An Incomplete Education

by Judy Jones

  pathos and bathos

  Pathos, which in Greek means “suffering” or “passion,” is the quality in literature or art that stimulates pity or compassion in the onlooker. Bathos, which in Greek means “depth,” is a downward (and an unintentional) slide into the maudlin or the banal. Alexander Pope named it, in 1727, in a mock-critical treatise called “Peri-Bathous, or, Of the Art of Sinking in Poetry.” One of his favorite examples, from a contemporary poem: “Ye Gods! annihilate but Space and Time, / And make two lovers happy.” Equally bathetic: the description of the death of Little Nell in Dickens’ The Old Curiosity Shop (of which Oscar Wilde remarked, famously, that only a man with a heart of stone could read it without laughing) and the motto “For God, for Country, and for Yale.” The a is long in both words, by the way.

  redundancy, tautology, and pleonasm

  Deadwood. “Redundancy” is the blanket term here, describing any instance of the other two (as well as language that’s merely verbose, that uses too many words even if they don’t all mean the same thing). “Tautology” and “pleonasm” are both more specialized. The first, from the Greek tauto-, “same,” repeats what is explicit in a way that suggests the speaker isn’t entirely up to using the words he’s chosen, and it’s widely held to be indefensible. Examples: bibliography of books, visible to the eye, consensus of opinion. (It’s also used in logic of the kind of assertion that sets out to prove itself through simple restatement: “This is the best poem that Sylvia Plath ever wrote; after all, none of the others is nearly so good.”) The second, from the Greek ple(i)on, “more,” is an established rhetorical device. It repeats what is already implicit by adding a word or phrase that is not, strictly speaking, necessary, although it may contribute to overall clarity, emphasis, or effect. Examples: fall down, to see something with one’s own eyes, only just begun. Too much pleonasm can get on a person’s nerves, but sometimes it’s the point of the exercise: The Bible, for instance, is built on it.

  sensuous and sensual

  In both cases, it’s the senses, not the mind, that’re being gratified; sensations, not ideas, that you wind up having. Coined by Milton (“[Poetry is] more simple, sensuous, and passionate [than rhetoric],” he wrote), “sensuous” is today a more or less uncharged term and applies to the kind of pleasure you get from art, music, scented candles, and seedless grapes. “Sensual” has more to do with erotic pleasure, with the indulgence of the appetites, with gluttony, lust, and motives that aren’t all they should be. Make the “sensual”/“sexual” connection, and the pair won’t give you any trouble.

  sententious and tendentious

  You don’t want to be either of these, if you can help it. The first is all about affectation and pompous moralizing, the second about the relentless proselytizing of the tract writer.

  specious and spurious

  Good debunking words, these, possessed of an Oxford-debates-Cambridge rarefaction and spleen. Both mean “lacking authenticity or validity, counterfeit, false.” “Spurious” also has overtones of bastardy, illegitimacy, and tends to pop up in gutsy phrases like “spurious brood.” (Which isn’t to say that a document or a bit of financial advice can’t equally well prove spurious.) To the basic sense of rotten at the core, “specious” adds a veneer of charm, seductiveness, plausibility. From the Latin species, “outward appearance,” it describes the thing that seems fair, sound, or true, but that, on closer inspection, is anything but. Specious evidence is not only false evidence, but evidence presented with intent to deceive— and, implicitly, evidence that almost succeeds in doing so.

  sybarite, hedonist, and epicurean

  The ancient Greeks are behind all three. Of the kinds of pleasure-lover they designate, the sybarite is the most blatant and unredeemed. Unlike the other two— both of whom had ancestors with Ph.D.’s—he doesn’t have a thought in his head: His folks, wealthy Greek colonists in the southern Italian town of Sybaris, simply knew how to have a good time. A hedonist, by contrast, has an elaborate justification for his pursuit of pleasure (hedone, in Greek): He believes that it is, simply, the chief good, though he’ll probably have his hand on your leg as he’s telling you why. An epicurean may or may not be hedonistic. If he is, he’ll at least yoke gratification with tastefulness, and probably put ease before orgasm. If he isn’t—if he’s a bona fide follower of the Greek philosopher Epicurus—you’d better not even offer him a drink. A true Epicurean (note cap), while he accepts the primacy of pleasure in life, tends to equate it with the avoidance of pain, the rational control of one’s desires, and the practice of virtue, and to seek it in intellectual rather than bodily hiding places.

