by Ammon Shea
All of which makes my decision to read dictionaries seem almost logical, as they never fail to interest me, and I can never hope to learn everything that is within even a small one. I often find myself waking in the small hours of the morning, unable to get back to sleep. I suppose if I really worked at it, even for a few minutes, I would be able to return to slumber, but I have no real desire to— there is a room full of books just beyond the door.
The OED is the perfect book for these three a.m. moments. It tickles the familiar, telling me once again things about words that I’ve known for years and forgotten that I forgot. It tells me things that I know I knew about words, but with additional insights that I have blithely ignored over the years. And it tells me things about words that I never could have imagined on my own.
And so three a.m. becomes six, night becomes morning, one cup of coffee becomes four, and the pile of pages shifts from the right to the left as I read my way into the day. In moments like this I am convinced I’ll never need another book again.
Janiform (adj.) Two-faced, resembling Janus.
Janus, the ancient Roman two-faced god of doorways, appears to have been demoted over the centuries. Although being the god of a doorway may not have had the most social cachet in the pantheon, I imagine it was a step up from being the root of an obscure pejorative term.
Jehu (n.) A fast or reckless driver.
Jehu was a king of Israel in the ninth century BCE, renowned for both his furious chariot driving and his extermination of the worshippers of Baal. The use of his name to refer to a reckless driver comes from 2 Kings 9:20: “the driving is like the driving of Jehu the son of Nimshi; for he driveth furiously.” Jehu is not the only name from antiquity which has come to be associated with a reckless driver; Phaeton has a similar meaning. In ancient Greek mythology, Phaeton was the son of Helios, and was given the job of driving the sun chariot for a day. From all accounts, he botched the job and Zeus was forced to kill him in order to save the world.
Jentacular (adj.) Of or pertaining to breakfast.
Some of you reading this are no doubt thinking, “Why do I need this silly little word that describes ‘of or relating to breakfast’?” The answer is you don’t need it. But it is also true that you don’t need the overwhelming majority of the words you use throughout the day, either, and jentacular is far more charming than most of them.
Jettatore (n.) A person who is bad luck.
Even though he or she is the first person tossed off the life raft
when supplies run low, the jettatore is not in any way related
to jettison or jetsam.
also see: exauspicate
Jive-ass (n.) “A person who loves fun or excitement.” (OED)
Upon first glance I was skeptical of this sense listed for jive-ass, never having known of it being used to refer to a fun person. But then I read on and discovered that the OED also states that this is “a word of fluid meaning and application,” which sounds to me like a very elegant way of covering one’s lexicographic tracks. Perhaps it is a way of saying “Don’t come crying to us if this turns out to be wrong—we told you the word had fluid application.”
Jocoserious (adj.) Half serious and half in jest.
Jocoserious is in some way an example of itself—it looks like a
very serious word, but it’s really quite silly.
also see: agathokakological
K
MY FASCINATION WITH WORDS was unintentionally provoked by my eleventh grade English teacher, Mr. Wozniak, a stern man who had a peculiarly large dent in his balding head and a predilection for red plaid shirts. He spoke in a slow monotone and struggled, as I suppose so many English teachers do, with the task of imparting to his students what is and what is not correct English. I cannot say that I remember a great deal of what he taught, or that I had any special opposition to it, except in one area—what counts as a real word.
We were on the subject of homonyms, and Mr. Wozniak dutifully led us through sets of see/sea, and too/two/to, and then announced that he would give the class a word and ask us to supply its homonym.
“The word is altar . . . the word is altar . . . can anyone tell me what the homonym for this word is . . . as in: the children worshipped quietly at the altar . . . the word is altar . . .” Eventually someone raised her hand and supplied the requisite alter, and Mr. Wozniak looked mildly pleased. He then proceeded to the next word, which, considering that he was addressing a room of teenagers, was perhaps not the wisest choice of homonym.
“The word is horde . . . the word is horde . . . as in: the horde of Visigoths sacked the city . . . can anyone tell me what the homonym of horde is . . . the word is horde . . .” Another pause, and then someone mumbled something about a hoard of gold. Another tightly pinched smile from Mr. Wozniak and then he continued. “The word is . . .”
We never got to the next word, as I raised my hand and called out that there was another homonym for hoard and horde. I wasn’t trying to be a smart aleck; I honestly thought that he had forgotten to include the word.
“Another homonym for hoard? Hmmm . . . very interesting, Mr. Shea . . . I don’t believe I know it—perhaps you could tell us what that word is?”
“The word is whored, as in, the squire whored his way across all of London,” I proudly exclaimed, and then spelled the word, just in case my point hadn’t been made. The class tittered predictably, and Mr. Wozniak’s face turned an interesting shade of red, except for the dent in his forehead, which stayed white.
“That is not a word!” he thundered.
“But—but I just read it last week in—”
“Enough! That is not a word!”
Having established that whored was not a word, we moved on from homonyms.
