sarcophagus

Tis the season for ghosties and ghoulies and long-leggedy beasties, with Halloween (or Hallowe’en if we’re being grammatically correct) just around the corner. So the word of the week is also jumping on the spooky bandwagon with ‘sarcophagus’.

A sarcophagus is a type of stone container or coffin, usually made of limestone, marble or something similar. They were particularly popular in ancient Egypt as people believed that bodies should be preserved, and sarcophagi were good protection for those mummified remains.

The word itself actually has Greek origins. It comes from ‘sarx’ (σάρξ) meaning ‘flesh’, and ‘phagein’ meaning ‘to eat’ or ‘to consume’. So sarcophagus actually translates as ‘flesh eating’. Yum. Why? Well, the term was originally used to refer to a particular type of limestone that was believed to decompose or consume the flesh of the deceased more quickly. And unlike the Egyptians, many religions saw this as a good thing as it would speed up the journey to the afterlife.

The word ‘sarcophagus’ was adopted into Latin as ‘sarcophagus’ (which was very unimaginative). From there it passed into various European languages, including our own, keeping its meaning as a stone coffin or tomb, but losing the whole flesh-eating bit.

One of the most famous sarcophagi in history belonged to Tutankhamun, or King Tut, whose mummy was discovered in 1922 by British archaeologist Howard Carter in the Egyptian Valley of the Kings. Tut was actually entombed in a series of ornate sarcophagi, with the innermost one being made of solid mother-flipping gold.

Tut facts:

• he was only around 18 or 19 years old when he died, so didn’t actually get to do much pharaoh-ing

• no one really knows what killed him – theories include complications after a leg injury or a genetic disorder

• a few people died after the discovery of Tut’s tomb giving rise to the legend of the ‘Curse of the Pharaohs’ (and lots of terrible horror films). One of those was Lord Carnarvon, a financial backer of Carter’s expedition who died from an infected mozzie bite shortly after the tomb was opened. His half brother also died not long afterwards (of blood poisoning) as did his secretary, and two other members of the expedition. Howard Carter didn’t shuffle off for another 17 years or so though, so it wasn’t a very good curse.

lemma

A lemma is a term or phrase that’s being defined or explained. Huh? Here it is in action – when you look up a word in a dictionary or, more likely these days, type a word into a dictionary search bar, the word you’re typing is called a lemma.

Lemma has its origins in ancient Greek. It’s derived from the Greek word ‘λῆμμα’ which means ‘something taken’, ‘an assumption’ or ‘a proposition’. It’s the noun (person, place or thing) form of the verb (doing word) ‘λαμβάνω’, or ‘lambanō’, which means ‘to take’.

The plural of lemma is either ‘lemmas’ or, if you’re feeling a bit arcane, ‘lemmata’. And it’s also where we get the word ‘dilemma’ from – which is ‘lemma’ in the sense of a proposition, with ‘di’ meaning ‘two’ at the start – two propositions.

All of this emma-based etymology caused me to ask ChatGPT what my name means. He told me it comes from the Germanic word ‘ermen’ or ‘irmin’, which means ‘whole’ or ‘universal’. He went on to say that Emma is ‘a classic name that carries a sense of timelessness and elegance’. Fingers crossed he wasn’t just buttering me up before he steals my job and brings about Judgement Day.

If you’re not a fan of ‘lemma’, another word for a term being defined is a ‘definiendum’. It’s fun to say, and will deffo make you sound like a smarty pants. You’re welcome.

dashboard

These days we use the word dashboard for a couple of things – cars, and techy things with lots of displays and buttons, which I’m reliably informed by the internet are called graphical user interfaces (GUIs). So you might think it’s quite a modern word. In fact dashboards pre-date cars by a good 40 years*, first appearing in print in 1842. Hold on to your hats – let’s find out what put the ‘dash’ into ‘dashboard’.

The word ‘dashboard’ originally referred to a protective board or barrier at the front of a horse-drawn carriage. It was there to stop passengers being covered in crap thrown up by horses' hooves as they, you guessed it, dashed.

When cars turned up in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, the design used lots of elements from horse-drawn carriages (except for the horses, obviously), which included the dashboard. Initially it had the same function i.e. as a crap barrier, but as cars got more and more complicated (and got windows), the dashboard evolved to include various instruments and controls like the speedo, fuel gauge and so on (you know what a dashboard looks like). And we then started using the term to refer to that whole instrument panel.

In the mid-20th century, as computers and digital displays became the norm, the term expanded to include those GUIs I mentioned earlier, that display information and controls in one place. Cool, right?

*The first ‘proper’ automobile is widely attributed to Karl Benz (he of Mercedes-Benz fame), a German engineer and inventor. He developed and built the Benz Patent-Motorwagen in 1885, getting a patent for it a year later. It’s considered the world's first true automobile because it was designed to be powered by an internal combustion engine. Obviously there were lots of other experiments and prototypes that came before it though.

recalcitrant

Despite sounding like a medical complaint, recalcitrant is an adjective (AKA a describing word) for someone or something that stubbornly refuses to follow rules or instructions, while also being a dick about it. Think stroppy teenagers, Donald Trump or my dog*.

