Reading the OED: One Man, One Year, 21,730 Pages

by Ammon Shea

  Hooverize (v.) To be exceedingly sparing, especially with food.

  Poor Herbert Hoover. The thirty-first president of the United States not only presided over the country’s descent into the Great Depression, he also found himself the eponymous root of two less than stellar words, Hooverize and Hooverville. Hoover was the United States Food Commissioner during the years 1917 to 1919, and his stewardship of that agency during and immediately after the war years led to charges that he was overly stingy with food rationing. He later was president of the United States at the beginning of the Great Depression and, whether fairly or not, became identified with the failure of government relief efforts. As a result, the shantytowns that were erected by hordes of indigents (Hoovervilles) came to be named after him as well.

  Horn-face (n.) A stupid face, such as a cuckold might have.

  There exists a gross inequity between the sexes in terms of how many English words there are for a person who is unchaste (words for women outnumbering those for men by a great deal). This discrepancy extends itself as well to the number of words to describe a person whose spouse has been unfaithful, there being many more words and terms for men who have unfaithful wives. A partial list of terms for men who have been cheated on includes the words actaeon, becco, half-moon, hoddy-poddy, summer-bird, and wittol. Only one word is listed in the OED for a woman who has an unfaithful husband: cuckquean.

  Hot cockles (n.) “A rustic game in which one player lay face downwards, or knelt down with his eyes covered, and being struck on the back by the others in turn, guessed who struck him.” (OED)

  When I first came across this game, which, judging from the quotations, was current from the late sixteenth through the early nineteenth centuries, I thought warm thoughts to myself about how far we have progressed as a society, that we no longer engage in such barbaric sport. Then I remembered the games of my childhood, not so long ago. Games such as Knuckles, which primarily consisted of removing the skin from the hand of an opponent using a deck of playing cards, and Dodgeball, using fireworks instead of a ball. Perhaps we have not progressed so far.

  Hypergelast (n.) A person who will not stop laughing.

  It’s still up in the air whether the hypergelast or agelastic is more annoying.

  Cole Porter famously wrote in a song that all the world

  loves a clown, and it’s true, the whole world indeed does. Except when the clown won’t stop laughing, at which point the

  whole world decides it hates him. As well it should, because

  people who will not stop laughing are quite possibly the worst

  people of all.

  also see: agelastic, grinagog

  I

  I FEEL AS THOUGH I AM EATING the alphabet. Twenty-six courses of letters, each with its own distinctive flavor. It is inevitable that some letters will taste delicious, others not so much. Some will have a delicate flavor, others will be more like a hearty peasant stew. Some will just taste unpleasant. The letter I tastes like it is full of capers, and I hate capers.

  The caper in this instance is a peculiar little word formation, the i- prefix. It usually designates the past participle form of a word in Early Middle English, and apparently was quite the rage once upon a time, as the portion of the dictionary I am now reading is full of the damned things. These are sure signs that I am losing my mind—not only that I am attributing culinary characteristics to letters of the alphabet, but also that I am able to nurse a grudge against a prefix.

  I am of course aware that these entries need to be in the OED, as they are a part of our language’s heritage, and I am also aware of the fact that if I had not decided to read the dictionary I wouldn’t have to wade through all these irritating past participles. But at this point I can’t be bothered with such niceties as common sense—I’m just sick of reading words with a little i- in front of them: “i-lend is the pa. pple. of lend,” and “i-called is the pa. pple. of call,” and so on and so forth. It does not take many such entries for me to feel nauseated.

  I realize that reading the dictionary is not all fun and games. That is not quite true, for me it is fun and games, but there are points at which I get bored, or irritated. There are also points at which I become utterly confused about why the dictionary is the way it is, and wish I had a lexicographer on standby to explain it to me.

  As it turns out, I do have a lexicographer on hand, albeit a former one, in the form of my girlfriend. She knows far more about the nuts and bolts of the dictionary than I do. This is not surprising, as I only read them, and furthermore, I read them with the uncritical eye of a fan, and she has actually worked at writing them.

  When Alix and I were first dating, I received an e-mail from her that made use of the word catty-cornered. Having just recently learned the etymology of this word (it comes, ultimately, from the French quatre), I wrote her back and casually made mention of this fact. Her response to this was to send me a several-page-long article that she’d written for Merriam-Webster on the subject. I couldn’t remember ever being quite so embarrassed and exhilarated at once.

  So when I come up against something like the proliferation of i- words in my epic reading project, my first impulse is to ask Alix about it. However, she is fiercely and unapologetically pro-Merriam -Webster. When I asked her thoughts as to why all these words were included in the OED and yet were not defined, she sniffed disdainfully, shook her head, and said, “Well, they’ve never really been much of a defining dictionary.”

  I have the feeling that this prejudice she has is not overtly anti-OED; she just doesn’t understand why I, or anyone else, would choose to read a dictionary that was not published by Merriam-Webster.

  Iatrogenic (adj.) Pertaining to symptoms caused unintentionally by a doctor.

  I cannot think of a single word that means “cured by a doctor.” This is why I do not go to the doctor.

