by Ammon Shea
I live near Columbia University, which has a total of nine different libraries, all of which are spectacular. You can purchase reading privileges for a fee, and while it may stick in my craw somewhat to pay for a library I have to admit it is well worth it. Unlike the public libraries, I’ve not once seen a fistfight at Columbia, and they generally do not have people using the bathroom sinks as showers. But their libraries are also fairly crowded, and have far too many interesting books, which is a constant source of distraction.
So I’ve ended up spending most of my time reading in the basement of the Hunter College library. The students here seem to be not as interested in studying as the ones at Columbia do, and many days I’m the only person in the basement. It is as quiet a spot as one can find in New York. I’ve dragged a desk over to a corner and sit with my back to the wall, looking out at a diminishing line of dozens of rows of bookshelves. I’ve chosen this corner because the books around me are all either about the theater or are written in French. I’m not interested in the theater and cannot read French, so I am able to sit here surrounded by the sight and scent of books without the danger of becoming unduly distracted by them.
Every morning I get up and make myself a cup of coffee. This coffee, once drunk, enlivens me enough to make more coffee, to consume throughout the day. I have an old Italian espresso press, one that requires a certain level of interaction to operate. To get the coffee out of the machine I have to pump the arm up and down a few times. It has numerous valves and gadgets on it that I don’t quite understand. I don’t need to understand how they work; it still makes a fine coffee.
I fill a thermos with espresso: fill it almost to spilling, until the oily surface of the black liquid peeks up near the rim. Every morning I tell myself that this quantity of espresso will last me throughout the day. It never lasts until noon. I chide myself gently for having drunk all my coffee so early in the day and then happily go out and buy more, filling my thermos again and descending back into the library. Coffee has long since transcended its role as “the thing that wakes me up” and is now comfortably settled in the role of “the thing that brings me joy.” In some ways, it’s also the thing that allows me to read the OED from cover to cover.
ALTHOUGH THERE ARE FAR FEWER distractions here than at home, it does not mean that this library is free of them. There is a certain type of person who seems to go to libraries expressly to talk, the conversational variant of nature abhorring a vacuum. I have turned into the ogre of the library basement, and have progressed from politely asking people to keep their voices down to energetically shushing as soon as they talk for more than a few minutes.
I did not plan on becoming a public shusher, at least not until I was considerably older than I am now. Lately I’ve been making an effort to restrain myself from engaging in this activity. But there have been occasions, such as when a bevy of drama students decided that my corner of the library was the perfect spot to practice dialogues, when I could not restrain myself. Their response to my yells of outrage (“We’re sorry . . . we didn’t know anyone would be reading here”) instantly saddened me. First, because I had not needed to be as brusque as I’d been, and second, because they really could not comprehend that someone would be reading in a library.
Since then I’ve also tried to be more politic when asking people not to talk. And even when I feel that the talkers do not deserve politeness I no longer yell. Instead, I tell them that there are rats in this portion of the basement. I say that the only reason I mention this is that someone had a rat crawl into his bag just last week, and unwittingly took it home with him. Very few of them remain in the basement after that.
There are no rats in the library. There is only the occasional mouse, and the mice are unfailingly polite, and never raise their voices.
Garbist (n.) One who is adept at engaging in polite behavior.
I find that my view on what is polite behavior mirrors the view that former Supreme Court justice Potter Stewart had on pornography—I cannot define it but I know it when I see it. I am always pleased to make the acquaintance of a garbist, even though I’m not much of one myself. also see: charientism
Gastrophilanthropist (n.) “A benevolent purveyor for the appetites of others.” (OED)
When I first came across this word I was certain it was no more than a fancy nineteenth-century term for “pimp.” But this is not the case, and it seems that once upon a time it was possible to use the words purveyor, appetites, and others all in conjunction and not mean anything dirty by it.
Gaum (v.) To stare vapidly.
Gauming is easily identified as the behavior of mouth-breathers and simpletons the world over, so be sure not to mistake it for gaum-like, which is defined as “having an intelligent look.” also see: gove
Goat-drunk (adj.) Made lascivious by alcohol.
According to the redoubtable Thomas Nashe, the author of The Anatomie of Absurditie, Christ’s Teares over Jerusalem, and many other important works of English literature, there are eight types of drunkards, of which the one who is goat-drunk is seventh, although it is unclear what the order signifies. Since the OED has seen fit to include only a few from Nashe’s list I have decided to include it in its entirety, so that you may never be at a loss for words when confronted by a drunk of any sort.
1. Ape-drunke—“he leapes, and sings, and hollowes, and daunceth for the heavens.”
2. Lion-drunke—“he flings the pots abut the house, calls his Hostesse whore, breakes the glasse windows with his dagger, and is apt to quarrell with any man that speaks to him.”
