ur-text

Like lots of previous words of the week, I heard this on Kermode & Mayo’s Take, in reference to new horror film ‘Substance’ (which sounds awesome). An ur-text is the original or earliest version of a text, the foundation that later versions are based on. The term’s often used in literature, history and religious studies to describe a document that’s thought to be the source of all later editions, translations or interpretations. The concept of an ur-text is important in academic circles, because seeing the original can help us understand how ideas or stories have evolved over time.

Now, etymology. The ‘text’ bit of ‘ur-text’ is (hopefully) obvious. But what about the ‘ur’? Well, it’s a German prefix meaning ‘original’ or ‘primitive’. So ‘ur-text’ literally means ‘original text’. Why is it German? Because German literary theory, especially in the 19th and 20th centuries, has had a significant impact on the study of texts. For example, it’s influenced concepts like authenticity, interpretation and textual analysis, and scholars like Wolfgang Iser and Hans-Georg Gadamer have increased the term’s popularity in literary criticism. It’s also a concise way to refer to a complex idea which might need a longer explanation in English (although I think ‘OG text’ would work just as well, but maybe that’s why I’m not a literary academic).

A good example of an ur-text is Shakespeare’s First Folio (1623), the first collected edition of his works. The First Folio contains 36 plays, divided into three categories: comedies, histories and tragedies. It includes iconic works like Hamlet, Macbeth, Romeo and Juliet, A Midsummer Night’s Dream and Othello. Some plays, like The Tempest and Twelfth Night, were published for the first time in the Folio. Without it, many of Shakespeare’s works might have been lost, and generations of schoolkids would have nothing to moan about.

The First Folio was compiled by two of Shakespeare’s BFFs and fellow actors, John Heminges and Henry Condell. They wanted to preserve his work for future generations as many of the plays hadn’t been formally published, and only existed in scripts or incomplete versions. Well done, John and Hazza.

Around 750 copies of The First Folio were originally printed, and there are about 235 in existence today, most of which are in libraries and museums around the world. One copy of The First Folio sold for $9.98 million at auction in 2020. It was bought by Paul Allen, co-founder of Microsoft, and holds the record for the most expensive literary work sold at auction.

quiddity

The most popular sport in the wizarding world, it’s played on broomsticks, and involves each team… I jest, of course. Quiddity is a philosophical concept that describes the thing that makes something what it is – its essence. So you could write: ‘Emma’s weekly posts capture the quiddity of complicated words in straightfoward prose.’ Oh really? How kind of you to say, thank you so much.

It’s nothing to do with HP. But there are no good pictures for ‘essence’.

Now, my two major word-of-the-week sources (which are Wikipedia and Merriam-Webster), disagree on the meaning of quiddity. The one above is Merriam-Webster’s definition, which is the one I’m going with because it’s easiest to understand. But according to Wikipedia, quiddity is a bit more complicated, and describes the properties that a particular thing shares with others of its kind. This makes it the opposite of something called ‘haecceity’ or ‘thisness’ (which apparently is an actual word) i.e. a positive characteristic of an individual that causes it to be this individual, and no other. See why I’m going with the first one?

Quiddity comes from a Latin word, ‘quidditas’. That’s a translation of a Greek phrase ‘to ti en einai’ , meaning ‘the what it was to be’, which sounds like something a drunk person would say.

Quiddity can also refer to a small and usually trivial criticism or complaint, or to a quirk or eccentricity in someone's behaviour or personality. Hamlet uses it in this way in, well, ‘Hamlet’ in his graveside speech, referring to a lawyer: ‘Where be his quiddities now, his quillets, his cases, his tenures.’

That’s not a very fun note to end on, so here’s a quidditch joke:

Why should you never have sex with a wizard?

Because you might catch Hogwarts, and they never stop quidditching.

(I didn’t say it was a good joke.)

eavesdrop

As you’ll no doubt already know, to eavesdrop is to listen in to someone else’s convo without them knowing. But have you ever wondered what it has to do with ‘eaves’ and/or dropping stuff? Well, luckily I’m here to tell you, whether you want me to or not.

So, back in the day, ‘eavesdrop’ didn’t actually have anything to do with listening. It was actually much more literal, and referred to the water that fell from the eaves of a building (i.e. the edges of a roof which overhang the walls). The meaning then changed to refer to the ground where that water fell. In fact, there was an ancient law that meant when you were building your house you had to leave at least two feet between the edge of your eaves and your neighbour’s boundary. This was to make sure that any water dripping from your eaves stayed on your own land, thank you very much. There was even a legal term called ‘right of drip’ which entitled someone’s eaves to drip on their neighbour’s land (which sounds like a euphemism but isn’t). Eventually ‘eavesdrop’ morphed into a word describing people hanging around in that space under the eaves, listening in to conversations they shouldn’t be.

The original word ‘eavesdrop’ comes from an Old English word which goes all the way back to the ninth century. It has the fantastic spelling of ‘yfesdrype’ (and if you know how to pronounce that, will you marry me?).

Eavesdropping is a central plot point in a lot of well-known novels and stories. Here are some examples (SPOILER ALERTS):

A painting of some cardinals eavesdropping in the Vatican, by Henri Adolphe Laissement (that one in purple by the door is definitely telling the others to shut the fuck up).

• the entire plot of What Maisie Knew by Henry James (which I wrote an essay on at university but never actually read) revolves around a child, the eponymous Maisie, overhearing various salacious details of her divorced parents’ love lives (I think – like I said, I never actually finished it)

• Polonius gets stabbed in the arras while eavesdropping on Hamlet in, you’ve guessed it, Hamlet

• the unending misery that is Atonement by Ian McEwan is all kicked off by a child overhearing what she thinks is a rape

• all of Pride and Prejudice, and also Bridget Jones’ Diary, is centred on Lizzy Bennet/Bridget overhearing Colin Firth slagging her off.