Recalcitrant’s angry roots are Latin, from ‘recalcitrare’, which is a combo of ‘re-’ (meaning ‘back’ or ‘again’, as in ‘return’, ‘recall’ and ‘recover’) and ‘calcitrare’, which means ‘to kick’. Why kicking? Well, in its original sense, ‘recalcitrare’ was used to describe the behaviour of a stubborn or unruly horse that literally kicked back at someone trying to control or train it. Over time, we’ve extended the term’s meaning to describe people who resist authority, are uncooperative, or are unwilling to be controlled or directed.

I asked my friend ChatGPT if he (it’s definitely a he) had any stories about stroppy horses. And he told me about Clever Hans. Now Clever Hans wasn’t actually stroppy (so I don’t think ChatGPT is going to be taking over the world just yet, seeing as he can’t even get that right), but it is quite an interesting story, so I thought I’d include it here anyway.

Clever Hans was a horse born in 1895ish who became famous for doing sums and other clever things. He would answer questions by tapping his hoof, and became a sensation in Germany in shows run by his owner, Willhelm von Osten. Hans could add, subtract, multiply, divide, work with fractions, tell time, keep track of the calendar, differentiate between musical tones, and read, spell, and understand German, which makes him much cleverer than yours truly.

Sadly, it turns out although Hans was a very clever horse, he was perhaps not quite as clever as everyone thought. A psychologist called Oskar Pfungst carried out a series of experiments to understand how Hans was answering questions correctly. And he discovered that the horse was actually responding to subtle (and unconscious) cues from his trainer and human audience. For example, when he was asked a question, he would start tapping his hoof. When he reached the right number of taps, the audience would involuntarily exhibit subtle body language changes like tensing up or relaxing. Hans would stop tapping when he detected these cues, giving the appearance of getting the question right.

One of the ways Pfungst realised he was doing this was that he only got the answer right when the person asking the question knew the answer themselves. This is now called the ‘Clever Hans effect’, and has changed the way scientists all over the world investigate animal intelligence.

Even after he was debunked, von Osten, who refused to believe Pfungst's findings, continued to show Hans around Germany, where he still attracted large and enthusiastic crowds. It’s worth pointing out that Willhelm never charged for any of these shows, either before or after Clever Hans was outed. Nice, right?

Also, I still think Hans was pretty clever.

*I love you really, Gus.

Clever Hans with Willhelm

bletting

Some fruits, particularly sloes and medlars (more on those later), can be a bit sour to eat, even when they’re ripe (due to high levels of tannins). And that’s where our word of the week comes in – to make them more edible, we blet them. This basically means letting them go past fully ripe to the point where they’re just starting to break down, but aren’t quite rotting yet. Yum.

There seems to be quite an art to bletting – let it go too long and obviously the fruit’s too minging to eat. Don’t do it enough and it’ll be too bitter to enjoy. Having said that, it’s a fairly hands-off process, and mainly involves storing fruit at room temperature then looking at it every now and again. There seems to be some poking involved as well.

Etymology-wise, we can trace ‘blet’ back to the Old English word ‘blætt’ or ‘blǣtt’, that was used to describe anything a bit squishy or soft.

Four medlars, in all their bummy glory (photo © Andrew Dunn, 1 October 2005).

One fruit that’s inedible before bletting is the medlar, which you possibly haven’t heard of. Medlars were actually very popular here in Blighty a few hundred years ago. They go back even further than that as well – the medlar tree comes from Persia, and ye olde Greeks and Romans grew them too. They possibly fell out of favour because a perfectly bletted medlar is brown and squishy to the point that you might think it’s going to collapse in your hand. Doesn’t sound terribly appetising, does it?

Medlars also aren’t the most attractive of fruits – in fact, in France they’re called ‘cul de chien’ which translates as ‘dog’s arse’. Shakespeare called them ‘open-arse’ in Romeo and Juliet (which paints a lovely picture), and DH Lawrence referred to them as ‘autumnal excrementa’ (‘autumn shit’) in his poem ‘Medlars and Sorb-Apples’. That ode starts with these delightful lines:

‘I love you, rotten,

Delicious rottenness.’

Despite all this bad press, the much-maligned medlar is making a bit of a comeback. Medlar jelly is apparently lovely with a bit of cheese, and you can buy it online. Go on, treat yourself to some autumnal poop. You know you want to.

salary

Ah, salaries. Something we’re all a bit obsessed with as we navigate the cozzie livs*. But did you know that the word itself actually has a fairly surprising etymology?

