may even be developing some affection for the word stirk.
Word Not To Use Today: stirk. This word comes from the Old English stierc, and is related to the Old High German stero, ram, the Latin sterilis, sterile, and the Greek steira, which means the same thing.
It doesn't help that stirk rhymes with shirk and berk. And jerk, now I come to think about it.
In fact, do any -irk words involve anyone having fun?
Hang on, I'll just go and get my rhyming dictionary...
...well, basically, no. There's patchwork, which can be glorious beyond belief (no, really, it can) but pretty much everything else is, well, irksome.
So what's a stirk? Well, it's a either a...hang on, is there a word for a...oh rats, there isn't, is there...the sort of animal which when dead turns into beef? There's cow and bull and calf and bullock and heifer and ox; and then there's cattle (but that acts as a plural); but there's no singular term for this animal that I can think of.
Well, so all I can say is that a stirk is a member of the commonest species of domestic cattle, either female and aged between six and twelve months old, or a specimen of either sex, heifer or bullock, aged from one to two years.
Good grief. That was difficult.
I think I may even be developing some affection for the word stirk.
Word Not To Use Today: stirk. This word comes from the Old English stierc, and is related to the Old High German stero, ram, the Latin sterilis, sterile, and the Greek steira, which means the same thing.
Saturday, 2 November 2013
Saturday Rave: My Witch by Nicholas Breton.
Are there such things as witches?
Well, sure there's magic in the world,
Or so it has long seemed
To us poor souls
Who creep about upon it.
This poem, below, is by Nicholas Breton, who came into the world and left it so quietly that no one marked his passage.
(I'm not going to highlight all the witches in this poem or it'll look as if it's broken-out in some horrid sort of alien measles.)
My Witch
by Nicholas Breton 1545?- 1626?
Your eyes bewitched
my wit, your wit bewitched my will,
Thus with your eyes and wit you do bewitch me still
And yet you are no witch, whose spirit is not evil,
And yet you are a witch, and yet you are no devil.
Oh witching eyes, and wit, where wit and eyes may read,
A witch, and not a witch, and yet a witch indeed.
Thus with your eyes and wit you do bewitch me still
And yet you are no witch, whose spirit is not evil,
And yet you are a witch, and yet you are no devil.
Oh witching eyes, and wit, where wit and eyes may read,
A witch, and not a witch, and yet a witch indeed.
Lais of Corinth by Hans Holbein the Younger, Kunstmuseum Basel
Word To Use Today: witch. This word comes from the Old English wicca, and is realted to the Middle Low German wicken, to conjure, and the Swedish vicka, to move to and fro.
Friday, 1 November 2013
Unsafe Word To Use Today: submental.
I once offended a friend by pointing out that she'd just come up with an example of the pathetic fallacy.
She thought I was accusing her of telling a particularly inept lie.
Ah well.
I'm telling you this story because, as you will have realised, the same dark friend-losing danger lurks inside the word submental.
Subnormal is bad enough: but submental?
The thing is, we all have submental parts. No, not the parts that we find magically stuffing cake into our mouths when we've taken a clear and rational decision to abstain. Nor the parts that we find have oh-so-stupidly agreed to do the ten mile charity run. Nor even the parts that buy that dress in the sale even though it's quite the wrong size and you really really hate it.
Because your submental parts have nothing whatsoever to do with stupidity.
No, really: some of the greatest geniuses the world has ever seen have had visible, and indeed bulging, submental parts:
J S Bach by Elias Gottlob Haussmann
Because your submental part is under your chin. That's what it means, under the chin. If you have a double - or triple - chin then you are host to a large quantity of submental fat.
It can be soothing sometimes when dealing with irritating people to make a note their submental features.
It's probably best not to point them out, though.
Unsafe Word To Use Today: submental. This word is from the Greek sub, which means under, and mentum, which means the chin.
She thought I was accusing her of telling a particularly inept lie.
Ah well.
I'm telling you this story because, as you will have realised, the same dark friend-losing danger lurks inside the word submental.
Subnormal is bad enough: but submental?
The thing is, we all have submental parts. No, not the parts that we find magically stuffing cake into our mouths when we've taken a clear and rational decision to abstain. Nor the parts that we find have oh-so-stupidly agreed to do the ten mile charity run. Nor even the parts that buy that dress in the sale even though it's quite the wrong size and you really really hate it.
Because your submental parts have nothing whatsoever to do with stupidity.
No, really: some of the greatest geniuses the world has ever seen have had visible, and indeed bulging, submental parts:
J S Bach by Elias Gottlob Haussmann
Because your submental part is under your chin. That's what it means, under the chin. If you have a double - or triple - chin then you are host to a large quantity of submental fat.
It can be soothing sometimes when dealing with irritating people to make a note their submental features.
It's probably best not to point them out, though.
Unsafe Word To Use Today: submental. This word is from the Greek sub, which means under, and mentum, which means the chin.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)