I maintain a small file of “perfect words,” ones that elegantly match form and content. One such word is sesquipedalian, which from its Latin roots roughly translates to “a foot and a half long.” It means “using or characteristic of long words.” Words a foot and a half long.
Sesquipedalian represents perfection for everyone. I recently unearthed a perfect word for me. Consider:
I once harbored a deep fascination with archeology.
I think aardvark is a funny word.
I love puns, wordplay, and neologisms.
Thus:
Aardvarchaeology is a science blog I stumbled across and that I frankly know nothing about. Yeah, I could read the “About” section, but I’m still reveling in the word creation. I appreciate several things about this word concoction, in addition to the opportunity it affords me to use another bulleted list:
Perfect word for me personally, as described.
This perfect word was constructed by a Swede—I only dream of being able to concoct wordplay in a second language.
The neologism was created with an archaic (reference intended) spelling of archeology, at least to American eyes—because, after all, shouldn’t old subjects use olde spellings?
Now, I also once harbored a deep fascination with the American Civil War, and I think carburetor is a funny word . . . I wonder what I might stumble upon next.
As a kid, I listened to Milwaukee top-40 station WOKY, though stating that might be oversharing. Today the radio is tuned to station WOTY, playing not the top pop songs but the top pop words. WOTY: an acronym for Word of the Year, and authorities of various stripes have recently announced a bunch of them for 2008. Here’s a not-so-comprehensive roundup (with a strong bow to eagle-eye Fritinancy for her great coverage of the topic); don’t touch that dial:
Oxford University Press:hypermiling, the “attempt to maximize gas mileage by making fuel-conserving adjustments to one’s car and one’s driving techniques.”
Webster’s New World Dictionary:overshare, “to divulge excessive personal information, as in a blog or broadcast interview, prompting reactions ranging from alarmed discomfort to approval.”
William Safire:frugalista, “a person who lives a frugal lifestyle but stays fashionable and healthy by swapping clothes, buying secondhand, growing own produce, etc.”
UrbanDigs.com:Crecession, “a period of economic activity where available credit is contracting and the cost of credit is rising, leading to a disruption in the credit markets and difficulties for businesses that borrow short and lend long. The result will likely be a period of asset deflation leading to a lack of growth, rising unemployment, and rising commodity inflation due to pressure on the dollar” (OK, they made it up and declared it their own word of the year, but what the hell).
vet (British-English-to-American-English Word of the Year), a transitive verb meaning “To examine carefully and critically for deficiencies or errors; spec. to investigate the suitability of (a person) for a post that requires loyalty and trustworthiness.”
meh (American-English-to-British-English Word of the Year), an interjection expressing indifference.
Me: susurration. Why? Nobody used it this year (not even in whispers), and they should have. It’s a beautiful word. Specific to the task at hand, I’m going to award a tie to plutoid, which Grant Barrett points out as “a new term designated by the International Astronomical Union to refer to Pluto and space objects like it,” because I like the astronomical justice given to to the space body that had been plutoed (The American Dialect Society’s 2006 Word of the Year) and now honored not with planetary status but with dictionetary status); and a phrase, “nuke the fridge,” which crystalizes why you don’t want to see the most recent Indiana Jones movie. On the other hand, why not award the now-frequently used acronym WOTY as word of the year?
Two recent word coinages chronicled over at Word Spy speak to principles of neology at its best, and at its worst—each locution representing both qualities:
Interestingly, both are business-related, which, I might venture, may be mostly a function of changing business conditions fueling the need for coinage (pun absolutely intended).
As coinages, these two words represent opposites of sorts:
Social notworking is the blatant pun, used to describe “Surfing a social networking site instead of working.” Call it social porn.
Murketing is a subtler construction, possibly considered a pun and possibly considered a portmanteau—meshing two words (murky and marketing). Murketing describes “A form of marketing where the product or service is not mentioned or shown” (think of those TV ads that leave you with that deep “Huh?”-response.) Whereas notworking is an opposite of the original word, murketing is a shade of the original—a quieter shade.
These represent neology at its worst because on their surfaces, neither word accomplishes what their definitions claim they do. To my ear, social notworking speaks a cynical implication that social networking itself is not working, rather than workers are not working because of social networking. And to that same ear (or maybe the other one), murketing sounds equally cynical, a drudging insult with surreptitious resonances of murk—not only the dark, clouded denotations of the word itself, but also the swallowed, secretive pronunciation of the word when spoken aloud. Marketing is a happier, broader, more open word. Murketing is a huddling, skulking word.
So why are these examples of neology at its best? I’m a cynic; I’d like to think that my suggested misinterpretations are true.
By the by, Mr. Everything You Know About English Is Wrong now looks forward to quitting his day job and notworking when he receives expected checks from all major companies—as in this blog he has not mentioned or shown any of your products or services. He’s a murketing genius!
I love a well-constructed neologism. Made-up word. Coinage. Nonce word. Sniglet. Call it what you will. Bop about the web, and you’ll find any number of similar neophiles, from Word Spy to Word Fugitives to the Wordlustitude blog (any blog devoted to neologism must be neologistically named).