‘Salary’ comes from the Latin word ‘salarium’, which itself comes from ‘sal’ in Latin, meaning ‘salt’. This is because, back in the ancient Roman day, salt was a really valuable commodity. This wasn’t just about making food taste good either – salt was vital for preserving it in a pre-fridge world. And that was crucial for those Romans centurions off conquering and building roads, installing sanitation, and all the other things mentioned in The Life of Brian.

Because of all this value, salt was actually used as a type of currency. And that meant the word ‘salarium’ was used to describe payments given to soldiers to cover their expenses, including to buy salt (presumably not with salt as currency though – that would be mental). Over time, the meaning of ‘salarium’ expanded to include any regular payment made to someone in exchange for their services, becoming ‘salary’ along the way.

The St Kinga Chapel (by Cezary p, CC BY-SA 3.0)

Salt mines have existed for thousands of years, and one of the most famous ones is the Wieliczka Salt Mine in Poland. It produced salt from the 13th century right up to 1996 (when it was closed due to falling salt prices and flooding). The mine is now a tourist attraction and a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and reaches a depth of 1,073 feet (327 metres) while extending for over 178 miles (287 kilometres). It’s particularly famous for the St Kinga Chapel, which is entirely carved out of salt, including the floor, walls and even the chandeliers. The chapel is about 330 feet (101 meters) below the surface of the Earth, and is named after St Kinga, the patron saint of salt miners. Apparently the acoustics are fantastic, so lots of concerts are held there, as well as an annual music festival – you can even get married there.

*Irritating slang for the cost-of-living crisis.

succinct

Last week’s word of the week was about Very. Long. Speeches. So this week, we’re keeping it short. If you’re succinct, it means you express yourself in a clear and brief way without adding unnecessary details – you’re concise and to the point. Which is ironic for a word that definitely has more ‘c’s in it than any word really needs.

Being succinct is a big part of the way I write for businesses – why use 10 words when you can use five? It saves everyone time. Like skipping ‘in order to’ – just say ‘to’. Seriously, try it.

Anyway, pitch over – back to ‘succinct’. This word comes from the Latin ‘succinctus’, which is the past participle of the verb ‘succingere’. And ‘succingere’ is formed from ‘sub’, which means ‘under’ (as in ‘submarine’, ‘subway’, ‘substandard’, and so on), and ‘cingere’, which means ‘to gird’ or ‘encircle’. The original Latin term actually referred to the act of tightening your belt – literally, not metaphorically.

Not Ananta Ram

Over time, ‘succinct’ evolved to describe something expressed concisely and clearly, just like tightening that belt. This change in meaning happened when the word came over into English in the late 15th century.

Someone who definitely isn’t succinct is Ananta Ram, from Kathmandu in Nepal, who holds the Guinness world record for the longest speech. It came in at a massive 90 hours and 2 minutes. The speech started at 6.15am on 27 August 2018, and finished at 12.17am on 31st August. Ram was silent for almost seven days beforehand to prepare.

Our very own Gyles Brandreth holds the record for the longest ever after-dinner speech at 12-and-a-half hours (which he did for charity – I can’t find it on the Guinness world records’ website though, so I’m not sure if it’s still valid). When he first broke the record he celebrated by doing a handstand, which you can see on his Instagram page. You can also book Gyles Brandreth for an after-dinner speech for the tidy sum of £10,000 to £15,000 – I’d be doing handstands too if I could earn that for a speech.

filibuster

In case you’re not an expert on political systems (which I definitely am not), a filibuster is a parliamentary tactic, often used in the United States’ Senate. It involves a member of the legislature speaking for a long time, or engaging in other tactics like raising lots of points of order, to try to delay a vote on a bill. This works because in the United States’ Senate there’s no time limit on individual speeches. So a senator can potentially speak for hours or even days to stop a vote.

There are a few ways to end a filibuster, including a three-fifths majority vote (usually 60 out of 100 senators in the US Senate) to invoke ‘cloture’ (another new-to-me word). This is a formal process that limits further debate and schedules a time for a vote on the bill.

So, why is this type of long speech called a ‘filibuster’? Well, it comes from a Spanish word ‘filibustero’, which originally referred to pirates or buccaneers doing naughty things in the West Indies and Central America during the 19th century. ‘Filibustero’ probably has its origins in the Dutch word ‘vrijbuiter’, which means ‘freebooter’ or ‘pirate’. It wasn’t long before this term that previously described pirates became a word for a parliamentary obstruction tactic.

Strom Thurmond – allegedly racist AND sexist (I cut the top of his head off on purpose)

The longest filibuster on record came from the awesomely named Senator Sturm Thurmond, who sounds like a Star Wars character. Despite his excellent moniker, Thurmond was a vehement opponent of the Civil Rights Act 1957, and supported racial segregation (apparently he also had a reputation for fondling women in elevators – he sounds like a massive dick). His filibuster to stop Black Americans getting the vote started at 8.54pm on 28 August and lasted until 9.12pm THE FOLLOWING DAY – that’s a massive 24 hours and 18 minutes. Thankfully it didn’t work, and the bill passed two hours after his filibuster ended. It was signed into law by President Eisenhower within two weeks. Up yours, Sturm.

tragedy

You know what a tragedy is – a sad or traumatic event. It’s also a genre of literature, art or performance that deals with serious and sad themes, and probably everyone dies at the end.