This rankled me then, and it rankles me still. How can you say that something people use as a word is not actually a word? It can be a “bad” word, or a slang word, or a substandard or colloquial word; but it is still very much a word. To deny its existence is as wishful and futile as saying that the car that is about to run you over does not exist. And yet this is exactly what many people do when faced with a word they find disagreeable or about which they simply have a vague feeling that it is not “proper English.”
One of the ways people frequently claim something is not a word is by asserting that “it is not in the dictionary.” The absurdity of this claim is illustrated by the fact that they never actually say what dictionary they are referring to. Hundreds and hundreds of English dictionaries have been published over the past four hundred years, every one of which is somehow different from the others. And none of them can rightfully claim to have absolute authority over what constitutes the language.
Furthermore, dictionaries are not set in stone, nor are they error-free. Even the OED, as magnificent a work of scholarship as it is, has plenty of mistakes and inconsistencies. Furthermore, the four-volume supplement to the OED, which appeared between 1972 and 1986, includes thousands of words that were not listed in the original version of the OED. Does this mean they did not become words until the OED supplement printed them? Of course not. When this supplement was being edited, the nonsense words from Lewis Carroll’s poem “Jabberwocky” were not included in the first volume, A-K. However, after the first volume a decision was made that they should in fact be included, with the result being that any word from "Jabberwocky” that comes after K is listed. Thus, brillig is not currently in the OED but outgrabe is. Should this mean that one is a word and the other is not?
I always find it puzzling when I am in conversation with someone who seems to be in many ways intelligent and urbane, yet when faced with a word of dubious provenance, such as irregardless, begins sputtering with rage, claiming that the word does not exist.
The OED is loaded with words that are not considered “real” (at least by the standards of language purists), and they are great fun to read. While I have no intention of using “words” such as irregardless , happify, or fabulosity, I do enjoy se
eing them there on the page, and reading how writers have used and misused them through the ages.
Kakistocracy (n.) Government by the worst citizens.
The OED is full of words for different types of governments. I find most of them forgettable. But kakistocracy, describing so aptly the fear, which seems common in every generation, that their government is truly the worst possible one, is a word worth remembering.
Kankedort (n.) An awkward situation or affair.
I take comfort in the fact that even when the editors of the
OED do not have the answer to something, they manage to
impart this lack of knowledge in a particularly graceful fashion,
thereby diffusing what would otherwise be a bit of a
kankedort. The etymology for this word reads “Of unascertained
etymology.”
also see: zugzwang
Keck (v.) To make a sound as though one were about to vomit.
Keck is a good, multipurpose nausea word, for in its various
senses it also effortlessly manages to describe “to want to
vomit,” “to have loathing for,” and “to reject food or medicine
with loathing.”
also see: nauseant, vomiturient
Killcrop (n.) A brat who never ceases to be hungry, and was popularly thought to be a fairy that was substituted for the real child.
This would describe any child other than your own. also see: xenogenesis
L
I RECENTLY GAVE UP MY APARTMENT and moved in with Alix. She was already in possession of a fine apartment, with a full assembly of furniture, so I decided to get rid of most of my possessions. Except, of course, my dictionaries. Forty-one of the forty-five boxes I moved in with held nothing but dictionaries, and I cannot quite remember what was in the rest.
I spent a week putting up shelves wherever I could find room: an alcove, part of a hallway, the entirety of a closet. As always seems to be the case, there was just enough room to fit the books. But dictionaries are restless creatures, and are never content to just sit there where I’ve put them.
As a result, the apartment is strewn with dictionaries and their spoor. Piles of books, both small and large, are everywhere. Index cards, stray bits of typing paper, and scraps of whatever substrate was handy at the moment are floating about, dotted with cryptic handwriting and small lists of words.
Alix has borne this proliferation of moldering bindings and paper with remarkable good grace, even though her own small collection of dictionaries is always neatly arranged by her desk. Occasionally she will note that the dictionaries seem to be winning their war with the inhabitants of the apartment, but does not seem to be overly bothered by this.
I’ve tried to keep my dictionaries ordered and put away, but they never stay put, especially the OED. Certain books I can resist browsing, such as the single-volume copy of the Century Dictionary (which is over eight thousand pages long and weighs more than my kitchen scale will tolerate), or any of the four volumes of Cyclopaedia, Ephraim Chambers’s dictionary (which are about a foot wide and a foot and a half tall), but somehow I find myself constantly pulling the OED off its shelf. Each of its twenty volumes is of a size that is just asking to be picked up, cradled, and read.
Any of these books can be grabbed and picked up with one hand. When I flop it open my eyes meet with a happy profusion of text, two pages dense with words, no matter what portion of the book I’ve opened to. The smell of the pages is brimming with learning, evoking both the promise of what has been found already and that which remains to be sought.
The font the OED uses has become as recognizable as an old friend. As have the myriad punctuations, symbols, and abbreviations that cover its pages, and which are varied enough to be known in full only to typesetters and longtime readers of this book.
