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

by Ammon Shea

  Most of the major American dictionary publishers today put out some form of dictionary they call “Webster’s,” and some of them are quite good. However, back in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries an enormous number of what could charitably be called fake Webster’s were floating around. My favorite one is a small volume from 1940 that was promulgated (I don’t want to say published) by the Standard Oil Company. It appears to have been intended to be either sold or given away for free at gas stations. This is not the kind of dictionary one should read.

  Stay away from grade school dictionaries, dictionaries for students learning English as a second language, and encyclopedic dictionaries that are full of extraneous information like a list of all the past vice presidents of the United States or the average rainfall in Bolivia. Do not buy any dictionary that has been printed on newsprint.

  Funk and Wagnalls dictionaries are great, and so are Century dictionaries. Nose around in a used bookstore and you’ll almost certainly find a nice old Random House or a decent Thorndike Barnhart.

  Or just get yourself a set of the OED. It takes up less room than a television set and is infinitely more useful. Start looking up words for which you already know the meaning, and read how these words have been used over the ages. Start troving for words you’ve never heard of, one at a time. Start reading about words that you’ll never need to know, just because sometimes it’s nice to know something superfluous.

  And don’t be surprised if you find that once you start leafing through the pages of this dictionary it suddenly grabs hold and it is unclear whether it is the book that won’t let go of you, or you who won’t let go of the book.

  Xanthodontous (adj.) Having teeth that are yellow, as do some rodents.

  If you are referring to someone as having yellow teeth, the chances that you are paying him or her a compliment seem pretty slim, so you might as well get more bang for your buck and use this fine word, which also implies the person shares other rodentlike characteristics.

  Xenium (n.) A gift given to a guest.

  It is a very delicate balance to strike, this business of giving a gift to someone you do not want to offend and yet whom you also do not want to encourage to stick around too long. Unless you are one of those unbalanced individuals who actually enjoys having company, I would recommend giving a xenium such as a pair of used socks, something that says “Here is a gift—please go away.”

  Xenogenesis (n.) Offspring that does not resemble its parents.

  The reason God invented paternity suits.

  also see: killcrop

  Xerostomia (n.) A dryness of the mouth caused by insufficient production of saliva.

  A word that makes my mouth dry just thinking of it. Very few people go around thinking to themselves, “I wish I had a lot more spit in my mouth,” which is probably why you’ve never heard of this condition.

  Y

  MUCH ABOUT THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE we seem to find impossible to agree on. Can we use hopefully as a sentential adverb, is irregardless a word or not, and is it finally okay to go ahead and split that damn infinitive? In some ways these ongoing arguments are not terribly surprising—people like to feel that they are an authority on something, and they like to argue—and if you set your mind to it you can continue arguing in a semiauthoritative way about these aspects of the language for a very long time. But on a deeper level we also find it difficult to get people to agree on even some basic quantitative aspects of English—such as how many words are in it, or how many words the average person knows.

  The general view of how many words are in the English language ranges from several hundred thousand to several million. If scientific terminology is included, the number swells to several million. If you add or exclude archaic words, or slang terms, the number goes up or down accordingly. Given that there is no real way of getting everyone to agree on what the parameters are for such a word count, there can be no way to agree on how many of them we have.

  Similarly, there is no real consensus on how many words an average speaker of the English language knows. Rather than trying to ratchet up my personal word count and fancify my vocabulary for cocktail parties, I read the OED so that I might know what the words are for the things in the world that I had always thought to be unnamed. And perhaps if I know there is a word for something (such as the smell of newly fallen rain) I will stop and pay more attention to it.

  If you have occasion and reason to use these words, so much the better. But even if you do not, there should be no reason why you cannot carry them with you and enjoy them nonetheless.

  Yepsen (n.) The amount that can be held in two hands cupped together; also, the two cupped hands themselves.

  A measurement that has never really caught on like the teaspoon, the yepsen also falls firmly within the category of things for which you never thought there was a word—at least, not until some interfering busybody like me came along and told you what it was.

  Yesterneve (n.) Yesterday evening.

  There are a number of words for describing time, well beyond simply saying today, tomorrow, or yesterday.

  Hesternal—of or relating to yesterday.

  Nudiustertian—of or relating to the day before yesterday.

  Overmorrow—of or relating to the day after tomorrow.

  Postriduan—done on the following day.

  Yestermorn—yesterday morning.

  Yuky (adj.) Itchy; also, itching with curiosity.

  A Scottish and northern English dialectical word with a world of applications.

  Z

  I USED TO ENJOY FISHING. But I hated catching fish, so I would take great care to ensure this wouldn’t occur, by baiting the hook with nothing and fishing in places where I was fairly certain I would have no accidental success. My reasoning was that sitting on a dock or a riverbank, smelling the water and listening to its sounds, was a perfectly splendid way to spend a few hours—why would I want to ruin it by hooking and reeling in a fish?

