by Ammon Shea
Empleomania (n.) A manic compulsion to hold public office.
I would suggest that anyone who, in this day and age, is stricken with the urge to hold public office is deserving of this diagnosis, and should immediately be banned for life from “serving” the public in any capacity that requires more responsibility than that of a hot dog vendor.
Enantiodromia (n.) The adoption, by either a community or an individual, of beliefs opposite to those previously held.
The word that describes what happened to your childhood
friend who went from being a free-spirited and interesting person to getting his MBA, working at a stock brokerage firm, and
living in a gated community. The word to describe the friend
himself is schmuck.
also see: hansardize
Engouement (n.) Irrational fondness.
It is not at all clear to me why a French word meaning “obstruction in the throat” would come to be used in either French or English to mean unreasoning fondness. Nonetheless, engouement has the potential to be a remarkably useful word, covering everything from someone who enjoys eating snails to someone who enjoys Jerry Lewis.
Epizeuxis (n.) The repetition of a word with vehemence and emphasis.
As in “No, no, no!,” “Yes, yes, yes!,” or the ever popular “Why me? . . . Dear God, why me?”
Essoiner (n.) A person who offers an essoin, or an excuse for the absence of another.
Essoiner is a legal term, and properly designates a person who is officially authorized to present an excuse. I would not mind having one myself, and I am certainly prepared to officially authorize anyone who would care to make excuses for me.
Esurient (adj.) Hungry, in a figurative sense; also, poor and greedy.
The OED states that this word is now “humorously pedantic, ” a designation it frequently gives to absurd or ludicrous words. This always leaves me scratching my head, since while the words are very frequently pedantic, there is nothing at all humorous about this word, in either of its meanings.
Eumorphous (adj.) Well formed.
I felt much the same way when I found this word as I do when I come across a physical object that is itself well formed, and it does not matter whether it is a building that is well built or a cup of coffee well brewed; I’m always pleased in a rather hard-to -define fashion.
Eutrapely (n.) Pleasantness in conversation.
The OED contains no definition as such for this word; the editors instead rely on citations from earlier dictionaries. Most of these works seem to refer to eutrapely as “courtesy,” but there is also a note that mentions the word was originally used by Aristotle to describe “pleasantness in conversation,” a concept that has far fewer words to describe it than does courtesy, perhaps because it’s such a rare quality. also see: colloquialist, deipnosophist
Exauspicate (v.) To do something in an unlucky fashion.
One of the many meanings of the word auspicate is “to give a
fortunate beginning to.” One of the many meanings of the prefix ex- is “to take away, or deprive of.” Put them together and
you get this Hindenburg of words.
also see: jettatore
Excreable (adj.) Being able to be spit out.
This definition leads to the disturbing implication that there must also be things that cannot be spit out. I haven’t yet come across the word for this yet, and rather fervently hope that I do not.
Exfamiliation (n.) Exclusion from one’s family.
Just about every family has at least one member who has been
excluded, either due to past actions or simply as a matter of
principle, to keep the others on their best behavior.
also see: storge
Expalpate (v.) To get something through flattery.
Toady, truckle, wheedle, cajole, fawn, blandish—these are all
perfectly fine words that have some meaning along the lines of
“flatter.” But unlike expalpate, none of them imply that one
actually receives something from the flattery, making it all
worthwhile.
also see: elozable
Exsibilation (n.) The act of hissing someone off the stage.
Whenever I hear or read of the grand old custom of hissing someone off the stage I think to myself, “Here is a thing that has been lost to our culture.” In fact I mourn the loss of this far more than other departed social customs, such as rising from the table when a lady enters or exits, or teaching your child how to make seventeen different knots. This is the sort of knowledge we should be passing on to the next generation— how to hiss someone off the stage.
F
ONE OF THE QUESTIONS I HEAR most often regarding my plan to read the OED from cover to cover is “Why don’t you just read it on the computer?” I usually respond as if the question was “Why don’t you just slump yourself on the couch and watch TV for the year?” which is not quite an appropriate response. It is not so much that I am anticomputer; I am resolutely and stubbornly pro-book.
The OED was first released in computer format in 1989. While this initial attempt at a paperless dictionary was somewhat unwieldy to use, the newer electronic version is pretty spectacular. It can now be accessed online, which is how many people use it these days.
The electronic OED has an impressive arsenal of features, enabling its user to do things that are impossible to do merely by looking through the pages of a book. You can instantly find all the quotations by any cited author. You can find all the instances in which a specific word appears, and what’s more, you can specify whether you want the computer to search for that word in the definitions, the etymologies, or anywhere else. If you misspell a word in the search box a very helpful sidebar lists the words that come before and after the nonexistent one you typed in.
With a click of the mouse you can view an attractive chronological graph of the history of a word’s use. You can view all the latest entries that have been added to the dictionary or if you are feeling mildly antediluvian while in the midst of all this technology you can search through the older edition online. There is case-sensitive searching and exact character searching. There are filters for parts of speech and more options than I know what to do with. These are all wonderful functions; I have used all of them before, and will use all of them again.