The word ‘tragedy’ has a bit of a tragic backstory as well. Brace yourselves…

(It’s not that bad really. I’m just building the tension.)

Don’t mention Greek plays

‘Tragedy’ comes from the Greek word ‘tragōidia’, which is a combination of ‘tragos’, meaning ‘goat’, and ‘ōidē’, meaning ‘song’ or ‘ode’. This is linked to ancient Greece (although you probably could have guessed that), where tragic plays were an important part of cultural and religious festivals. These plays often dealt with serious and weighty themes, and were accompanied by a chorus of people who sang and danced (seriously and weightily, presumably).

So that gives us the song/ode bit – but what about the goat? Well, those ancient Greekies often sacrificed a goat or two during these performances to honour the god Dionysus, who was associated with theatre (also, wine and fertility). I hope they waited till the interval so they didn’t put the actors off.

That was all a bit depressing, wasn’t it? Sorry about that. Here’s some Steps to cheer you up. Good luck not doing the dance.

mascot

When you hear the word ‘mascot’, you probably think of someone dressed in an oversized costume running about at a sports event posing for pictures and hugging people. But in fact, the word ‘mascot’ has quite a sinister history, rooted in black magic and witches. OOOH.

Okay, I might have overegged the pudding ever so slightly. The word ‘mascot’ dates back to the 19th century, and comes from the French word ‘mascotte’, which was used to describe a lucky charm, talisman or magical object. This in turn came from ‘masco’, a Provençal (a dialect of southern France) term for a sorceress or witch. That probably comes from the Old Provençal word ‘masca’, meaning ‘mask’ or ‘spectre’. In the late 19th century, we started using the term to refer to a person, animal or object that brought luck or represents a group, like a sports team.

Sports team mascots are often chosen based on symbolism, characteristics or qualities that are supposed to bring positive energy or success. But sometimes they’re just downright scary. Take Kingsley, who represents Partick Thistle, a professional football club from Glasgow, and looks like a squashed sun with the cold dead eyes of a killer. He was designed by Turner Prize-nominated artist David Shrigley and was unveiled in 2015 to coincide with Thistle’s new sponsorship from investment firm Kingsford Capital Management. Reactions to Kingsley varied from ‘Lisa Simpson on meth’ to ‘the haggard face of the Teletubbies’ sun baby’. Kingsley also has the dubious honour of being the only mascot ever to earn a review from the Guardian’s art critic Jonathan Jones, who compared him to the monsters painted and sculpted by the surrealist Joan Miró. It obviously hit home as well, with Kingsley’s web page on the Partick Thistle site reading as follows:

‘There were a lot of mean things said about me when I first appeared, but I’m not too concerned because I know it’s what’s on the inside that counts. I’m a nice guy really – just a bit misunderstood … I might look a bit angry but I’m really very approachable and I love Partick Thistle. So don’t be scared to come and say hello if you see me out and about.’

Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he?

WT actual F

pia

My mum put this down in Words With Friends the other day, which prompted me to look it up as I’d only ever seen it as a woman’s name before and obviously proper nouns are NOT ALLOWED. Well, it turns out we all have a pia – it’s an anatomical term, the full version of which is ‘pia mater’. And it has quite an interesting backstory. (Disclaimer: I’m no biologist, so apologies if you are and I’ve got any of this wrong.)

The pia mater plays a vital role in keeping our central nervous systems healthy and functioning properly. It’s one of three meninges (sets of membranes that provide a protective covering) that surround and protect our brains and spinal cords. The other two are the dura mater and the arachnoid mater. The pia mater is the innermost layer that directly covers the surface of the brain and spinal cord. It’s a thin, transparent membrane that sticks closely to our brains’ contours, following the folds and grooves. It also surrounds the spinal cord.

The pia mater’s primary function is to support, protect and nourish the underlying neural tissues by carrying blood vessels that supply nutrients and oxygen to the brain and spinal cord. If you fall down a lot like I do, then you should be grateful to your pia mater, as it protects that brain and spinal cord from impacts.

We are of course here for the words, so why is it called a pia mater? If you did any Latin in school then you might be ahead of me here – it translates to ‘tender’ or ‘gentle’ ‘mother’ (the word ‘pia’ is the feminine form of the Latin adjective ‘pius’). The name ‘pia mater’ was introduced during the Renaissance period (14th to 17th centuries) when anatomical knowledge was expanding, and Latin was the universal language of science and academia, and has stuck around ever since. It was probably called that because of the way it encloses the surface of the brain and spinal cord, cradling them like a mother. Nice, right?