3. Swine-drunke—“heauy lumpish, and sleepie, and cries for a little more drinke.”
4. Sheepe-drunke—“wise in his owne conceipt, when he cannot bring forth a right word.”
5. Mawdlen-drunke—“when a fellowe will weepe for kindnes in the midst of his Ale, and kisse you, saying; By God Captaine I loue thee, goe thy waies thou dost not thinke so often of me as I do of thee, I would (if it pleased GOD) I could not loue thee so well as I doo, and then he puts his finger in his eie, and cries.”
6. Martin-drunke—“when a man is drunke and drinkes himselfe sober ere he stirre.”
7. Goat-drunk (See above.)
8. Foxe-drunke—“when he is craftie drunke, as many of the Dutch men bee, and neuer bargain but when they are drunke.”
I knew I should never have bargained with that soused Dutchman.
Gobemouche (n.) One who believes anything, no matter how absurd.
From the French words gober (to swallow) and mouche (fly). also see: superfidel
Gound (n.) The gunk that collects in the corners of the eyes.
Gound is the perfect example of a word that is practically useless, and yet still nice to know. It is the type of word I was unaware that I didn’t know, and yet it still felt like a relief when I discovered it, as though I’d finally managed to remember that troublesome word I’d forgotten years ago.
Gove (v.) “To stare stupidly.” (OED)
Dictionaries are supposed to be objective records of our language. While not necessarily intended to be passionless, they have largely eschewed the role of being the arbiters of the language, instead choosing to record it as it is used by its speakers and writers. The great dictionaries of English have done a remarkably thorough job of living up to very exacting standards, not changing a word merely because they do not like it. And so, there is something interesting about the word gove. The OED defines it as “to stare stupidly.” So do Funk and Wagnalls , the Century Dictionary, and the Imperial Dictionary.
In fact, every dictionary I have checked defines this word as “to stare stupidly” except for Webster’s Third New International , which defines it as “to stare idly.” I am quite sure that the fact that the editor of Webster’s Third was named Gove had nothing to do with this decision. also see: gaum
Gramaungere (n.) A superb or great meal.
Although this is a fine-looking word with an amply interesting meaning and a good etymology (
from the Old French grant mangier, great meal), the real enjoyment in reading it came from the rather inexplicable comment posted below the definition, which states: “not from the orig. Fr., which has ‘do you think you can eat up all the pagans by yourselves?’” I’m not sure what original French they’re referring to, but I wish they had included more of it. also see: bouffage, moreish
Grimthorpe (v.) To restore or renovate an ancient building with excessive spending rather than with skill.
Grimthorpe is a more or less eponymous word, taken from the title of Sir Edmund Beckett (the first Lord Grimthorpe), a lawyer and horologist in London, who also enjoyed attempting restorations of old buildings. His efforts did not meet with widespread approval, and gave birth to this word.
Grinagog (n.) A person who is constantly grinning.
Perhaps this should have also been defined as “one who deserves to be poked in the eye with a sharp stick.” also see: hypergelast
Guestan (adj.) Appropriate for guests.
The editors of the OED included a question mark before this entry, a habit they have when they are not entirely certain of the meaning. Which I think entirely fitting in this case, as this is a word that does and should mean different things to many people. To me, the notion of what is suitable for guests usually includes something to do with a locked door and unanswered doorbells.
Gulchin (n.) A little glutton.
The diminutive form of gulch (which presumably is a full-sized glutton).
Gymnologize (v.) “To dispute naked, like an Indian philosopher.” (Nathan Bailey, An Universal Etymological English Dictionary, 1727)
There are only several plausible reasons I can think of for having an argument while naked, and none of them happens to involve Indian philosophers.
H
I WORE GLASSES FOR MOST of my childhood, until I was nineteen and broke the only pair I owned. I couldn’t afford to buy new glasses at the time and blurred through two months of severely impaired vision and friends thinking that I was ignoring them before my eyes somehow managed to strengthen themselves enough that I could see again. It is now almost twenty years later, and I have finally come to accept that my eyes, having loosened their grip on 20/20 vision, will not repeat that same trick of self-healing.
I have also come to accept that there is no way I will finish reading the OED without glasses, as every week I find that my nose is closer to the page, my eyes are more and more squinted, and my headaches are growing more and more insistent.
The optometrist I call on, after acknowledging the inevitable, is the same one that I went to twenty and thirty years ago, and the shop is comfortingly similar to how I remember it. It is located in the same small storefront and operated by the same mildly dour man, Myron. The only difference I can see is that the stools that used to be in front of the counter are gone. They were the same kind that one used to see at lunch counters, plain metal with colored vinyl seats. Upon entering the store my brother and I would immediately rush to sit on them and, kicking off from the counter, spin ourselves round until we became nauseated and dizzy. Myron says that he remembers me as one of the unpleasant children who helped break the stools before their time, and I doubt that he really remembers me, until it turns out that he also remembers what my last prescription was, from 1987.
If the storefront looks largely unchanged from my memories of twenty years ago, the small back room where the examinations are done looks like it is unchanged from the memories of someone much older than I. It smells like 1940, and most of the instruments look like they’ve been around for at least that long. There is an antique cabinet on one wall, filled with dozens of thin compartments, each holding a lens of a different strength, encased in black plastic. Underneath that cabinet I can see a dusty copy of Gould’s Medical Dictionary, and I recognize it as being the same edition as the copy I have at home, which is from 1935.