  In its own peculiar way, the OED has been my fishing pole, the means by which I while away a great deal of time in seclusion and accomplish nothing concrete. I have no intention of using these words I have found; their enjoyment comes primarily from simply finding them and recognizing that they exist.

  I have been trying to not think about it, but once I begin to read Z, it becomes inescapably clear that the end of my project is fast approaching. I’ve spent months and months curled up in the corner of this room, shut away from sunlight, society, and all other such irritants. Soon I will not have the excuse of reading to fall back on. The thought that greets me every morning now as I approach the end of this twentieth volume of the OED is “What will I read next?” This is followed by a curious mixture of elation and depression.

  In an attempt to forestall the gloom, I’ve been thinking about what things I’ve learned from reading it. I am not thinking so much of what specific bits of information I’ve managed to retain, but rather about the life lessons that this yearlong experience has given me. The list I began to form is not terribly encouraging.

  I did not wear glasses when I began reading the OED. Over the course of the past year my eyesight has deteriorated significantly, and the only benefit I can see in this is that it makes my physical decline in other areas seem minor in comparison. My back hurts much more than when I was a furniture mover, and my neck will periodically seize up with a blossoming pain. I’ve not been crippled by reading, but I’m certainly not as fit as I was before I spent twelve months confined to a chair.

  I’ve also become seized with the fear that the words I use, either in speech or writing, actually mean something different from what I think they do, or have a secondary or tertiary meaning that I do not intend to express. I now spend an inordinate amount of time checking and rechecking the words I use. This would be perfectly acceptable were I in the process of writing a dissertation or a formal letter, but when I do it while writing a grocery list or a note to Alix to remind her of something it seems a bit s
illy. I also speak considerably more slowly, either because I’m looking for just the right word (that I now know exists somewhere out there in my memory) or because I am easily confused by all the newfound choices I have.

  I have a greatly increased tolerance for coffee. I’ve always been a coffee drinker, but I’ve never had the time, inclination, or need to truly devote myself to it the way I have over the past year. I am uncertain whether or not this is a benefit. On the one hand, it has brought me comfort and pleasure. On the other hand, my teeth are browning rapidly.

  In a more positive vein, I’ve also learned that any headache, no matter how severe it is, will eventually go away. I’ve learned that I will not lose my mind if I do nothing but sit in a chair ten hours a day, for an entire year. I’ve learned that no matter how large a book is, if I just keep reading sooner or later I will finish it.

  I’ve gained a renewed appreciation for just how glorious the English language can be. I have a greater respect for lexicographers in general, and for the ones who worked on the OED in particular. I’ve gained a much greater understanding of how much I do not know.

  I’ve also fulfilled a wish from childhood: to spend my days simply reading. I’ve often wondered what it would be like to have nothing else to do—would the activity lose its appeal and become in some way tainted by its quotidian drudgery? For me it has not.

  I wish I could paint a picture of this experience as more of a struggle, one that threatened to land me in an insane asylum, or poised to jump off a bridge, the pages of the dictionary fluttering in my wake as I hurtled toward the menacing water. The truth is: it has been downright enjoyable.

  Zabernism (n.) The misuse of military authority; bullying or aggression.

  According to the OED, this eternally germane word comes from an unfortunate episode that occurred in 1912, in the village of Zabern, in Alsace, during which a German officer purportedly shot a cobbler who smiled at him. Which pretty much brings us to the world today.

  Zoilus (n.) An envious critic.

  Taken from the name of a Greek critic (fourth century BCE) who had a tremendous dislike for Homer. Saint Augustine also disliked reading Homer, but he at least had the excuse of finding the Greek language difficult. Critics, beware: you’re of course entitled to your opinions, but if fate turns its back on you, your name might be forever linked with the notion of a carping and pathetic nitpicker.

  Zugzwang (n.) A disagreeable position in which a chess player is obliged to move but cannot do so without disadvantage.

  Zugzwang is a chess term, but it would seem to have wide applicability in everyday life. In fact, it seems odd that there’s no other word for this. Such are the surprises of the OED: there was enough need to coin a word like unbepissed, but not one to describe the fairly common experience of being in an untenable position and needing to make a decision. also see: pessimum

  Zyxt (v.) To see.

  There is nothing terribly interesting about zyxt. It is the second-person singular indicative present form of the verb “to see” in the Kentish dialect and has obviously not been in common use for some time. Given that in the new online edition it has been stripped of its headword status and moved to the middle of a heap of variant spellings of see, it seems unlikely that it will ever return to vogue. I do not think I will ever use it in conversation, and it is highly doubtful I will ever hear it used. However, it will always be a word I remember fondly, as it is the very last word defined in the Oxford English Dictionary .

  Excursus

  (Bibliography)

  I FINISHED READING THE OED at 2:17 p.m. on July 18, 2007. My initial reaction was incredulity mixed with glee, followed by a surprising sense of accomplishment. Why was this surprising? Because I still felt that I did not actually do anything concrete. All I did was sit down and read for a year, admittedly in a fairly persistent and ferocious fashion. Whether deserved or not, I got up and danced a small jig of triumph, startling some mice who had been creeping toward the sandwich in my backpack.