  Idiorepulsive (adj.) Self-repelling.

  Idiorepulsive seems to be a word of scientific nature and use. However, since it is buried in the middle of a large pile of other idio- words, there is no way of knowing whether it has ever been used in a nonliteral sense. And I cannot think of any restrictions (aside from those that dictate good taste and proper use of language) that would prohibit me from using this in a strictly figurative sense, as a more emphatic means of describing self-hatred.

  Ignotism (n.) A mistake made from ignorance.

  It is debatable whether an ignotism represents a more excusable form of error than one due to laziness or lack of care. I

  guess it depends on whether the error in question is on the order of someone giving wrong directions or a doctor removing

  the wrong limb during surgery.

  also see: bayard

  Illutible (adj.) Unable to be washed away.

  A word that suits a wide range of subjects, from bicycle grease

  to adultery.

  also see: abluvion

  Ill-willy (adj.) Cherishing malevolence.

  Not to be confused with evil-willy (which describes merely the

  possession of desires that are evil), ill-willy is a state of cherishing malignancy. And although the definition sounds as

  though it should be applied to some dramatic form of unpleasantness, it’s hard to take any word that ends with -willy

  too seriously.

  also see: stomaching

  Immiserable (adj.) “Whom none pittieth.” (Henry Cockeram, The English Dictionarie, 1623)

  From the Latin immiserabilis (unpitied). It should come as

  no surprise that this word comes to us from ancient Rome;

  not only are most of the words in our vocabulary descended

  from Latin, the Romans raised the practice of not pitying to a

  high art.

  also see: bowelless

  Immutual (adj.) Not mutual.

  There is really no way that something immutual is pleasant. I’ve tried to think of an immutual circumstance I would like to find myself in and all I can think of is
unrequited love and unwanted friendships.

  Impedimenta (n., pl.) Such things as impede progress.

  Although impedimenta has most often been used in the sense of some concrete thing (such as baggage) that impedes progress, I prefer to think of it when I encounter any of the general things that slow one’s progress through life, such as having a moral code of some sort.

  Impluvious (adj.) “Wet with rain.” (Thomas Blount, Glossographia, 1656)

  The OED does not provide any quotations for this word; it only mentions the fact that it existed in two dictionaries, hundreds of years ago. While I am not generally in favor of resuscitating a word that has died a natural death, I would make an exception in the case of impluvious. also see: petrichor

  Inadvertist (n.) One who persistently fails to take notice of things.

  The inadvertists are those who stumble through life seemingly with no other purpose than to make it difficult for the

  rest of us—the ones who splay their legs wide on the subway,

  decide to get rid of all their small coins at the supermarket,

  and stand at the front of a long line at the airport asking about

  flights two months in advance.

  also see: faciendum

  Incompetible (adj.) Not within the range of a person’s competence.

  Sensing confusion in its reader, the OED cautions that this word is sometimes confused with incompatible, which has a slightly different meaning. Incompatible might describe the wrong tool for the job; incompetible describes the wrong person for it.

  Indesinence (n.) Want of proper ending.

  One of the things I find nice about reading the dictionary

  is that I always know what the ending will be, and I’ve yet

  to be unsatisfied with it. I believe this word is referring

  more to a sense of ending as in “never-ending” rather than

  “crap-Hollywood-movie type of ending,” but it’s not entirely

  clear.

  also see: finifugal

  Indread (v.) To feel a secret dread.

  We all have some nameless fear, a source of secret dread that

  keeps us awake at night from time to time, sickened with

  worry. Now you know what to call it, which will not in any way

  help in dispelling it.

  also see: terriculament

  Indri (n.) Babacoote.

  This word is included for the benefit of all those language purists who insist that English is a very pure and noble language and must not be tampered with in any way. Indri comes to our language from the French naturalist Sonnerat, and nicely illustrates the often inglorious fashion in which words are sometimes created. Sonnerat was in Madagascar around the year 1780, in search of the babacoote, a type of lemur that lives in trees. The word for this animal in Malagasy is babakoto; however, that is not the word Sonnerat came up with. He decided to name the animal indri, probably due to the fact that in Malagasy indry izy translates to “there he is.”

  Induratize (v.) To harden the heart.

  Among the inevitabilities of old age are that the heart is hardened

  twice; first figuratively, through experience and loss, and

  then literally, in the form of atherosclerosis.

  also see: unlove

  Infelicitate (v.) To cause to be unhappy.

  I have trouble believing I’ve managed to make it this far in life without a word for describing all the seemingly innumerable ways in which I am made unhappy. Displease is close, but doesn’t quite work. Infelicitate is exactly the word I’ve been looking for, and with some small dose of irony, it makes me very happy indeed.

  Inquilinate (v.) “To dwell in a strange place.” (Henry Cockeram, The English Dictionarie, 1623)

  I once spent a year attempting to live in Southern California. It was there, while reading the dictionary on the beach (a habit for which I was much ridiculed), that I first came across this delightful word. To me, it perfectly describes living in California, and the incomprehensibility of dwelling somewhere where the weather and the general population are matched in vapidity only by each other.

