by Ammon Shea
I remind myself of the marvelous reply that the British mountaineer George Mallory gave to the New York Times in 1923 when asked why he wanted to climb Mount Everest: “Because it’s there.” Unfortunately, Mallory died during his attempt to climb the mountain, and while I have no illusions that my attempt will be nearly as perilous or dramatic as his, I can sympathize with his reasoning. The nineteen remaining volumes of the OED are there, sitting on my bookshelves, and if I give up reading now I know that I will forever wonder what is in them.
After my vision returns to normal I decide that what I need is a magnifying glass. I dig out the magnifier that comes with the compact edition of the OED (the malicious version that has four pages of text condensed on each page of paper) and begin reading again. It does not work as I intended it to. Its partial success at magnifying the text pales in comparison to its complete success in bringing back my headaches and squints.
My friend Peter suggests that I buy myself an overhead projector, so I can put a screen up on the wall and read the books on it. This is a tremendously appealing thought, and I imagine myself reading the OED as if it were a movie. But when I look into getting one I find that the affordable models require one to place the book facedown on the machine, meaning that I would have to pick the book up and turn it over, flip a page, and then place it back down—more than ten thousand times. This seems impractical.
I reluctantly decide that the OED is meant to be read unencumbered by technology. And so that is how I read it, helped along by a cup of espresso once every hour or so. After eight days, when I finally reach azymous (adj.—unleavened), I feel a shiver of pleasure and relief; not because I think it an interesting word, but because it is the last word in A, which means I am starting to make some progress.
Abluvion (n.) Substance or things that are washed away.
Chances are you have never stared at the dirty bathwater washing down the drain and wondered, Is there a word for that? but now you will forever be cursed with the knowledge that indeed there is. also see: illutible
Accismus (n.) An insincere refusal of a thing that is desired.
As in: “No, please, I really would like for you to have the last donut.”
Acnestis (n.) On an animal, the point of the back that lies between the shoulders and the lower back, which cannot be reached to be scratched.
I am very glad I found this word early in my reading of the OED—the fact that there existed a word for this thing which previously I had been sure lacked a name was such a delight to me that suddenly the whole idea of reading the dictionary seemed utterly reasonable. also see: onomatomania
Addubitation (n.) A suggestion of doubt.
My favorite kinds of words are not the grand and dramatic creations. Nor are they the short and brutish words that make up so much of our everyday speech. More than any others I love words like addubitation, words that describe a phenomenon about which you never even wondered.
Admurmuration (n.) An act of murmuring.
This word describes a recognizable phenomenon, as of the low roar of voices in between points at a tennis match. The OED notes that this word was “never used”—only having appeared in prior dictionaries—and thus its retention might be considered more hopeful on the editors’ part than lexicographic.
Advesperate (v.) To approach evening.
For all intents and purposes this word is almost useless, for I doubt that anyone will ever use it in conversation with me, and I fervently hope that I myself am never prone to utterances such as “Let’s hurry! It’s advesperating!” Nevertheless, this word brings me a great deal of pleasure, as occasionally when I am walking down the street and the light of day is about to change to the light of early evening, the word will flit through my mind, and I have a rush of joy from knowing how to name such an ephemeral moment.
Advocitate (v.) To call upon frequently.
The secret and inescapable fear of unstudied schoolchildren the world over—that they will be advocitated.
Aeipathy (n.) “Continued passion.” ( John Craig, A New Universal . . . Dictionary of the English Language, 1847)
Although John Craig does indeed define this medical term thusly, I should point out that his is not the only definition listed in the OED, and also that passion did not always have the same meaning that it does today. The OED also states that Robert Mayne’s Expository Lexicon of 1853 defines this word as a “term for an unyielding or inveterate disease.” It is unclear to me whether this discrepancy is due to Craig using the word passion in an antiquated sense or because Mayne thought of love as a sickness.
also see: resentient, unlove
Aerumnous (adj.) Full of trouble.
More descriptive than troublesome, and with far more gravitas than irksome, aerumnous is practically begging to be reintroduced to our vocabulary. It describes everything from your squalling children to the used car that your wife’s brother managed to sell you last year.
Agathokakological (adj.) Made up of both good and evil.
Agathokakological is an imposing and meaty word. Don’t be
scared of it; you don’t have to use it in casual conversation.
Sometimes it’s enough to merely know that a word exists in
order to enjoy it.
also see: jocoserious
Agelastic (n.) A person who never laughs.
Grim, but with fewer wrinkles.
also see: cachinnator, hypergelast
Agerasia (n.) A lack of the signs of age; a youthful old age.
Many words in English have a similar meaning to agerasia; however, this is one of the few that does not seem to have any connotations of childishness or immaturity attached to it.
Airling (n.) A person who is both young and thoughtless.
Although it might well seem redundant to specify a person as both young and thoughtless (how many words do you know for one who is young and thoughtful?), airling does us the favor of employing a certain amount of both gracefulness and economy.
All-overish (adj.) Feeling an undefined sense of unwell that extends to the whole body.