I don’t know why I find it reassuring to have medical equipment that is so out of date, but I do. I like the implied weight of the thing that swings out from the wall and functions as a giant set of testing eyeglasses, heavy metal encased in green enamel. I like the old cast-iron chair, which huffs and wheezes asthmatically as it is brought up and down to get my eyes at the correct height.
Myron clucks and fiddles with various lenses and asks me why I think I need glasses again. I explain, as briefly as possible, that I’m reading a large book, and it seems to be contributing to the accelerated decline of my eyesight. He clucks some more and clicks some dials, and asks me every few clicks whether I can now see the lettered chart better or worse than before. Ten minutes of this and we reach the unsurprising conclusion that I do in fact need glasses.
While Myron is writing the prescription I discover that glasses have become fashionable since last I wore them, and that, should I care to, I can spend more money on a small pair than I spent on the entire twenty volumes of the OED. I never quite trust objects that become more expensive as they become smaller, and I do not care to have six hundred dollars swimming out of my wallet to sit atop my nose. I buy one of the cheaper options, a clunky pair of tortoiseshell horn-rims, made in China and emblazoned with the word gentleman on the inside of one of the arms.
As I’m leaving I ask Myron if there is any advice he can give me that will make the task of reading small and uneven type for ten or twelve hours a day any easier. He raises his eyebrows and looks at me over the top of his own glasses (a habit that people who wear glasses use to indicate skepticism and sometimes contempt) and curtly says, “Yes—you could read less.” With this established I decide that I will not ask Myron for any more advice.
When I get back to the library and resume reading I immediately realize why people wear these silly little things—they make your vision better. I no longer have to move my face closer to or farther from the page depending on whether I am reading the definition or the etymology. The headaches do not go away, but they become less severe. And at the end of the day I do not have large patches of gray imposing themselves on my peripheral vision. I am considerably cheered by this improvement, and wish that I could get glasses for all the other parts of my body that don’t work as well as I would like them to.
Halfpennyworth (v.) To bicker over minute expenses.
A word that nicely captures the pettiness of this habit.
Hamartia (n.) The flaw that precipitates the destruction of a tragic hero.
Hamartia is a noble word, with a fine history (the OED says also that it refers particularly to Aristotle’s Poetics). If you have any decency or soul, please do not use this word to refer to your own weakness for something such as chocolate. also see: foiblesse
Hansardize (v.) To show that a person has previously espoused opinions differing from the ones he or she now holds.
From the names of Luke Hansard and his son, Thomas, who for many years published the Journal of the House of Commons, the official report of what had been said in that august body. The word was originally used to describe confronting a politician with written evidence of his flip-flopping, but think of how useful it would be to have a hansardizer around whenever you needed to remind someone in any walk of life that they have changed their opinions. also see: enantiodromia
Happify (v.) To make happy.
Happify appears to have been used as a verb for quite some time, ranging from the works of Josuah Sylvester in the early seventeenth century all the way up to Lou Shelly’s Hepcats Jive Talk Dictionary of 1945. It has such a pleasing ring to it that I’m mystified that it has not been retained more in common usage. also see: felicificability
Heredipety (n.) The hunting of an inheritance.
Had this word existed in Shakespeare’s time it might well have referred to such activity as killing off all one’s brothers. Today it would likely be reduced to swiping the family silver before the rest of your siblings show up.
Hetaerocracy (n.) The rule of members of a college; the rule of courtesans.
It is not often that the members of a colle
ge and courtesans are mentioned in the same sentence, much less defined in the same word, so perhaps a quick explanation is in order. Both senses of the word are based on the male and female forms of a Greek word; the male hetairos translates as “companion, fellow,” and the female hetaira translates as “companion” as well, but with shades of meaning that vary from concubine to courtesan.
Heterodogmatize (v.) To have an opinion different from the one generally held.
Just because you are in proud possession of opinions that differ from those of the majority of the population is no reason to
start patting yourself on the back. Usually it just means you
are wrong.
also see: homodoxian
Heterogenic (adj.) “Occurring in the wrong sex, as a beard upon a woman.” (W. A. Newman Dorland, The Illustrated Medical Dictionary, 1900)
Almost every dictionary that I’ve seen illustrate this word uses the odd example of “like a beard on a woman.” I am not one for railing against gender inequity in the dictionary, but this has always stuck in my craw. Large breasts on men are a far more common example of something occurring in the wrong sex than beards on women, but I’ve yet to see a single dictionary use this as an example.
Heterophemize (v.) To say something different from what you mean to say.
Think back on all the things you’ve said in life that you truly wish you hadn’t. Wouldn’t it be nice if you could just claim afterward that you had been heterophemizing, and be instantly forgiven?
Homodoxian (n.) A person who has the same opinion as you.
A very fancy word for “friend,” “assistant,” or “someone who’s
got their head on straight.”
also see: heterodogmatize