  sympathy and empathy

  For centuries, we English-speakers made do perfectly nicely with “sympathy,” “feeling with,” the power to share another person’s emotions, to be affected by his experiences, to walk a mile—or simply a few yards—in his shoes. No big deal: Just a little compassion, is all, and the chance every so often to cry at a movie. “Empathy,” “feeling into,” originated in 1912 as a pseudo-Greek translation of the German psychoanalytic term Einfühlung, the ability to project one’s personality into someone in order to understand him better. Several questions here: Is empathy a bigger deal than sympathy? Is it somehow “heavier,” or just more self-conscious? Does one require special imagination or training to feel it? To use it? Should one be content feeling sympathy for Elizabeth Bennet and Holden Caulfield or have the stakes been raised to the point that sympathy is no longer enough? Is one in trouble if one’s shrink has sympathy but no empathy? Empathy but no sympathy? What’s it all about, Alfie? Write to us care of our publisher. Goodbye.

  synecdoche and metonymy

  Both are highly specialized forms of metaphor. Synecdoche (sin-EK-duh-kee) uses an appropriate part of something to signify the whole; thus “ten hired hands” means “ten hired workmen,” and “wheels” were your father’s car. Metonymy (muh-TAHN-uh-mee; literally, “name-changing”) includes, technically, all synecdoche, but most often denotes the use of an associated or outside attribute for the object or institution under discussion; thus journalists are spoken of as “the press,” one steps on “the gas” as routinely as on the accelerator pedal, and an idea comes to you out of “the blue” rather than the sky. Literary critics and classical linguists still make a lot of this pair, but don’t spend too much time on rhetorical devices; these days, you’ll get more mileage out of being able to distinguish between Verizon and Cingular.

  turgid, turbid, and tumid

  In botany, turgor (from a Latin verb meaning “to swell”) is cellular rigidity as the result of a plant’s having taken in too much water. By extension, “turgid” means swollen, inflated, enlarged; and, by further extension, pompous, bombastic. “Turgid” does not mean “turbid,” which derives from the Latin word for “crowd,” and means “muddy, impenetrable, opaque; confused, disordered.” (You can remember it from “turbulent.”) For better or for worse, “turgid” does mean “tumid,” which is related to the word “tumor” (from another Latin verb meaning to swell), and which means “swollen, inflated, enlarged,” as well as “pompous, bombastic.” The one difference we can make out: “Turgid” can imply normal or healthy distention (a branch turgid with sap) and the kind of rant that at least doesn’t put you to sleep. “Tumid” almost always has overtones of morbidity: a starvation victim’s tumid stomach, a cow’s tumid ulcer; figuratively, it bespeaks sheer bloat.

  uninterested and disinterested

  The former means “indifferent, uncaring,” the latter “impartial.” It’s that simple.

  venal and venial

  The two have nothing to do with each other, etymologically or conceptually. “Venal” (from the Latin word for “sale”) means “open or susceptible to bribery, capable of betraying one’s honor or duty for a price, obtainable by purchase rather than by merit.” “Venial” (from the Latin word for “forgiveness”) means “pardonable, easily excused, minor in nature”; thus “venial sin” (as opposed to t
he mortal variety). Suggested mnemonic: “Venal” rhymes with “penal,” and prison is where bribe-takers wind up; “venial” rhymes with “genial,” which you can afford to be, given that you’re not going to be taken to task for your mistake.