Oh, and you’ve probably guessed that ‘arachnoid mater’ translates as ‘spider-like mother’, because of its web-like appearance. And ‘dura mater’ means ‘tough mother’ due to this outermost meninge’s durable and robust nature. It’s one tough mother f*cker.

ambigram

An ambigram is a word, phrase or symbol that you can read from different orientations or perspectives, usually in at least two different ways. So the word or symbol is still legible when you rotate it or look at its reflection, and might reveal a different word or phrase.

If you’ve lost interest after this convoluted explanation, let’s look at a couple of examples:

SWIMS

This is a rotational ambigram, which means it reads the same when rotated 180 degrees (i.e. upside down).

NOON

This can be designed as a mirror-image ambigram – so if you look at it in a mirror, it reads MOON.

Image from https://www.johnlangdon.net/works/angels-demons, © John Langdon

To make them work, ambigrams are often done in fancy-dancy calligraphy, which means they’re popular as logos and tattoos. Dan Brown used this in his rubbish book ‘Angels and Demons’ where the Illuminati’s symbol is an ambigram (that was designed by John Langdon, who has loads of cool ambigrams on his website).

Ambigrams aren’t the same as palindromes, which are defined as words, verses or sentences that read the same backwards as they do forwards. So ‘deified’ is a palindrome. But ‘noon’ is both a palindrome and an ambigram (head explodes).

Ambigram is a portmanteau (a word made up of two other words), in this case a combination of ‘ambi-’ from the Latin word ‘ambidexter’ meaning ‘both’ or ‘on both sides’, and ‘-gram’ from the Greek word ‘gramma’, meaning ‘grandma’. Not really, it means ‘letter’ or ‘written character’.

The term ‘ambigram’ was coined by Douglas R. Hofstadter, an American scholar of cognitive science, physics and comparative literature, in the early 1970s. He’s known for his interest in puzzles and visual art, and exploring patterns in language. He introduced the concept of ambigrams in his book ‘Gödel, Escher, Bach: An Eternal Golden Braid’, which was published in 1979. Such was his influence that he even gets a mention in ‘2010: Odyssey Two’ by Arthur C. Clarke (the sequel to ‘2001: A Space Odyssey’), when scary (especially now) AI HAL 9000 is described by the character Dr Chandra as being caught in a ‘Hofstadter–Möbius loop’ (I tried to find out what this actually means, but it was far too complicated for little ole me).

Hofstadter also created his own law (I want a law!), which is ‘It always takes longer than you expect, even when you take into account Hofstadter’s Law’. This basically means that any task or project will probably take longer than you thought, even if you take into account Hofstadter’s law that it’s likely to take longer than you thought (second head explosion).

(Oh, and in case you were wondering, Leonard Hofstadter in The Big Bang Theory wasn’t named after our Doug, but after Robert Hofstadter, an American physicist who won the 1961 Nobel Prize in physics. He was Douglas’s dad though (that’s one talented family).)

skinflint

Before I get into this one, I should probably warn you that the origins of this word might be apocryphal (AKA, bollocks). But since I’ve never let the truth get in the way of a good story before, let’s crack on…

A skinflint is a person who’s mean with their money. Think that friend who leaves before their round in the pub, or that person who never brings booze to the party (I’m not sure why all my examples are alcohol related, sorry). Turns out humans have been being cheap for a long time, and ‘skinflint’ goes all the way back to 1699. The possibly rubbish story goes that in those days, soldiers used flints to produce the spark they needed to fire their rifles. And apparently there were some commanders so tight that they gave their soldiers shavings they’d scraped or ‘skinned’ from a flint because they didn’t want to spend extra money giving them a whole flint each. And for that they earned the nickname of, you’ve guessed it, ‘Skinflint’.

Ebenezer Scrooge is probably the most famous fictional skinflint. But there are lots of real-life tight-arses that you might not have come across before.

• John Elwes (1714–1789) was a British MP and is often considered the inspiration for the character of Scrooge. He went to bed at sundown so he didn’t have to use candles, and dressed in rags instead of buying new clothes – including a beggar’s cast-off wig he found in a hedge, which he wore for two weeks.

• Daniel K. Ludwig (1897–1992), an American shipping businessman, almost fired one of his tanker captains for using a paper clip on a two-page report.

• Because I’m a feminist, I found one lady skinflint. Hetty Green (1834–1916), was an American businesswoman and financier known as ‘the queen/witch of Wall Street’ (depending on which journalist you read). She would apparently instruct her laundress (so she wasn’t tight enough to do her own washing) to only wash the dirty bits of her dresses and leave the rest to save on soap. There’s also a fairly vicious story that she refused to pay for a doctor to look at her son’s injured leg, which led to it being amputated. There’s loads of evidence which shows this isn’t true, and that she actually spent a lot of money getting him fixed up. But sadly the story was widely reported at the time, perhaps because the male-dominated financial industry just couldn’t cope with a woman who was better at investing than they were.