To reiterate, I love a well-constructed neologism. In that light, I’m hoping that Swedish home furnishings retailer IKEA is better at building furniture than it is at building words. DM News recently published an article about IKEA’s mobile marketing campaign—here’s a snapshot:
I don’t know specifically, but I’m assuming that that clunky word textvitations is IKEA’s creation, as DM News is unlikely to lower itself to such awkward word-play. Textvitation is a “portmanteau word,” described by Lewis Carroll, the phrase’s creator, as “two meanings packed into one word.” Portmanteau is a type of luggage. IKEA might sell luggage. If so, it must be constructed out of wrought-iron handles Super-Glued to silk baggies. In other words, textvitation doesn’t cut it as a neologism. It bears only jury-rigged resemblance to its source words—text and invitation; it saves almost no space in having one word rear-end another; it involves damn little poetry or panache; and it rolls off the brain the way gravel rolls off the bed of an accelerating pick-up truck with the tailgate down. Neologism should involve flow, not duct tape.
Oh, wait. IKEA doesn’t build furniture. It sells furniture kits and components. The retailer leaves the actual assembly to people outside their walls. It works for kitchen cabinets, IKEA. Now make it work for words.
(For a more palatable marriage of the concepts of “Swedish” and “neologism” (and, um, “well-constructed,” too—and I doubt that she’s Swedish, but play along here), wander over to this campy discussion of Sniglets at “Hot for Words.”)
Excuse me for a smidgen of self-promotion today. I take pride that a blog review of Everything You Know About English Is Wrong said that the book was “funner” than William Safire, the pride resulting in part because funner is a fun word. I like fun words and fun neologisms. In a recent email to a friend, I snarled about some “smugascious self-centered balderdash and lackadaisical writing” I had seen in a newsletter. My friend responded with what I believe is praise that’s even higher and funner than that in the review:
I’m going to figure out a way to work smugacious into conversations today. Why, you’re handier than word-a-day toilet paper!
Posted in humor, neology at 7:38 am by Bill Brohaugh
As one who instructs in the craft of writing, I aspire to having something educational or informational or opinionational in each post—and lacking any of that, I try to make up new words, like opinionational.
Since I’m lacking the educational and informational today, I simply offer this little gem, “The Onion: Congress Debates Merits Of New Catchphrase.”
The Comics Curmudgeon blog—pointed commentary on inane daily comics—recently highlighted a Family Circle installment in which dimly precocious young Billy is reading a generic Dictionary and declaring, “That’s weird. ‘VERB’ is a noun.”
To which blog host Uncle Lumpy retorts, “Yes, Billy, and ‘LAME’ is an adjective.”
Interestingly, ‘ADJECTIVE’ is an adjective—or at least it was when it first began, as part of the phrase “noun adjective” (accent the middle syllable, as in objective). But then adjective got nouned into its present-day use.
In which case, look at your almost-dictionary, Billy! “‘NOUN’ is a verb!”
(Non-Inane Comics Alert: Methinks Billy might actually be reading a Calvin and Hobbes retrospective, as it was young Calvin who declared the classic “Verbing weirds language.” End Non-Inane Comics Alert.)
Maybe it’s shocking for The Name Inspector to say this, but the etymologies of words or word parts that you use in your name don’t matter. What do matter are the associations people make. Sometimes there’s an overlap between the two, though. For example, many people recognize that -lumin- relates to light, and it in fact comes from the Latin word for light. However, most people don’t make the association to light because of their knowledge of Latin or etymology. They make it because they know words like luminous and illuminate and recognize the word part. In general, etymological meaning connections only come through when they’re also part of the living language.
Hmm, says this word maven. My Unfortunate English is devoted to etymology. My Write Tight advises writers to immerse themselves in dictionaries to learn not only vocabulary but also the nuances of word and even syllable origins. “Forget etymology”? “Forget etymology”? Especially in the light (no pun intended) of my undergraduate degree from the University of Wisconsin, whose motto is “Numen Lumen”? “Forget etymology”?
Yup. In this context, the Name Inspector is dead on. Words mean what they mean today, not what they meant once. New names and other neologisms depend on association and resonance with related, living words, as well as with similarity of sonic resonance and even typographical look.
Is it important to understand a word’s history? Yes!, so buy Unfortunate English or you may contract dandruff of the hand! Or to be more a touch more realistic . . . etymology is fascinating, and edifying, and so often surprising. (I’m wondering how many wedding shops would reconsider using the word bridal in their business names if they were to allow original meanings of words to scare them away. Bridal the adjective is a modification of the noun bride-ale, a wedding celebration that involved lots and lots of the final syllable.)
Etymology is also at times confounding and in some situations outright distracting. Which brings us back to the karma that illuminated my path to this post: No one seems to know exactly what the hell “Numen Lumen” means, a mystery so deep that a 1912 issue of Wisconsin Alumni magazine published the winner of a contest asking who could explain it best (the explanation is so esoteric that the first place entry also won second place). I always thought “Numen Lumen” meant something on the order of “knowledge illuminates,” but, obviously, sometimes knowledge just obfuscates. That revelation is an undergraduate education in itself.