It is rare that we are presented with a word simultaneously so vague and so useful. The next time you call in sick to work because you simply do not feel like going, all-overish presents the perfect description for what is ailing you.
Ambidexter (n.) A person who accepts bribes from both sides.
To be perfectly fair to ambidexter, this definition is not the only one the OED lists. Ambidexter also refers to a person who is unusually dextrous, or who is two-faced in a general sense. However, the earliest instance of the word, in a book from 1532 titled Use of Dice Play, employs it to mean “one who takes bribes indiscriminately.”
Ambisinistrous (adj.) Having two left hands; clumsy.
This word is more or less the opposite of ambidextrous (which has as its etymological root “two right hands”).
Anonymuncule (n.) An anonymous, small-time writer.
This delightful word is the result of combining anonymous
with the Latin word homunculus (“little man”).
also see: bully-scribbler
Anpeyn (v.) To exert a great deal of effort; to try one’s hardest.
Much more evocative than strain, strive, or struggle.
Antapology (n.) A response or reply to an apology.
Antapologies come in two flavors: gracious acceptance and self-righteous fury.
Antinomian (n.) A person who claims that moral law has no authority over Christians.
A number of sects have espoused antinomianism over the
years, but this word, as listed in the OED, specifically refers to
one that formed in Germany in 1535, which purportedly held
the view that under the “law of grace” its members were exempt
from moral law.
also see: misdevout
Antipelargy (n.) “The reciprocal love of children to their parents.” (Thomas Blount, Glossographia, 1656)
An idealistic wor
d. While there is a similar word for the love
that parents feel for their children (storge), there is, to the best
of my knowledge, no word to describe the irritation that either
parents or children feel for the other.
also see: storge
Anti-rumour (v.) To raise an opposing rumor.
Ah, the contrary rumor. Many, if not most of us, like to think
that we’d gracefully turn the other cheek upon discovering
that we’re the subject of some nasty and scurrilous rumor.
Perhaps we’d shake our head a bit sadly and murmur something
philosophical in French. This is rot; most of us will immediately
try to come up with an anti-rumour that is far worse
than the one spread about us.
also see: countercozen
Antisocordist (n.) An opponent of laziness or idiocy.
Along with cleaner of the Aegean stables and high school English teacher, being an antisocordist is one of the most thankless and hopeless jobs available. It invites comparison with another word that comes up slightly later in the alphabet, futilitarian—one who is devoted to futility.
Antithalian (adj.) Opposed to fun or merriment.
Taken from anti- and Thalia, the Greek muse of comedy. May be applied with equal facility to any number of institutions or individuals one comes across in life.
Apricity (n.) The warmth of the sun in winter.
A strange and lovely word. The OED does not give any citation for its use except for Henry Cockeram’s 1623 English Dictionarie . Not to be confused with apricate (to bask in the sun), although both come from the Latin apricus, meaning exposed to the sun.
Arrision (n.) The action of smiling at.
I don’t know why arrision never caught on. Perhaps because it rhymes with derision.
Aspectabund (adj.) Having an expressive face.
Aspectabund appears to be a word whose time has come and gone, its only citation in the OED being from the year 1708. As a word it is almost entirely forgotten; and perhaps soon, as cosmetic procedures continue to work their magic, the very notion of having an expressive face will be forgotten as well.
Assy (adj.) “Asinine.” (OED)
It is infinitely comforting to find that within the hallowed pages of this monumental work of scholarship, some lexicographer saw fit to insert at least one truly memorable four-letter word.
Astorgy (n.) A lack of natural affection.
Astorgy seems to refer to the absence of love or affection toward
the people in your life whom you should feel kindly toward—
parents, children, and the like. It should not be taken as a substitute for the vague misanthropy that so many of us feel.
also see: unlove
Atechny (n.) A lack of skill; a lack of knowledge of art.
Reading through the dictionary, I am struck again and again
by the fact that many words that describe common things
are obscure, while many words that describe obscure things are
widely known. For example, everyone knows the word dinosaur,
even though no one has ever seen or met one. Yet, even
though we are faced each and every day with artistic ignorance
and lack of skill, very few of us know the word atechny.
also see: cacotechny, mataeotechny
Atrate (n.) One dressed in black; a mourner.
Although atrate is used rather specifically to describe a mourner, it is still quite nice to know that since at least the early seventeenth century there has been a word for that thoroughly modern character, the Goth teen (or average New Yorker) dressed all in black. We also have a word for describing someone who is wearing scarlet (coccinated) and the state of being dressed in purple (porporate).
Avidulous (adj.) “Somewhat greedy.” (Nathan Bailey, Dictionarium Brittanicum, 1731)
Not excessively greedy, just somewhat greedy. The perfect word to describe such occurrences as when the cashier gives too much change and we neglect to draw his attention to it. The OED does not define it as such, but I like to think of avidulous as “acceptably greedy.”
