Hapax legomenon – here for a good time, not a long time

Depending on your literary leanings, you might think that hapax legomenon sounds like one of the Unforgivable Curses from Harry Potter or Slartibartfast’s lesser-known brother who didn’t get to design any fjords. In reality, it’s a posh way of saying something quite simple. A hapax legomenon is a word (or phrase) that appears only once in a particular text, or even only once in the entire known body of a language. Once. That’s it. It shows up, does its thing, then vanishes without even leaving a helpful footnote saying ‘by the way, this means a hat’. Rude.

words with commitment issues

The term hapax legomenon comes from Greek and literally means ‘said once’. One of the most famous hapax legomena (that’s the plural) comes from the Hebrew Bible. The word ‘tachash’ appears only once (in Exodus 25:5) and refers to a type of animal skin used to cover the Tabernacle. And because it only turns up once, no one’s completely sure what animal it was. Badger? Dolphin? Unicorn? Scholars have been arguing about it for centuries because there’s nothing else to compare it with.

(Oh, and just in case you think I was making a joke with those animal suggestions, I actually wasn’t – proper academic interpretations range from a specific creature like a dugong, dolphin or seal due to links to Arabic words, to a unique one-horned, multi-coloured animal created miraculously for the Tabernacle, which then disappeared forever. Just like hapax legomena.)

Shakespeare is another rich source of one-hit wonders – he’s actually credited with hundreds of words that appear only once in his work, leaving scholars to argue for centuries about whether he invented them, spelled something else wrong or was just having an off day. Like ‘honorificabilitudinitatibus’ which appears only once, in ‘Love’s Labour’s Lost’, presumably because he couldn’t be bothered to try to spell it again. It’s a real Latin-based word (and also the longest word in the English language to strictly alternate between consonants and vowels, fact fans), and means something like ‘the state of being able to achieve honours’. Another example is ‘puking’, which turns up in ‘As You Like It’ and only ‘As You Like It’ (I guess he didn’t like it). Of course, ‘puking’ is very familiar now, but its first recorded use in English is Shakespeare’s, and it appears only that one time in his work.

In praise of words that couldn’t commit

Hapax legomena are linguistic butterflies – brief, baffling and often beautiful. They remind us that language isn’t neat or fully documented, and that sometimes a word pops into existence, waves politely then disappears forever.

Why do Americans call full stops ‘periods’?

When I came up with this idea, I thought it would probably be an easy answer. But once I started looking into it, it turned out that it’s not. And it involves Aristophanes. Sorry.

The details

The first thing to know is that the terms ‘full stop’ and ‘period’ didn’t always refer to exactly the same thing – or even to exactly the same kind of punctuation.

‘Period’ comes from the Greek word ‘periodos’ meaning ‘way around’ or ‘circuit’. Originally, it referred to a complete thought or sentence in writing – and, by extension, the mark that showed the end of that. While this might still look like a full stop to the untrained eye (i.e. everyone), you could actually put it in different positions to show different lengths of pause.

This (some might say overly complicated and possibly unnecessary) system was developed by Greek grammarian Aristophanes of Byzantium around the 3rd century BCE. He introduced three types of marks for different lengths of pause:

• high period (˙): at the top of the line, this showed a long pause or a complete thought, similar to a full stop

• middle period (·): slightly raised, this represented a medium-length pause

• low period (.): at the bottom, this represented the (you’ve guessed it) shortest pause.

To be fair to Aristophanes, this probably wasn’t just because he had too much time on his hands or he was envisaging torturing children in English classes for centuries to come. The different dots indicated the amount of breath someone would need to complete each fragment of text when reading it out loud – it actually wasn’t anything to do with grammar.

What happened next

This system continued through the Middle Ages in various forms. But by the 16th century, English printers and grammarians started to simplify punctuation (thank god). And while the high and middle periods were consigned to the punctuation retirement home, the low period mark became the main end-of-sentence marker in printed English. This gave rise to the name ‘full stop’, which is a very literal (and therefore unBritish) way of describing exactly what the punctuation mark does i.e. signal the end of a sentence.