• Ingvar Kamprad (1926–2018) was the Swedish billionaire founder of IKEA. It seems he was as cheap as his furniture as he flew economy class, encouraged IKEA employees to use both sides of a page when writing or printing (I mean, that’s just good for the environment), recycled tea bags, and kept the salt and pepper packets from restaurants he went to (well, those meatballs could do with a bit of seasoning).

It’s worth pointing out that one thing all these tight-wads have in common is that they were very rich. So maybe there’s something to be said for not paying for your round…

retronym

A retronym is a word for something that’s been named or renamed to differentiate it from a newer or modified version. They’re usually created by adding an adjective or qualifier to the original term. If you’re currently saying ‘Huh?’ and losing the will to live, let’s have a look at some examples which should hopefully make it clear:

• ‘acoustic guitar’ is a retronym which appeared after electric guitars – before they were just called ‘guitars’

• ‘film camera’ turned up after digital cameras were invented – before they were just ‘cameras’

• ‘landline phone’ is a retronym that appeared after we all got mobiles – before they were just, well, I’m sure you get it now.

As you’ve probably realised from the above, retronyms usually appear when an advancement or change in technology or society means the original term becomes ambiguous.

‘Retronym’ is a relatively young term, and was coined by American linguist Frank Mankiewicz in a magazine article in the early 1980s. It’s made up of two parts:

• ‘retro’ – you know what retro means, and

• ‘nym’ which comes from the Greek word ‘onoma’, meaning ‘name’ or ‘word’.

So it basically means ‘a name or word that looks back’.

The word ‘retronym’ follows the same style as other linguistic terms which you may or may not remember from school – like ‘synonym’ (a word that means the same as another word, like ‘big’ and ‘large’ – ‘syn’ being a Greek word for ‘together’ or ‘with’), or antonym (the opposite of a synonym, with the ‘ant’ bit coming from ‘anti’, which is Greek for ‘opposite’ or ‘against’).

maven

A maven is someone who’s exceptionally experienced or knowledgeable about something – basically it’s a fancy-dancy way of calling someone an expert. So you could say ‘Emma is an etymology expert’ (oh, thanks).

’Maven’ comes from the Yiddish (a West Germanic language spoken by Jews) word ‘meyvn’ which means ‘one who understands’. It’s related to the Hebrew verb ‘bin’, which means ‘to understand’.

‘Maven’ was made popular by a guy called William Safire who, to be frank, sounds like my perfect man (if it wasn’t for the fact that he’s dead). He wrote a feature in The New York Times called ‘The Maven’s Word of the Day’ where he explored ‘new words, vogue phrases and the intriguing roots of everyday discourse – with occasionally crotchety observations on everything from proper usage to impropaganda’. The column aimed to entertain and educate readers about the English language and its quirks (it’s like looking in a mirror – even if he may have had one or two more readers than me). It ran for more than 30 years under Safire, and he wrote an impressive 1,300 instalments.

Safire receiving the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 2006 (White House photo by Shealah Craighead)

Much like me, William didn’t have any real credentials for his wordy expertise, saying after being hired to write his column, ‘So what if I hadn’t finished college [he dropped out after two years ar Syracuse University], or even studied Latin? In the language dodge, I figured, a cat could look at a king.’ That’s one of the reasons he chose the word ‘maven’ as his title, as he said it contained ‘a note of self-mockery’. Also much like me, he was happy to play fast and loose with language if it suited, saying ‘I welcome new words, or old words used in new ways provided the result is more precision, added color or greater expressiveness’. Despite that, he was a staunch defender of correct English, and was instrumental in getting Safeway stores to change their express-lane signs from ‘Ten items or less’ to ‘Ten items or fewer’. SWOON.

Safire didn’t just wax lyrical about words. He was also a speechwriter for Richard Nixon where he coined several memorable phrases, including describing critics of the administration as ‘nattering nabobs of negativism’ in a speech for Vice-President Spiro Agnew. He won the Pulitzer Prize for commentary in 1978, and was described by President George W Bush as ‘a voice of independence and principle’, adding ‘American journalism is better for the contributions of William Safire’.

What a legend.

evanescence

Today’s word of the week is brought to you by ‘I Capture the Castle’, a coming-of-age novel by Dodie Smith (who’s probably most famous for having written ‘The Hundred and One Dalmatians’). I’d never read it before, and if you haven’t either I thoroughly recommend it. It tells the story of Cassandra Mortmain, who lives with her bohemian but impoverished family in a crumbling castle in rural Suffolk in the 1930s. The family is made up of her beautiful but bored sister, Rose, her glamorous stepmother, Topaz (who enjoys dancing naked in the rain every now and again), her little brother Thomas, her eccentric novelist father who’s been suffering from crippling writer's block after publishing one successful book and Stephen, a sort of servant/adopted child who has an almighty crush on Cassandra. Honestly, it’s wonderful. And it’s also where I saw this word used in the following quote:

Perhaps he [Simon, Rose’s fiancé and Cassandra’s crush – yep, there’s a love triangle*] finds beauty saddening—I do myself sometimes. Once when I was quite little I asked Father why this was and he explained that it was due to our knowledge of beauty’s evanescence, which reminds us that we ourselves shall die. Then he said I was probably too young to understand him; but I understood perfectly.