  After I finished dancing my jig I sat there and debated whether or not I want to read the bibliography. I told myself that it is not really part of the dictionary, and that furthermore, I’d already read all the names of the authors and their books as I went through the dictionary. And it is only a partial bibliography. That night over dinner I told Alix that I was finished reading. She asked, “How was the bibliography?”

  I replied in as offhand a way as I could manage that I’d decided not to read it. She gave me that steady look that is so quietly indicative of disapproval and after a moment said, “You are going to say that you read the whole OED and you are not going to read the bibliography?” The next day I began reading again.

  Immediately I realized that I should have read the bibliography before reading Z, as this was not quite the exultant and dramatic manner of finishing this project that I had envisioned. It is almost impossible to read, dull on such a monumental level that I had immense trouble getting through even a few pages at a time. The bibliography has no overt personality. It was about as exciting as reading the family tree of someone you do not know or care about at all.

  The bibliography has no definitions to marvel at, no etymologies to leave me scratching my head in either wonderment or bafflement, no occasional editorial clucking to make me laugh. It contains none of the sparkle or wit, or the temperamental oddities, that make up the previous twenty-one-thousand-odd pages. It is really nothing but a mildly interesting and very long list, and the more I tried to read through it the more it became clear that there was indeed only one important conclusion it could impart to me.

  I missed reading the OED.

  This was certainly not the conclusion I had expected. I’d thought that perhaps I would fling down the twentieth volume with a whoop and run off to bury myself in a month’s worth of airport novels (or railway novels, as their nineteenth-century critics called them).

  I had not planned for this. In fact, as I read through I put together a far greater list of words than the one I have included in this book. I wrote down all the words that end in -ee and -ix. I kept tabs on all the words that mean “hiding in a corner” or “full of sand.” I wrote down every word I wished I’d known at some point in the past or hoped that I’d have occasion to want to know in the future. And as I wrote them all down, I thought to myself, “Now I will never have to read the OED again.” This, of course, was absurd. I didn’t have to read the OED in the first place; I read it because I wanted to, and furthermore, I had a wonderful time doing so. It was the most engrossing and enjoyable book I’ve ever read.

  I miss waking up every morning before my alarm goes off, so excited to get up and begin reading that even in sleep I could not stop thinking about words. I miss finding answers to questions that I’ve had for years, and then forgetting the answers, and then finding them again. I miss the reading headaches. I miss the growing sense of excitement that arises from reading through a prefix, a letter, an alphabet; the excitement that grows as the pages remaining diminish. I miss coming up to the end of each volume.

  And that’s the problem—I’ve already read it, and I know how the story ends.

  So I find myself faced with the question of what to read next. Should I try to learn Dutch so that I might begin reading through the forty-odd-volume dictionary they’re working on in the Netherlands? I’m not terribly interested in this. Should I read the New York Times from its inception to the present, or begin reading phone books? This likewise does not resonate with me: as absurd as it was to read the OED, it was still an absurdity with a purpose, and not just reading for reading’s sake.

  There is really only one book I can think of that I have an enormous and palpable desire to read, and it is the one I just finished. I’m aware some people might think that the only thing more odd than reading the OED is to read it twice, and if this is so then I will be quite happily odd.

  I’ve decided I will start reading again, and I’ll start at A. But this time I’ll be reading with no
deadline. Anytime I come across something that catches my interest I will allow myself the leisure to stop and go investigate it for as long as I like. When I see a word I remember as being defined differently elsewhere, I’ll go over to my other dictionaries and spend the rest of the day looking through them. When I get a headache I’ll go take a walk and come back to the dictionary later in the evening. I’ll listen to music while I read, and if the music is too distracting I’ll pause in the reading and listen to the music until the words on the page in front of me beckon and become themselves too distracting to focus on the music.

  So much of my life to date has been defined by reading books, and then looking for more books to read once I’ve finished. And in an epiphanic sort of way I’ve now realized that all the books I’ve read before have been but a preamble to this one glorious book I’ve just finished.

  As I read through it again I will dawdle and browse, skip ahead and back, and perhaps even put it down every once in a while. The OED serves as a conduit to almost the entirety of great literature, and to a sizable portion of not-so-great literature as well. When I find a citation from Shakespeare or Urquhart that piques my fancy I might momentarily put the OED back on the shelf and go off to read the book cited. But it is more likely I will not do this, and instead will admire that citation from afar, from within the doorway of my dictionary.

  It is only after I finished reading the OED that I fully realized why I had begun the project in the first place. I had hoped that within its pages I would find everything I had ever looked for in a novel: joy and sorrow, laughter and frustration, and the excitement and contentment that is unique to great storytelling. The OED exceeded all of these hopes and expectations. It is the greatest story I’ve ever read.