I couldn’t really find an answer to why the Americans hung on to ‘period’ while we adopted ‘full stop’ (which kind of renders this whole post moot, but let’s crash on anyway). Some people on the internet said that it’s because Americans can be more prescriptivist than us Brits, but I couldn’t possibly comment on that. American English developed when ‘period’ was still common in British English, so it might just be that they didn’t change it because they didn’t want to.

Whatever the reason, by the 18th century, ‘period’ had become the standard term in American English for that punctuation mark. While in Britain, ‘full stop’ hung around instead. (Oh, and just to confuse things even more, English printers decided to call it a ‘full point’. But that’s another post for another time.)

Why every word matters

Have a look at the two bits of writing above. They have the same message – ‘Here’s something we’ve sent you and why.’ But only one of them makes you feel anything.

The first is from a Tesco plastic bag. It’s functional, but flat. The second is from Starling Bank and came with my new card. It’s still functional, but it’s also warm, human and actually nice to read.

Why am I telling you this?

To show you that good writing doesn’t have to be long, clever or fancy. But it does have to connect. Even in the smallest of places – like on a plastic bag or a bit of card you’ll throw away almost immediately.

This is where I can help. I’ll make sure every word your business puts into the world pulls its weight and connects with your customers, wherever it is and however long it lasts.

Contact me to find out more.

Did you infer that or imply it?

I was watching a detective-y murder-y mystery show the other day. One of the cops asked another one if he was inferring something or implying it. And that made me realise that I don’t know the difference and I’ve been using these two words interchangeably. Luckily the power of the internet means it’s easy to put this right. And the other bit of good news is that it’s not too hard to remember which one’s which – you just need to know who’s doing the doing.

The long answer

To imply means to suggest something without saying it directly. It’s when the friend you’re visiting looks at their watch and says ‘Oh, I didn’t realise how late it’s got,’ when what they actually mean is ‘Get out of my house because I want to go to bed’. Implying is all about suggesting something without saying it outright. And it’s always done by the person speaking (or writing, if you’re reading).

On the other hand, inferring is what a listener or reader does – they pick up on a hint and draw a conclusion. So when you hear ‘Oh, I didn’t realise how late it’s got’ and think, ‘Oh crap, I’ve outstayed my welcome,’ you’re inferring.

The short answer

• Imply = giving a hint.

• Infer = getting the hint.

One is about putting the message out there – the other one is about figuring it out.

A bit of word history

Both ‘imply’ and ‘infer’ have Latin roots. ‘Imply’ comes from ‘implicare’, meaning ‘to entwine’ or ‘to involve’ – because it’s all about weaving ideas together subtly. ‘Infer’, on the other hand, comes from ‘inferre’, meaning ‘to bring in’ or ‘to deduce’. That’s because it’s about bringing meaning out of what’s been said.

Does it matter?

Obviously, it’s not the end of the world if you get these the wrong way round. But it could confuse someone. For example, ‘She inferred I had to leave’ and ‘She implied I had to leave’ mean completely different things. So it’s worth making sure you’re using the right one.

The Great Vowel Shift AKA why English is a stupid, stupid language

If you’ve ever wondered why ‘though’ and ‘cough’ are spelled the same but pronounced completely differently, you’re not alone. Why does English spelling have so many quirks/really effing stupid things that are hard to remember? The answer lies in a dramatic event that happened a few hundred years ago: the Great Vowel Shift. Yes, that’s a thing. A vowel shift. Because English, at some point, decided it was too easy.

What even is a Great Vowel Shift?

A vowel

The Great Vowel Shift was a major linguistic event that took place in English between the 15th and 18th centuries. And it dramatically altered the way we pronounced long vowels. What the hell’s a long vowel, I hear you ask? The opposite of a short vowel, obvs. Sorry. A long vowel is one that’s pronounced the same way as the letter’s name in the alphabet, like ‘a’ in ‘cake’ or ‘i’ in ‘bike’. A short vowel has a more clipped sound, like the ‘a’ in ‘cat’ or the ‘e’ in ‘bed’.