  Twenty-Five Words Not to Say Wrong

  Ten where you have no choice:

  1. flaccid:

  FLAK-sid

  2. heinous:

  HAY-ness

  3. scion:

  SIGH-en

  4. segue:

  SEG-way

  5. ague:

  AY-gyoo

  6. caste:

  KAST

  7. dais:

  DAY-is

  8. inchoate:

  in-KOH-it

  9. quay:

  KEY

  10. ribald:

  RIB-uld

  Eight where you have to choose between being unimpeachably correct (and risk sounding pretentious) or disarmingly casual (and risk sounding uneducated):

  Four where you have to know what you mean before you open your mouth:

  19. forte:

  It’s one syllable (ignore the e) when it means strong point; two (FOR-tay) when it’s the musical direction meaning loudly.

  20. bases:

  More than one base? Say BAYS-es. More than one basis? Say BAYS-ees.

  21. slough:

  In America, SLOO (rhymes with “goo”) is preferred for the actual mire, swamp, bayou, or backwater; SLOU (rhymes with “cow”) for the deep despair figuratively akin to it; SLUF is the only acceptable pronunciation when you’re shedding dead skin.

  22. prophecy/prophesy:

  The former’s the noun and you say PRAH-fuh-see; the latter’s the verb and you say PRAH-fuh-sigh. Plus three more where which side you’re on counts for more than simply being right:

  23. junta:

  It’s the Spaniards’ word for “council,” and they’re going to want you to say HOON-ta. The British (and most of our anchorpersons) prefer JUN-ta.

  24. sheik:

  The Brits and the Arabs say SHAKE, and the anchorpersons, slowly but surely, seem to be coming round. The rest of us seem more at home with SHEEK, as of Araby.

  25. Celtic:

  The Greeks (who made up the word Celtic) and the Bretons (who are Celtic) both spelled this with a k; and purists, including many British speakers, continue to make that c hard: KELT-ic. But then, you have the Boston Celtics to think about.

  Twenty-Six Words Not to Write Wrong

  We’ll assume that you mastered “necessary” and “separate” back in the eighth grade, and that you remember “all right” on the grounds that it’s the opposite of “all wrong.” Beyond such basics, here are the twenty-six words you’re most likely to go wrong on in your next business letter, interoffice memo, or screenplay. To make things just a bit more galvanizing, we’ve listed them in ascending order of difficulty (our criteria included rarefaction—see #20—as well as trickiness). And we’ve provided commentary.

  1. traveler

  The English do it with two ls, but America doesn’t double-up except in accented syllables, e.g., controlled, propeller, referral.

  2. principle/principal

  They offered this one in eighth grade, too, but we were putting on Clearasil at the time. Briefly, a principle is a rule, and the principal (the most important person in your school) is your pal.

  3. stationary/stationery

  With the first, you’re standing in one place; with the second, you’re on your way to what the English still call the stationer’s.

  4. coolly

  First it looks right, then it looks wrong. The fact is, you’re simply adding that familiar suffix, with its l, to the root. Likewise the double n in drunkenness, the double s in misspelling (it works with prefixes, too).

  5. embarrass

  Two rs two SS. But “harass.”

  6. unparalleled

  The archetypal trick word.

  7. seize

  Forget “i before e except after c,” which works for the English derivatives of the Latin capio (“I take”) family: “deceive,” “receipt,” “conceit,” etc., plus others like “ceiling.” But: “weird,” “sheik,” “inveigle.” And, to muddy the waters, there’s “siege.”

  8. preceding

  Okay: There are three verbs in ceed: “succeed,” “proceed,” “exceed.” Of course, there’s “supersede.” All the rest are cede, including “precede,” whose present participle is therefore spelled thus.

  9. nickel

  Maybe it’s just us.

  10. forgo/forego

  The first, meaning “relinquish,” uses for-, an old Anglo-Saxon word indicating abstention or prohibition, as in “forbid,” “forsake,” “forbear.” Fore-you know: It refers to what’s gone before, as in “forewarn,” “forebode,” “foregone conclusion.”

  11. superintendent

  Likewise, “correspondent,” “independent.” You have to memorize which are e and which a: Even knowing the Latin conjugations and their stems won’t help (e.g., “attendant”).

  12. moccasin

  Those use-what’s-at-hand Indians. Likewise, “raccoon.”

  13. glamour

  So far, so good. But it’s “glamorous.”