Now if you, like me, were a teenager in the 90s, you’re probably thinking of American goth rockers Evanescence who released bangers like ‘Bring me to life’ and… actually, that’s the only one I can think of. And really, it’s a perfect name for an angsty alternative band. The word ‘evanescence’ is an adjective (a describing word) for something that’s temporary, ephemeral (another good word), or likely to be forgotten over time. Like fleeting moments, fading memories or the passage of time itself…

Sorry, I got a bit carried away there. Let’s come straight back down to earth with some etymology. ‘Evanescence’ comes from the Latin verb ‘evanescere’. That’s a combo of the prefix ‘e-’, meaning ‘out’ or ‘away’ (see also ‘eject’, ‘evict’ and ‘emit’, among others) and the verb ‘vanescere’ which means ‘to vanish or disappear’. That’s formed from ‘vanus’, meaning ‘empty’ or ‘vain’, and the suffix ‘-escere’ which indicates the beginning of a process or state. This suffix also turns up in words like ‘convalesce’ (to start getting better), ‘effervesce’ (to start bubbling or frothing) and ‘adolesce’ (to start being a stroppy teenager). Sorry, I think I sucked all the beauty out of it, didn’t I?

*If you factor in Stephen as well, then maybe it’s a love square? There’s also Neil, Simon’s brother, who I suspect may also be involved, but I haven’t finished it yet so I can’t be sure. Also, that would make it a love pentagon which is ridiculous.

trivia

You know what trivia is – information that’s usually quite interesting and perhaps not that widely known, but probably not that important. Also a thing that you have to have ready when you’re female and you tell a man you’re interested in something, and he immediately asks you to prove it (actual conversations with male friends: ‘I’m a big Star Wars fan.’ ‘Really? How many forms of communication is C-3PO fluent in*?’ And: ‘I love watching tennis.’ ‘Yes? How many French Opens has Nadal won**?’)

The word ‘trivia’ comes from Latin and is the plural form of ‘trivium’ (but don’t ever use the singular version because you’ll sound like a dick), which means ‘place where three roads meet’. In ancient Rome, ‘trivium’ was used to refer to the three subjects of the beginners’ liberal arts course at university, which were: grammar (my fave), rhetoric (the study and practice of persuasive public speaking) and logic (a branch of philosophy focusing on valid and sound reasoning). While these might not seem that trivial to us, the fact that ‘trivium’ was the name for the beginners’ class is probably why it’s since evolved to refer to less important information.

I asked my robot overlord, ChatGPT, to tell me some trivia, and here’s what it said:

• Honey never spoils. Archaeologists have found pots of honey in ancient Egyptian tombs that are over 3,000 years old and still perfectly edible.

• The shortest war in history occurred between Britain and Zanzibar in 1896. It lasted only 38 minutes.

• The world’s oldest known recipe is for beer. It dates back to ancient Sumeria around 1800 BCE.

• The Eiffel Tower in Paris was originally intended to be a temporary structure, built for the 1889 World’s Fair. It was almost dismantled afterward but was saved because of its value as a radio transmission tower.

• The average person spends around six months of their lifetime waiting at red traffic lights.

• The national animal of Scotland is the unicorn.

• The world’s largest flower is the Rafflesia arnoldii, which can grow up to three feet in diameter and weigh up to 24 pounds. It’s also known for its distinctive smell, often likened to that of rotting flesh.

• Astronauts’ height can change in space. Without the force of gravity compressing their spines, they can grow up to 2 inches taller while spending extended periods in space.

*It’s six million. Which I did know.

** It’s 14. Which I didn’t know. But I do now, and I’m ready for you, men.

algebra

SHUDDER. I was terrible at maths at school, and even the thought of algebra still fills me with horror. But, I’m all for feeling the fear and doing it anyway (except when it comes to sharks, which I’m also very scared of), which is why algebra is my word of the week. Also, it has an interesting backstory which isn’t, as you might assume, anything to do with Greek.

Before we get into that though, let’s have a quick refresher for anyone who, like me, can only vaguely remember their school days. Algebra is a branch of maths that focuses on studying mathematical symbols and the rules for manipulating those symbols to solve equations (that just sent another shiver down my spine), which apparently makes it easier to solve complex problems. Here’s a super-simple algebraic equation:

2x + 5 = 11

And here’s a really not simple explanation for how to solve it (thanks to my robot overlord, sorry ChatGPT, for doing the maths for me. Also, feel free to skip to the next paragraph if you just don’t care):

In this equation, ‘x’ is the variable, and the objective is to find the value of ‘x’. First, we isolate the variable ‘x’ by subtracting 5 from both sides of the equation:

2x + 5 - 5 = 11 - 5

This simplifies to:

2x = 6

Next, to isolate the variable ‘x’, we divide both sides of the equation by 2:

(2x)/2 = 6/2

This simplifies to:

x = 3

So, the solution to the equation is x = 3.