It doesn’t seem like much of a distinction, I know. And that’s because of the Great Vowel Shift. Before it, in Middle English we held long vowels for longer when we spoke. For example, we pronounced the word ‘bite’ with a long ‘i’, like ‘beet’. But then some bright sparks started shifting vowels upwards in their mouths. This is called ‘raising’ in linguistics. It happens when the tongue is positioned higher in the mouth during the pronunciation of a vowel.

The problem is that no one bothered to tell our spelling about this. So the way many of our words are spelled today reflects how they used to sound before the Shift. That’s why words like ‘cough’ and ‘through’ look like they should rhyme but sound like they come from completely different universes.

If you think things are bad now, imagine what it was like for anyone trying to speak and spell English in the 1500s. One day ‘boot’ rhymes with ‘foot’, then the next it doesn’t any more. WHAT. THE. FUCK.

But why though?

The extremely informative answer is that no one really knows. Theories range from the influence of French after the Norman Conquest (thanks a lot, France) to social mobility and dialect mixing, particularly after the Black Death and the War of the Roses. Or it might just have been down to people wanting to sound fancier (like saying ‘myself’ when you mean ‘me’ today, GRRRR). Whatever happened, it’s like English made a bet with itself on how hard it could make things for future generations. Spoiler: it won.

The good news is that next time you hear someone complain about English spelling, you can smugly and knowledgably say ‘Well actually, that’s down to the Great Vowel Shift’. You’re welcome.

Pretending to be single

Now, I’m a fully paid-up member of the (sadly, still only theoretical) grammar pedantry brigade. But even though it’s technically correct, you’ll never catch me saying ‘the data are compelling’ – even though ‘data’ is (sorry, are) plural, not singular, making this a flagrant case of verb-subject disagreement. So why do I do this? Because (a) I don’t have any data (compelling or otherwise), and (b) I would sound like a weirdo.

Data isn’t alone in being treated as singular when it’s actually plural. Here are six other words that are technically plural, but that we treat as singular. I’ll leave it up to you as to whether you want to use them correctly, or risk sounding like a dickhead.

(Oh, and the singular version of ‘data’ is ‘datum’, just in case you didn’t know that.)

Agenda

If you find yourself in a meeting and someone you dislike suggests adding something to the next agenda, you can tell them that actually it should be added to the next agendum. Just make sure they don’t have the power to sack you.

Graffiti

Yum

That latest Banksy masterpiece that appeared overnight? It’s a graffito.

‘Graffito’ comes from an Italian verb ’graffiare’, which means ‘to scratch’. And that comes from a Latin word ‘graphium’, meaning ‘a stylus’ or ‘a writing tool’.

Panini

Yep, the sandwich, usually made from ciabatta, so posh it requires its own press. The singular version is actually ‘panino’. So you’re technically asking for multiple sandwiches if you request panini. Actually, that’s probably no bad thing.

‘Panino’ is a diminutive of ‘pane’ meaning ‘bread’. A diminutive is a word or form that conveys a smaller, shorter or more affectionate version of something. I definitely feel affectionate about ciabatta-based sandwiches.

Bacteria

This one’s not that obscure, but I think most of us tend to use ‘bacteria’ when we mean one of the buggers, rather than the correct ‘bacterium’. ‘Bacteria’ has (or rather, have) been around since the late 19th century. The word, not the things, I mean – some of the earliest evidence of life on Earth is bacteria. In fact, the earliest known bacteria are believed to date back to about 3.5 to 3.7 billion years ago. So quite a long time then.

A 100-sided Zocchihedron (plural: Zocchihedra) – picture from Wikipedia.