  14. impostor

  The single hardest case of “-er or or?” In general, learned, Latinate words take or, simple Anglo-Saxon ones, er (e.g., “perpetrator” and “doer”), but watch out for exceptions (e.g., “actor” and “executioner”).

  15. desiccate

  If you use an adult word you can’t afford to misspell it. Note the single first interior consonant, the doubled second one; it’s a pattern, too, in titillate, vacillate, flagellate. But: “dissipate,” “exaggerate.”

  16. resuscitate

  Your move.

  17. iwoculate

  Nothing to do with pain or injury (as in “innocuous”). From the Latin in plus oculus (“eye”), referring to the little eye the needle makes in your skin. For analogous reasons, which we won’t go into here, it’s “awoint.”

  18. sacrilegious

  The relationship is with “sacrzlege,” not “religious.” Now try to remember how to spell “sacrilege.” (Hint: It’s like “privilege.” Now try to remember how to spell that.)

  19. consensus

  Not a head-counting, but a coming together of feeling.

  20. rarefy

  Also: “liquefy,” “stupefy,” “putrefy,” and their noun forms—“rarefaction,” etc.

  21. prophesy

  The verb, which you pronounce “-sigh.” The noun is with a c.

  22. genealogy

  With “mineralogy” and “analogy,” one of a handful of words that don’t end in “-ology”

  23. pavilion

  Not helped by the French word from which it’s derived, pavilion. Or by “cotillion,” its equally high-living cousin. Also: “vermilion.”

  24. dysfunction

  This prefix is Greek for “disease,” not the familiar Latin one. While we’re talking medicine (and ys), a swollen blood vessel is an aneurysm.

  25. braggadocio

  The double g (as in “braggart”) is easy enough; the problem’s with the single c, which imitates neither the Italian suffix occio, or the Spenserian character—Braggadocio—from which the word derives.

  26. autarky

  Here’s a prestige distinction, and if you’re ambitious you’ll contrive to make it this week. Autarchy is absolute sovereignty, total self-control; autarky (from a different Greek stem) is self-sufficiency, especially of an economic, damn-the-imports nature. PLUS, AS AN EXTRA ADDED BONUS, SIX PHRASES YOU MAY NOT EVEN KNOW YOU WRITE WRONG

  bated breath

  That is, shortened—as in “abate.” No entrapment here.

  pore over

  What you do to a manuscript. It’s not the same as what you do to a stack of pancakes.

  harebrained

  Ditto “harelip.”

  test your mettle

  Unles
s you’re at the pig-iron auction.

  chaise longue

  You still want one poolside, but it’s a “long chair,” not a lounge.

  to the manner born

  It’s all in the execution, not in the family real estate.

  Mistaken Identities

  CAPTIOUS: Perversely hard to please, given to fault-finding and petty criticism. Like your boss on a bad day. Or invalid wives in the kind of movie where the husband ends up burying the body in the basement and everyone in the audience hopes he’ll get away with it.

  FRACTIOUS: Peevish, irritable, cranky, or, in a more general sense, inclined to cause trouble. Often used to describe children or people who behave like them. Fractious derives from fraction; breaking or dividing is, after all, what a fractious individual is after. Not to be confused with “factious,” from the noun “faction,” which also can mean “divisive”—but for different reasons.

  NOISOME: Has nothing to do with noise, quite a bit to do with smell. Means “disgusting, unwholesome, unpleasant,” as in “a noisome gas,” or “downright harmful,” as in “noisome prison conditions.”

  FULSOME: Originally meant what you’d think it would mean: “full, rich, plentiful.” But eventually some people became uncomfortable with hedonism, and the “too much of a good thing” connotation crept in. Today, “fulsome” means offensively excessive or insincere. Fulsome praise, for instance, is the kind you get from someone who doesn’t like you much but hopes you’ve got a job for his brother-in-law.

  RESTIVE: Impatient or nervous as the result of restraint or delay. The way you used to feel when your mother said you couldn’t go out with your friends, you had to stay home and clean your room. Often used to describe balky animals and mutinous crowds. Unlike “restless,” “restive” implies resistance to outside control.