  Insordescent (adj.) Growing in filthiness.

  An obsolete word from the works of the Roman Catholic

  Church, insordescent appears to have been used mostly, if

  not exclusively, in religious literature. But my life is full of

  secular instances of things increasing in filthiness, and I intend

  to keep this word in my pocket and pull it out as

  needed.

  also see: nastify

  Inspirado (n.) A person who thinks himself inspired.

  A simple rule of thumb: if someone is describing you with a noun that ends in -o, chances are, they are not paying you a compliment.

  Interdespise (v.) To hate someone as he or she hates you.

  Mutual hatred is not such a bad thing. In fact, many people seem to feel quite comfortable with it. It certainly feels better to hate someone who hates you right back than it is to hate someone who thinks you’re a peach.

  Introuvable (adj.) Not capable of being found, specifically of books.

  I always have trouble finding my books. I have no system for how my books are arranged; they fit where there is room. Alix has no such trouble, as she color-codes all of her books. On the side of the apartment where her books live are great swaths of reds, yellows, blues, and greens, all blending together neatly. I’ve tried this system, and it did not work so well, as most of my books are the exact same color—brown and dusty. also see: onomatomania

  J

  I’VE ALWAYS BEEN A READER, at least as far back as I can remember. It was most likely my parents’ fault, since they employed a form of operant conditioning when my brother and I were young that was designed to make us not want to watch television. It was not expressly forbidden, but the small and crackly thirteen-inch black-and-white TV we owned was kept behind an armchair in the living room, and when we were foolish enough to drag it out the first thing our parents would say was, “Well, if you have enough time to watch TV, then you certainly have enough time to scrub the kitchen floor.” After several aborted attempts to watch TV and with a very clean kitchen floor, we more or less gave up on the idea of watching it.

  I’ve always suspected that my parents’ reasons for steering us away from TV had mainly to do with the fact that there were four of us living in a small tenement apartment, and if one person was watching TV the rest of the family had no real choice but to be exposed to it as well. Books, on the other hand, could be read without disturbing anyone else. Most evenings from my childhood that I remember consisted of each of the four of us sitting in the living room, either reading our own book, or having a book read out loud.

  My parents also had the habit of reading us bedtime stories that were completely incommensurate with our age, and when my brother and I were seven and nine we were being lulled to sleep by Richmond Lattimore’s translations of the Iliad and the Odyssey, Robert Fitzgerald’s Aeneid, and Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur. I don’t think they had the intent of educating us young, or believed that we were unduly precocious—they just read what they wanted to read, and we happened to be the ones who were listening.

  I bought my first book for myself when I was ten. Stuck at a beach somewhere near the end of Cape Cod one summer, and eventually bored by the normal pursuits of summer, I happened into the clapboard shack by the parking lot that served as a combination of hot dog stand and purveyor of cheap souvenirs. In the back of the store was a shaky wire carousel full of aged paper-backs. They weren’t secondhand, just books from twenty years earlier that had never managed to be sold, and the store was letting them go for their original cover prices, twenty-five cents each.

  At that age I thought anything that cost a quarter must be a bargain, and I grabbed the first book that caught my eye—Three Tickets to Adventure by Gerald Durrell. It was a memoir of sorts, recounting the trials and travails of being an animal collector for
zoos in the 1950s.

  It was instantly the most transporting experience I could imagine. I had been an avid reader, prone to spending more time while at school in the library than in the classroom, but this was somehow different. Here, fully realized, was the idea that one could just go and find a book that one wanted to read, buy it, and get joyfully and irretrievably lost in its pages.

  I suppose it helped that the book I happened upon was humorous and well written (its author to this day remains one of my favorite writers), but more important than that was the idea of escaping into a book. Suddenly it was unclear to me why people bothered to do anything besides read, unless it was of necessity.

  I became obsessive about reading, and was not terribly discriminating in my tastes. Gone With the Wind interested me every bit as much as Bullfinch’s Mythology. I would find an author or a genre that seemed acceptable and proceed to shovel everything I could find into my head. I spent three months reading biographies of professional basketball players and then followed that with a spell of reading adventure stories about life in the British navy during the Second World War.

  At some point my parents became concerned with the amount of time I spent reading. When I was twelve my father began kicking me out of the house on weekends so that I wouldn’t lie on the couch all day with my nose in a book. All this accomplished was to give me the impetus to go out and find new volumes to read. I would walk several miles downtown, to Fifty-fifth Street and Fifth Avenue, where Doubleday had its flagship store. I was more than content to perch on an uncomfortable stool reading all day and then walk home, pretending that I’d been out and about and performing energetic childhood activities for hours.

  I’ve never been prone to buying fancy clothes, or meals in nice restaurants. But I’ve always allowed myself to buy books, no matter how meager a budget I was living on at the time. Anytime I come across a book that holds the slightest potential that someday I may want to read some part of it I pick it up and bring it home. It isn’t a mania for collecting—it’s a defense against boredom. The fact that my shelves are filled with things I haven’t yet read and want to, and things that I’ve read before and want to revisit, means I will never be at a loss for entertainment at home.