Dice

Like ‘bacteria’/’bacterium’, I think most of us know that die is the singular version of dice, but still choose not to use it. Because I can’t think of anything else to say about that, instead I’m going to tell you about the Zocchihedron, which is a 100-sided dice/die. That means it’s basically a sphere. It was created by a man called Lou Zocchi in 1985, who presumably has much too much time on his hands.

Scampi

If you have one piece of scampi, it’s a scampo. WHAT!

Okay, this one is a bit of a cheat, because scampi is something different in Italy, which is where this distinction comes from. In the UK, scampi is/are breaded or battered pieces of langoustine (also called Dublin Bay prawn or Norway lobster), which are small lobsters found in the waters around the British Isles. Our scampi are usually battered, come with chips and tartar sauce, and go lovely with a lager in the pub. In Italy and other Mediterranean countries, ‘scampi’ is a bit posher. The word refers to the Norway lobster or langoustine itself, which is usually prepared in a garlic butter sauce, and I imagine pairs beautifully with a chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio, rather than a pint of Stella.

Because of this, you probably shouldn’t correct any bar staff if you’re eating battered scampi in a pub somewhere. But feel free to do it if you’re having the posh version. Maybe wait til after you’ve got the food though.

Ice, ice baby

A very long time ago (2015, to be specific), I had a holiday in Iceland. And while I was there I learnt three things.

Iceland: it’s flippin’ cold

1. It’s very expensive.

2. There are hardly any trees (there’s a joke in Iceland that goes ‘What should you do if you get lost in a forest in Iceland? Stand up’).

3. When Icelanders want to add a new word to their language, for example, for a new technology, they don’t just adopt the English word as a lot of languages do (called ‘loanwords’). They create a new word (or neologism) by using or combining existing ones from Old Icelandic and Old Norse roots. And they do that in a super-organised way.

It’s of course number 3 that we’re going to be talking about today (as this is a blog about words, not trees or money).

Wait, why Don’t They just use the English version?

Today, only around 330,000 people speak Icelandic, a unique language derived from Old Norse (Old Norse is a Scandinavian language spoken during and before the Viking age, and until the 15th century). Iceland wants to keep their language pure and distinctive, while also making sure it evolves in line with the modern world. That’s why they create their own words, rather than just using our boring old versions.

Because of this, the Icelandic language has been relatively unchanged for centuries. That means Icelanders can still read the original sagas – a collection of medieval prose narratives written in Old Norse over 800 years ago – with very little difficulty. To put that into perspective, Chaucer wrote ‘The Canterbury Tales’ about 640 years ago. And I definitely couldn’t read that with very little difficulty (‘Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote/The droghte of March hath perced to the roote’. WTF, Geoff?).

How do ICELANDERS coin new words?

It all starts with the Árni Magnússon Institute for Icelandic Studies. It’s their job to preserve and develop the Icelandic language, and come up with new words when needed. So when a new concept or technology appears that they need a term for, they’ll either:

• combine existing Icelandic words to create a new term (called ‘compounding’)

• translate parts of the foreign word directly into Icelandic (called ‘calques’)

• revive old archaic or obsolete words and give them a new meaning so they work in contemporary contexts.

The Institute also takes suggestions and feedback from specialists and from the public to make sure that any new words they come up with are both linguistically appropriate, and will work in real life.

Once the committee has approved a new term, they’ll use official channels, media, educational institutions, etc., to get it out to the public.

Icelandic neologisms in action

Here are some examples of new Icelandic words, along with a bit of explanation about how they were formed.

• Tölva for computer – a combination of ‘tala’ meaning ‘number, and ‘völva’ (stop it) meaning ‘prophetess’ or ‘seeress’. This combines the concept of numbers with a sense of mystical insight or prediction, showing the computational power of computers (also, how mystified I am when mine doesn’t do what I want it to).

• Sími for telephone – this is an old Icelandic word for ‘thread’ or ‘wire’ which was revived to describe phones. The word for mobile phone is ‘farsími’, which adds ‘far’ meaning ‘travel’ or ‘journey’ to ‘sími’.