For anyone who’s still here, here’s why algebra is called algebra. The word comes from the Arabic phrase ‘al-jabr wa'l-muqabala’, which means ‘reunion of broken parts’ or ‘restoration and balancing’, referring to the process of restoring balance by transferring terms from one side of an equation to the other. Nice, right?

This rather romantic-sounding term was coined by the Persian mathematician Muhammad ibn Musa al-Khwarizmi in the 9th century. I have mixed feelings about Al-Khwarizmi because he came up with this lovely phrase (like), but he also pretty much invented algebra in his book ‘Kitab al-Jabr wa'l-Muqabala’ (don’t like). Just to make things even more complicated, his book was translated into Latin in the 12th century, which is when the west adopted the term (and discipline) ‘algebra’ and ruined many school children’s lives for centuries to come.

(Muhammad ibn Musa al-Khwarizmi also gets a prize for best job title ever: ‘astronomer and head of the library of the House of Wisdom’. Tough to fit on a business card though.)

upshot

You know what this one means – it’s the thing you want to know when you’re reading something really long and complicated (fundamental rule of good writing, people – say your main point first). But why is the thing we want to know a shot going up?

For the answer, we need to travel back to the 1500s, to the time of wife-beheading misogynist Henry VIII. Let’s go to an archery contest, yay! It’s the final, and it all comes down to one last shot. The best archer (picture Kevin Costner/Katniss Everdeen/Legolas, or whoever floats your boat) hits the bullseye and wins the contest. And that’s the upshot – the final shot that decided who was the winner. The term was later used figuratively to describe a final result or outcome, the way we do today.

Here’s ‘upshot’ in (literal) action in an extract from Henry’s accounts (ooh, exciting) for 1531 which included his sporting losses:

To the three Cotons for three sets which the King lost to them in Greenwich Park … and for one upshot won of the King … 6s. 8d.

In case you’re a bit confused by this, I’m reliably informed by the internet that it’s saying Henners had to pay three men (presumably related to each other) all called Coton, 6 shillings and 8 pence (a fairly big sum back then, roughly equivalent to a few days’ wages for a skilled labourer) for losing in an archery competition, which included an upshot.

(I did some archery once, which I really enjoyed. I was amused to learn that most archery injuries aren’t caused by people shooting arrows into each other, but by them walking into the arrows that they’ve shot into the target. Humans really are idiots, aren’t we?)

lullaby

You know what a lullaby is – a song you sing to a baby that won’t sleep (hello to my nephew). ‘Lullaby’ comes from the Middle English phrase ‘lullen’, which means ‘to lull’, and ‘by’ which means, well, ‘by’ or ‘near’. So it literally translates as ‘to lull near’. We’ve been using the word ‘lullaby’ in English since at least the 16th century.

So far, so straightforward. But, there’s another, more sinister explanation. Before I get into it, I should preface this by saying this is ‘folk etymology’ which is when we change or reinterpret the origin of a word over time, usually due to a popular or widely held (wrong) belief about its meaning (see ‘penthouse’ for an example). So everything after this point is probably bollocks. But let’s just go with it, because it’s much more interesting.

Lilith and snake pal (not the name of the painting) by John Collier

In this explanation, the word ‘lullaby’ comes from ‘Lilith abi’ which means ‘Lilith, begone’ in Hebrew. In some Jewish mythology, Lilith was the first wife of Adam, before Eve (PLOT TWIST). Unlike Eve, who was made from Adam’s rib, Lilith was created from the same clay as he was, which made them equal. Because of this she got a bit uppity – literally – and refused to lie underneath him when they were getting jiggy with it, or have his children. You go, girl.

Because of all this bloody feminism (I bet she wanted equal pay and dresses with pockets too), Lilith was either banished from the Garden of Eden or left of her own accord (I hope it was the second one). In the wilderness around the garden she became a demon who preyed on newborn infants and seduced men in their sleep (using reverse cowgirl, presumably – no missionary for our Lilith). She’s often shown as having wings, or as a snake.

Lilith appears in various Jewish texts, including the Talmud and the Zohar. And depending on who you talk to she’s either a symbol of female empowerment and resistance against the patriarchy, or a dangerous and evil woman who threatens the very order of creation. I think you can probably guess which side I come down on.

Anyway, back to lullabies. For whatever reason, Lilith has got a reputation for stealing babies. One belief is that this is because she was jealous of the attention Adam and Eve gave their children, while another says she could only have demon babies, so she stole human ones to make up for it. Either way, singing ‘Lilith abi’, or a lullaby, was a way to ward off Lilith and protect your babbie from her evil/feminist clutches.

I told you it was better than the real answer.