Therefore, when bringing new words to the language—for business and product names, to describe new processes or trends, or just for the fun of it—rely on the now as your guiding lumin.
From the Lingua Techna blog from Paul McFedries (of WordSpy fame):“Is the English Language Full?”, some nice grousing about an anti-neology blog. McFedries is commenting on a Guardian piece, which writer Paul MacInnes begins:
The English language is a growing concern. Every year, Collins gets a pile of free publicity by publicly announcing new additions to its dictionary . . .
My potshots before shooing you off to Lingua Techna: I’m almost certainly overreacting, but am I supposed to infer that dictionary publisher Collins is adding words for the publicity alone? Let’s then also take to task that cynical Encyclopedia Britannica, which keeps adding facts in new editions, the mercenaries! Besides, doesn’t the wealth of publicity bestowed on the announcement indicate that others are interested in said new words, perhaps more so than certain writers? Finally, the Write Tight editor in me must resort to persnickitation and grumble about the redundant “new additions.” Knee-jerk reaction and all that.
Spotted in a blog:
To atone if your’e a jargoneer: Pick a page (or a paragraph) on your website full of buzzwords and industry jargon. If you can’t be an objective judge, have your husband/wife/teenager/friend read it for you. Cross out all the offensive words. . . .
your’e has a certain bit of French panache to it, doesn’t it? Perhaps the symbol is really a slightly miscentered accent over the E. I’m particularly amused by “Cross out all the offensive words.” Like your’e, perhaps? Granted, this is a typo and not pure misuse, but what the hell, sometimes you gotta swing at the softballs tossed at you. For more graphic illustration of true misuse in everyday life, check out the Apostrophism and Apostrophe Abuse blogs. And mull the, shall we say, understated attitude of GrammarBlog: “Do you think people who don’t know the difference between ‘your’ and ‘you’re’ should be strung up by their gonads? You do? Welcome to GrammarBlog.”
Speaking of French panache, let’s talk about some French pan-ass:
At Dennis Baron’s The Web of Language: More on the Académie Française insisting on wearing “Donnez- un coup de pied moi!” (”Kick me!”) signs on its collective back: Not only does this institution continue to demand purging all non-French words (“One recent example is the Académie’s recommendation of the use of the word ‘courriel’ instead of the English ‘e-mail’”), but now the institution and the people who belong in one demand (no s’il vous plais! involved) that France refuse to recognize even the languages native within its own borders, such as Occitan. Baron writes, “on Monday [June 16, 2008] the Académie Française rejected any attempt to constitutionalize local languages as ‘an attack on French national identity.’” My favorite quote from the post:
France has always been a linguistically-diverse country—the nation is even named after the Franks, a medieval Germanic tribe . . .
Plus, ya gotta like a writer who uses Monty Python to illustrate his points.
Until today, we’ve not been sure where the word quandary comes from. It might be related to conundrum, though that’s unlikely and, besides, we’re not sure where conundrum came from, either.
So, though we’ve been unsure about the origin of quandary, we have not been “in a quandary” about its origin. Until today. Quandary, it seems, comes from the political science department of the University of South Dakota.
As I write this on 6/3/2008, the primary polls in South Dakota and Montana are prepping to open, and the pundits can’t predict how Clinton will fare against Obama in the land of Great Stone Faces (the ones on the mountainside, not the ones covering the primary on CNN). As reported on Politico:
“Everybody is in the same quandary with how is this going to work,” said Elizabeth Smith, an associate political science professor at the University of South Dakota.
A quandary is a tough decision, a dilemma. It is not, oh ye political pundits and escapees from the USD English department, an uncertain situation, despite Merriam Webster’s flaccid definition of “a state of perplexity or doubt.” A superhero forced to decide to save the love of her life or the entire city of Topeka is in a quandary. Pundits awaiting to see who will be voted off the island in the most recent episode of political Survivor are not. I suspect that some individuals heading to the polls might be in a quandary; some superdelegates who have not yet committed their support are in a quandary. But of the observers, Professor Smith should have said, “Everybody is in the same state of uncertainty . . .” or, more succinctly, “We’re not certain . . .”, or, even better, “We dunno.”
In this regard, I recommend this Polo & Higgins video on YouTube, which offers these lessons: First, it is a beautifully low-key illustration of a quandary. Second, it is a spelling lesson, in that it employs as its title the common misspelling quandry. Third, it is an admirable example of making English one’s one, a concept the persnickitors hate but that I champion in the right circumstances. Because, as one of the Polo & Higgins creators later admitted:
Oh, and it seems like I’ve accidentally spelled “quandary” wrong in the title sequence. I’m going to fix it by making “quandry” a new word.
I respect that. I’m a proponent of creative neology, and I’ve always advised budding neologists that if you’re going to make up a word, do it boldly, without apology (no rhyme intended).
But he got accidentally right, and another nod of respect for that, as it’s often misspelled accidently (but not on purpose). Spell it correctly? Spell it the way I like? Such a quandry!
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