• Geimfar for astronaut – from ‘geim’ meaning ‘space’ and ‘far’ for ‘traveller’. So it literally means ‘space traveller’.

• Þyrla for helicopter – derived from ‘þyrill’ which means ‘whirlwind’.

• Sjónvarp for television – from ‘sjón’ meaning ‘vision’ and ‘varp’ meaning ‘casting’ or ‘projection’. ‘I’m off to do some vision casting’ sounds SO much better than ‘I’m going to watch telly’, doesn’t it?

• Rafmagn for electricity – from ‘raf’ meaning ‘amber’ (this is because amber was historically associated with static electricity) and ‘magn’ meaning ‘power’ or ‘force’.

There you have it. Before I sign off though, here are a few more Iceland facts for you:

• over 90% of Icelandic homes are heated with geothermal energy, making it one of the most environmentally friendly countries in the world when it comes to producing energy

Drinking a Viking ale in Iceland (although it could be anywhere, frankly)

• Iceland is on the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, where the Eurasian and North American tectonic plates meet. For that reason it’s home to about 130 volcanoes, several of which are still active. The most well known is probably Eyjafjallajökull, which became the bane of every newsreader’s career after it erupted and caused havoc in 2010 (it’s pronounced ‘EY-ya-fyat-la-YO-kuhtl’, apparently)

• Iceland is one of the few countries in the world without a standing army (or a sitting-down army BOOM BOOM)

• Icelandic horses are a unique breed known for their small size, their strength and their ability to perform five gaits, including the tölt, a smooth, four-beat lateral gait (I don’t know what any of that means or why it’s good, sorry). To stop disease, it’s illegal to import horses to Iceland. And, if a horse leaves the country, it can’t ever come back. Aw. Also, more importantly, I’m sure someone in Iceland told us that Icelandic horses have a great sense of direction and can carry their blind-drunk owners home from the pub without any human intervention (apart from getting on the horse, obvs) **immediately googles how to buy an Icelandic horse**

• the Althingi, Iceland’s national parliament, is one of the oldest in the world. It was established in 930 AD at Þingvellir (went there! It was bloody freezing)

• many Icelanders believe in the ‘huldufólk’ (‘hidden people’) AKA elves. So much so that some road-construction projects have been changed to avoid disturbing these mythical (or are they…?) creatures’ habitats. When my sister and I were in Reykjavik, we visited the Icelandic Phallological Museum, which boasts the world’s largest display of penises, including an elf’s. Sadly, like Icelandic elves and trolls themselves, it’s invisible.

Turning Japanese*

There are lots of lovely foreign words which don’t have an English equivalent (I already wrote a post about this – my favourite is baggerspion, which is the desire to peek into a boarded-up building site). But it turns out that Japanese is particularly prolific when it comes to creating words to describe very specific feelings or activities. One of the better known ones is ‘suzushii men’, which is used to describe the cool side of the pillow when you turn it over.

Here are seven more lovely Japanese words with no English equivalent.

1. Tsundoku (積ん読)

The act of buying books then letting them pile up without reading them.

I’m so guilty of this – there are eight on my bedside table alone.

2. Irusu (居留守)

When you pretend to be out when someone’s at the door or calling you on the phone.

I do this every single day.

3. Wasuremono (忘れ物)

This refers to things you’ve forgotten or left behind, like when you stand up on a train and your phone falls off your lap and you don’t notice. Obviously we just say ‘lost stuff’ of ‘FFS’ in English, but wasuremono adds an extra sense of carelessness or absent-mindedness.

This is also me. Maybe I actually am Japanese…?

4. Shinrinyoku (森林浴)

Taking in the forest atmosphere. This one’s all about when you walk through woods and use all five senses to immerse yourself in nature. It’s supposed to be very relaxing and good for the soul.

This is another one I do every day, although picking up my dog’s poo while screaming his name and sprinting after him as he runs off after yet another squirrel isn’t particularly relaxing…

5. Mono no aware (物の哀れ)

A term for a sensitivity to the transience and impermanence of life and the world around us. This one’s deeply rooted in Japanese culture and aesthetics, particularly in literature, art and philosophy. It’s all about embracing the fragility and beauty of life, and finding meaning and depth in the transient nature of existence.

