Ignoring the urge to read another Dickens tome at the expense of other lesser known (to me) authors, my eye drifted to the familiar orange and white backdrop of a pile of Penguin classics. I perused the pile at length, at last settling on two distinct yet equally appealing titles: ‘One flew over the cuckoo’s nest’ and ‘Jane Eyre’.

I digested the former first, assuming a pace commensurate with the goings on of McMurphy and his band of nuts. Whilst mildly discomforting and unsettling, the second half of the book was very hard to lay aside and a couple of decent sessions enabled me to polish it off in relatively short order. Storm will now have the pleasure of wishing to continue and cease reading simultaneously…

While I’m only 6 chapters into Jane Eyre, reading it has reminded me why I love delving into older literature. A familiarity with modern vernacular and turns of phrase (perhaps with the exception of the likes of David Foster Wallace and authors with a propensity to unnecessarily drop obscure, difficult words, like trophies, into their prose) means that the English language takes a back seat.

In older novels, however, the dynamism (and evolution) of the English language is brought to the fore. Euphemistic and linguistic oddities (at least to the modern eye) pique an interest in the language itself, no longer consigning it to the analogous equivalent of a ‘Coolibah tree’ in a primary school theatrical rendering.

We’re (or at least I’m) encouraged to think about the roots of words that we use mutliple times in quotidian life. Once firmly established linguistic pairings, where one has now fallen into obscurity, become reunited and illuminated.

The simple example that dragged me down this path of drivel is the word ‘ruth’. I have no memory of reading or hearing or using this word in isolation yet it abounds in the form ‘ruthless’.

“ruth – /ru?/ [rooth]
– noun
1. pity or compassion.
2. sorrow or grief.
3. self-reproach; contrition; remorse.

Origin:
1125–75; ME ruthe, reuthe.”

Other examples include the use of dread as an adjective “a dread place”, the use of ‘quail’ as a verb, and the employment of words such as ‘opprobrium’ and ‘animadversions’.

In other instances, I’m happy to see that words like ‘dingy’ have a heritage much longer than I would’ve presumed. Who knows what other gems will be turned over in the course of the next 500 pages?

On the topic of language, I did notice the phrase ‘they’d of’ in Cuckoo. Would there be anything wrong with taking two well entrenched abbreviations ‘d and ‘ve and making a triple composite “they’d've”? Is there a precedent, or a future, for such a contraption as this?!? Or will it meet with a tumult of insuperable animadversions and dread opprobrium?!? Ummm… ok…

That’s what I call the sensation I get when I open a piece of fruit that has every outward appearance of being totally awesome only to discover that it is anything but. Examples of the dupe include a mouthwateringly inviting apple that turns out to be completely floury upon the moment of tooth-sink; an avocado which is perfect to touch and which begs to be smeared on the quintessential toastie with tomato and cheese, only to reveal itself as being poo-brown and mushy on the interior.

The double dupe occurs when the piece of produce in question has been given significant pre-consumption thought (perhaps through song or verse – “I’m gonna eat you toastie, oh yeah, toastie you’re gonna be awesome in my belly.”) and it turns out to be the very last of your stock.

Today’s rant was brought to you by the wonderously excquisite looking navel orange that turned out to be be a dupe: dry, anti-succulent tripe – like chewing the lining off a week old sausage.

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Which makes me a tarso-mandibulator…

Storm on the other hand is a wonderful dancer – ‘tarso-manipulator’.

A subtle but important distinction.

Here is a nice little article on office jargon I found on the BBC news website.

Example of use – “He was a jovial, Jovian sort of fellow; given that he had a prominent red spot in the middle of his rather large and bloated face (indeed, some say it could be seen from space)”

In an example of semantic progression, Guy Fawkes’ name is also the origin of the word “guy” in the English language, particularly in American spoken English. The burning on 5th November of an effigy of Fawkes, known as a “guy”, led to the use of the word “guy” as a term for “a person of grotesque appearance,” according to the Oxford English Dictionary. Over time, the word evolved to become a general reference for a man, as in “some guy called for you.” In the 20th century, under the influence of American popular culture, “guy” gradually replaced “fellow,” “bloke,” “chap” and other such words in many English-speaking countries. In some dialects “you guys” has become the second person plural.

See link (may not work outside of UQ – not sure)

My question is…what happens if more than one of us are being dorks…

“How big a dorks are we?” – surely the ‘a’ is out of place…What is the plural of ‘a’? ‘Some’?

“How big some dorks are we?” That just doesn’t sound like the duck’s nuts to me…

The Answer: Be a dork ALONE…don’t be part of a larger poncho of dorks… I’m assuming the collective of dorks is ‘poncho’…And true to my word…surely this post attests to the fact that I am, in fact, alone…and, ipso facto, a dork.’

[Update] – “How big a bunch of dorks are we?” Although the question remains, what’s big? The bunch or the size of relative dorkiness…?

I love the etymology of words. Quite plainly and simply it’s great to look at a word you’ve used for 21 years and go, ‘Huh, that’s where it comes from. I never thought of that’. (‘sophisticated’ is a case in point for me). It’s like looking at your girlfriend and realising that she actually has hitherto unseen nose-stud, or third nipple. It’s like an instantaneous loss of familarity with a subsequent understanding that your relationship with the word is now richer and more complete (I know where you come from, and I appreciate and love you)…

Using the derivations of words, it is only natural that we should be able to create new words as we see fit, combining components that previously had nought to do with each other. The process has been occuring for milennia yet has given rise to a few queries in my mind of late…

If philosophy is the love of wisdom, what is the ‘wisdom of love?’ – Sophophily? Could it be that way back when, they mixed it up and ‘philosophers’ should be called ‘sophophiles’? Should philosophy be renamed Sophology?

What about Sophosophy? – The wisdom of wisdom – a little truistic but still valid…

I love philanthropists…does that make me a philanthrophile? Or conversely a misanthrophobe?

meh…

Now, for me, deviate has a directionality – that is, I can only go one way in deviance, away from the (correct) path. It would be difficult to deviate from deviance, for example (unless one slides further into decrepitude).

So what happens when someone leaves behinds their deviant ways and rejoins the correct path or road. Well, it’s only logical that they ‘reviate’.

re.vi.ate (v. intr.)
re.vi.at.ed, re.vi.at.ing, re.vi.ates

1. To rejoin the road after a period of deviance. – After beating around the backroads of New Mexico, we finally reviated onto Route 43.
2. To subject oneself to the norms and rules of society after turning one’s back on an earlier deviant lifestyle. -Thank goodness Jimmy has finally reviated after those months of abject alcoholism.

n.
A reviant – Smitty you little reviant you!

Constantipation n. – The affliction of being constipated for prolonged periods of time (e.g. forever); even when struck by a bout of diarrhea.