My mornings and evenings are riddled with these sightings of my dictionaries: passing from room to room, I catch a glimpse of some stray volume and remember a word in it that I wanted to revisit. I grab the book and sit down on the floor, the table, or whatever surface is nearby. Instantly I am lost, and happily wending my way through the ages and the alphabet, word after word. I sit there, losing minutes and hours and gaining the world.
Lant (v.) To add urine to ale, in order to make it stronger.
The speakers of English have, over the past several hundred years, displayed what seems to be an unreasoning fondness for using urine, both human and otherwise, for a dizzying array of purposes. In addition to lant, the OED lists such delightful words and terms as all-flower-water (cow urine, used as an unspecified remedy), puppy-water (the urine of a young dog, used as a cosmetic), and the ever popular lotium (stale urine used by barbers). Perhaps their urine was somehow cleaner than the urine of today, just like the music was better, and children were more polite to their elders. It’s possible, but my guess is simply that hygienic standards were significantly lower. also see: unbepissed
Latibulate (v.) To hide oneself in a corner.
This word may not have much resonance with many people, but given that I spend all day hiding myself in a corner there was no way that I could pass it by.
Lectory (n.) A place for reading.
Although I am firmly of the opinion that a book can, and should, be brought along and read anywhere, there can be something almost infinitely pleasing about having a specific place that is designed solely for reading. If you agree with this sentiment you very likely have your own lectory somewhere. If you disagree with this sentiment, you are probably not reading this book.
Leep (v.) “To wash with cow-dung and water.” (OED)
When I came across the definition of leep I thought that perhaps the OED’s editors had a different understanding of what the word wash means. I was moderately distressed when I looked ahead to the W’s and found that they have the exact same idea of what it means as I do.
Leese (v.) To be a loser.
Leese means many different things: to lose (in a variety of senses), to destroy or spoil, to fail to accomplish something, to release or unfasten something. All of these are fine words, but all have synonyms, and add little by way of previously unknown meaning. But it was the second sense of the first definition of leese that really caught my eye, as I’ve seen no other word so far that has been defined as “to be a loser.”
Letabund (adj.) Filled with joy.
It seems incongruous to me that a word ending in -bund should have such a pleasant meaning. When I think of -bund words, I think of words such as moribund (at the end of life), cummerbund (the end of fashion), and balkansprachbund (a grouping of linguistic similarities among the Balkan languages) . It’s nice to see letabund escape its unfortunate childhood and grow up to be such a happy and well-adjusted word. also see: conjubilant, felicificability, happify
Levament (n.) “The comfort which one hath of his wife.” (Henry Cockeram, The English Dictionarie, 1623)
Of all the lexicographers who are quoted repeatedly in the OED (and there are many), it is a toss-up as to whether Samuel Johnson or Henry Cockeram is the more entertaining. On the one hand, Johnson is certainly far superior as a lexicographer, but on the other hand, Cockeram seems to either have found or have made up more absurd and entertaining words. also see: conjugalism
Lipoxeny (n.) The deserting of a host by the parasites that have been living on it.
Lipoxeny is a very serious and very technical botanical word. Under no circumstances should you ever use it in a manner that is not respectful of the English language and the biologists who worked tirelessly to fill it with words such as this.
Longueur (n.) A long or boring passage of writing.
A longueur is generally not what one wishes to find in a book, but that is not to say it cannot have its uses. I used to keep by my bed an exceptionally large and ferociously boring book about the history of canned foods, which had been paid for and authored by some council that promoted canned foods in the 1940s. The entire thing was one giant longueur, and
with its assistance it never took me more than five minutes to fall asleep.
M
AS I READ MY WAY THROUGH THE OED, I try to not allow myself to become distracted. This is a difficult task, for a number of reasons. The essential nature of consulting a dictionary is that it is distracting—it is inevitable that one word will remind me of another word I’ve been wondering about, or will awaken my curiosity as to whether this word and another share an etymological root. And whenever I come across a particularly well-turned phrase in a citation I have to stifle the urge to put the dictionary down and go off to look up whatever book or newspaper it came from so that I might read it in full.
There are other moments in reading the OED that cause distraction; and it is not a distraction that comes from a particularly lovely bit of a sonnet by Shakespeare, or from having my interest piqued by an etymology that seems at once wondrous and improbable. It is when I am distracted simply because the definition provided is so absurd that I have to wonder “What on earth were they thinking?” and I feel compelled to stop reading and investigate.
The first such absurdity I noticed was the entry for cannily. It is defined, in a single entry, as follows:
1. Sagaciously
2. Skilfully
3. Prudently
4. Cautiously
5. Slily
6. Gently
7. Softly
8. Comfortably
For good measure, an etc. is tacked on at the end of the definition. When reading such a well-respected dictionary my first impulse is to assume I must have missed something. But then I think on it for a while and realize that I simply have no idea what they mean. How can cannily mean prudently and comfortably at the same time? If softly and slily are both listed in the same definition of a word, should I then think of them as synonyms? And what purpose does etc. serve in a dictionary—is this James Murray’s way of saying “I’ve supplied you with the first eight meanings of this word; you can make up the rest on your own”?