I can’t think of a silly joke to make about that one, so I won’t.

6. Komorebi (木漏れ日)

We’re back in the woods again. This word describes the dappled sunlight that dances and flickers on the ground beneath a canopy of branches and leaves. Lovely, right?

‘Leave it, Gus, LEAVE IT!’

7. Kuidaore (食い倒れ)

To eat oneself into bankruptcy. The concept of kuidaore isn’t just about stuffing your face – it’s also about enjoying food with abandon, even if it means you won’t have any money left for rent or bills, or anything else. Just your average trip to Tescos at the moment, then.

*This song apparently has a very rude meaning, which I’ll leave to your imagination**.

**Okay, I won’t. It’s supposedly about wanking.

For the sake of Auld Lang what?

A (late, sorry) happy new year. I’m sure lots of us drunkenly sang ‘Auld Lang Syne’ to each other at some point on New Year’s Eve/Day – although I didn’t as I was on the sofa with a big old piece of cake. If you did, well done you. But did you understand what you were actually singing about? If not, read on.

Auld Lang Syne (not ‘Auld Lang’s Eyne’ which is what I’ve always sung) is a Scottish phrase that’s usually translated as ‘old long since’ or ‘days gone by’. It’s from a poem by Scottish poet Robert/Rabbie Burns, although it actually comes from a much older Scottish folk song. The song reflects on the passage of time, the importance of remembering old friends and experiences, and preserving connections, even though lots of things have changed as the year’s gone by.

The chorus (i.e. the ‘Auld Lang Syne bit) is a call to remember and honour the past, to cherish your friendships and a toast to the bonds that connect us all over time. Nice, right?

As I said, Auld Lang Syne is usually sung as we bid farewell to the old year at the stroke of midnight on NYE. Because of that lovely meaning I talked about about it’s also often sung at funerals, graduations and other occasions which involve an ending or farewell. It was also famously sung by members of the European Parliament when the Brexit withdrawal agreement was passed, ending the UK’s membership of the UK.

What put the box into Boxing Day?

Despite the fact that I’ve had more Christmases on this planet than I care to admit (at least 29), I’ve never really thought about why Boxing Day is called Boxing Day. Christmas Eve – makes sense. Christmas Day – obvious. Boxing Day – say what?

I’ve done a bit of research, and it turns out there are a couple of theories as to where the box comes from. And I’m pleased to say that both are to do with the cardboard (or wood) kind of box, not the punching-people-in-the-face type. Theory 1 takes us back to the Victorian day (that’s the 1800s), when the rich used to give Christmas gifts to the poor. The day after Christmas Day (I’m not sure what they called it before it became Boxing Day – actually, probably just ‘26 December’) was traditionally a day off for servants, and also when they got those Christmas boxes from their masters. Hence, Boxing Day.

The Stoning of St Stephen. Not the fun kind of stoned either

Theory number 2 is a bit older, and takes us back to medieval times. This one relates to the collection box in churches. These were opened up on Christmas Day, and divvied out to the deserving the following day. Hence, again (I double-henced you, sorry), Boxing Day.

Boxing Day is called Boxing Day here (obviously) and in lots of other countries that were once part of the British Empire. But what does everyone else call it? Well, in some parts of Europe, including (deep breath) Spain, the Czech Republic, Germany, Austria, Hungary, the Netherlands, Italy, Poland, Slovakia, Croatia, Denmark, Finland, Sweden, Belgium, Norway and Ireland, the 26 December is called St Stephen’s Day.

St Stephen has the dubious honour of being the first martyr of Christianity, having been stoned to death in 36AD, poor bugger. And in Wales, his feast day used to be celebrated by bleeding livestock, and beating late risers and female (of course) servants with holly branches, all in the name of good luck. Happy Christmas!