B
THE HEADACHES CONTINUE AS I READ, but they are not as troubling as they were when I was reading through A. It is not that they are any less severe, but I have come to view them in a different light. Whereas I previously looked upon them as an affliction, albeit a minor one, I now see them as a sign of progress. The more I read, the worse the headache will be. When I find a word that is particularly interesting my pulse will race just a little, and the headache will keep pace with my pulse, a more palpable indication of interest and excitement than a slightly increased heartbeat.
I’ve moved from merely being inured to these headaches to actively embracing them, and they in turn have taken on a life of their own. They keep their own schedule, one that more or less mirrors mine, although I think that they are lazier than I am. The first echoes of that delicious pang usually do not arrive until eleven in the morning, when I’ve already been reading for hours. But the headache rolls up its sleeves and gets to work soon enough, and by the time lunch rolls around it seems to be considerably more energetic than I am.
It will usually proceed to keep its throbbing pace constant for the remainder of the afternoon, relinquishing its grip only several hours after I have stopped reading. On Saturdays, when I do not read the dictionary, I cannot help but feel something is missing from my body.
Perhaps it is absurd to attempt to measure how much work I’ve done based on the level of physical discomfort I feel. But when I’ve spent the past four hours sitting in a chair, buried in a book, and I finally stand up and find that my back cracks and my head pounds and the room spins a bit, well, it’s depressing to simply think “I’m getting old, sitting here while I read this book,” and so I choose instead to view the headache as a sign of accomplishment. I suppose I could take an aspirin, or do some exercises that are unproven to relieve such pains, or even read less, but all of these options seem uninviting.
The notes I’ve been keeping as I read have been giving me a headache of an entirely metaphorical nature as they become increasingly disorganized and incoherent. I am only partly through B and my apartment is becoming covered with bits and pieces of paper, splattered with words and ink blots. I have pieces of paper taped to the walls, lying on the floor, and inserted in the dictionary as bookmarks. I have come up with a system of abbreviations to write in the margins that tell me what is interesting about the words I’ve written down, and what else I want to find out about them. This system sometimes works quite well, and other times serves only to confuse me further. Recently I found a receipt on which I had written “! → ???*—Eutrapely—(more, & Shipley?).” I have no idea what this means.
After spending a number of hours trying to pull together all the scraps of paper, I decide I need a new system of keeping notes. I seek out and buy a ledger from the nineteenth century that has somehow managed to make it through more than a hundred years without anyone writing in it. It is a good-sized book, measuring fifteen by ten inches and weighing about six pounds, with five hundred pages of nicely yellowed paper.
It is large enough that I’ll be able to fit all of my notes in it, and it makes for a pleasant and comforting weight as it sits on my lap. The more I read the more it becomes filled with a combination of jottings and coffee stains, testament to both my need for coffee and my inability to balance my cup on the book as I write.
Beethoven spent an enormous amount of time copying by hand the music of Bach and other composers he admired, as a means of learning their music. I have seen no evidence, nor do I expect to, that copying thousands of words and definitions will turn me into the lexicographic equivalent of a great German composer. But writing these words by hand, and letting the ink bleed into my fingers, is so far the only way that I’ve found of retaining them.
I balance the book and the coffee cup as I sit by the windo
w in a large armchair, with my feet resting on an ottoman. On a small table to my right I keep extra papers, pens, and empty coffee cups. To my left is the window, curtains drawn back, in case I want to look out at the street. I rarely do—if I glance up from the book it is usually to look across the room to where the bookshelves are.
A wall of dictionaries stands there, housed in a sturdy lattice of shelves that are painted a deep shade of red and extend from one side of the room to the other, from the floor to the ceiling. I built them some years ago, after discovering that the weight of my dictionaries was causing my store-bought shelves to fall apart. I’d wanted to get a rolling library ladder to go with them, but those are unreasonably expensive, so I instead built them with extra-thick wood so I can climb them like a ladder when I need to reach a book near the top. Most of the dictionaries on that wall exist in bits and pieces in the OED, and whenever I come across a citation from one I find that my eyes will dart over to the shelf where that book is housed.
I find B wildly entertaining. It’s possible that I feel this way simply because of the enormous number of words that begin with be-, a sort of superprefix descended from Old English which has the power to form intensive and derivative verbs, turn substantives and adjectives into verbs, and do your laundry for you in its spare time. Stretching on for hundreds of pages, be- is responsible for such gems of the language as bedinner (to take to a dinner), bespew (to vomit on), and bemissionary (to annoy with missionaries).
B is also the letter in which I realize fully just how repetitious our language can be. A large number of words are more or less defined as “a stupid person,” and even more words refer to a woman of dubious moral fiber (usually defined as “an untidy woman,” a turn of phrase I believe had more pejorative connotations 150 years ago than it does today). Initially I wrote all these words down, fascinated that there should be enough interest in these things to warrant such a profusion of synonyms.
But as time wore on I realized that words to describe stupid people are not much more interesting than stupid people themselves. And while it is interesting that our language has such a variety of ways to describe untidy women, it does not interest me enough that I want to know what all of these words are.