But what about the things that you cannot do with the electronic version?
You cannot drop the computer on the floor in a fit of pique, or slam it shut. You cannot leave a bookmark with a note on it in a computer and then come upon it after several years and feel happy you’ve found something you thought you had lost. You cannot get any sort of tactile pleasure from rubbing the pages of a computer. (Maybe some people do get a tactile pleasure from rubbing their computers, but they are not people I have any interest in knowing anything about.)
Reading on a computer screen gives you no sense of time or investment. The page always looks the same, and everything is always in the same exact spot. When reading a book, no matter how large or small it is, a tension builds, concurrent with your progress through its pages. I get a nervous excitement as I see the number of pages that remain to be read draining inexorably from the right to the left. The fact that this will happen twenty times over as I read the OED does not in any way diminish its appeal.
I’ve never sat down at a new computer and, prior to using it, felt a deep and abiding need to open it up and sniff it as deeply as I can, the way I have with many a book. To me, computers all smell the same, and their smell is not a nice one. And though a computer will inarguably hold far more information than even the largest of books, sitting down at a computer has never provided me with that delicious anticipatory sense that I am about to be utterly and rhapsodically transported by the words within it.
I’ve never looked across the room at my computer and fondly remembered things that I once read in it. I can while away hours at a time just standing in front of my books and relive m
y favorite passages by merely gazing at their spines. I have never walked into a room full of computers, far from home, and immediately felt a warm familiarity come over me, the way I have with every library I’ve ever set foot in.
This is why I do not care to read the OED on the computer.
The copy of the OED I am currently reading is not even my favorite of the ones I own. The one I prefer to read is the 1933 edition, in its thirteen volumes of red buckram covers. The typeface is discernibly raised, and when I read it I keep my fingers splayed across its pages, enjoying the feel of the words on my fingertips.
I’m slightly abashed to admit that I own seven different copies of this dictionary. Aside from the twenty- and the thirteen-volume editions, I also have the four-volume supplement, both the two- and the ten-volume Shorter Oxford English dictionaries, the two-volume condensed type edition, and a random single-volume edition. Each of these works was created for a reason, and each has its own usefulness. It is only on rare occasions, such as when I’m moving, that I have any doubts as to whether I truly need them all.
Standing in front of the shelves in my living room and looking at all these variants of the same dictionary, representing as they do an impressive superfluity of information, it can be tempting to say that the computer renders them obsolete and unnecessary. But what does the computer know of the comforting weight of a book in one’s lap? Or of the excitement that comes from finding a set of books, dusty and tucked away in the back corner of some store? The computer can only reproduce the information in a book, and never the joyful experience of reading it.
Faciendum (n.) Something that should be done.
Although judging by the quotations used, the true meaning of this word is somewhat close to “duty,” I cannot help but think of it as referring to things that have to be done that I would rather not do, such as laundry and filing taxes. also see: inadvertist
Fard (v.) To paint the face with cosmetics, so as to hide blemishes.
I suspect there is a reason no one ever gets up from the table and says, “Excuse me while I go to the ladies’ room and fard.” It seems to be very difficult to make a four-letter word that begins with f sound like an activity that is polite to discuss at the dinner table.
Farouche (adj.) “Sullen, shy, and repellent in manner.” (OED)
Not all people who are shy fall into the category of inoffensive wallflowers who are really quite delightful once you get to know them. Some people are shy because they’ve discovered that when they let their real personality shine through the world at large doesn’t much care for them.
Father-better (adj.) Being better than one’s father. Father-waur (adj.) Being worse than one’s father.
Both father-better and father-waur are Scottish terms, and it
is interesting that they should distinguish being better than
and worse than one’s father, yet seemingly have no word for
“being exactly as good as one’s father.”
also see: patrizate
Fedity (n., pl.) Vile or repulsive practices.
It is never a bad idea to know one more word with which to describe foul or vile practices. Whether because you wish to condemn them or engage in them, it is certain to come in handy. also see: insordescent
Felicificability (n.) Capacity for happiness.
It seems rather a shame that such a beautiful concept should
have such an unappealing and unwieldy word attached to it.
Sometimes it is better not to create a word from a double
handful of Latin roots, even if they were on sale at the time.
Oh, well, you can’t choose your parents.
also see: happify
Filiism (n.) An excessive bias for one’s own son.
It is surprising that nepotism (which comes from the Latin root for “nephew”) should have pushed aside filiism (which comes, rather obviously, from the Latin root for “son”), but the ways of language, much like partiality for one’s son, often make very little sense.
Finifugal (adj.) Shunning the end of anything.
Many things in life deserve being finifugal about: the last twenty pages of a good book, a special meal that someone has just spent hours preparing for you, a slow walk in a light rain. also see: indesinence
Fleeten (adj.) Having the color of skim milk.
It is unclear to me why this is such a repulsive word. But it is.
Fleshment (n.) The sense of excitement that comes from an initial success.
The sense of excitement that results from a first success can be a delightful thing to behold—witnessing the first time a child manages to ride a bicycle unaided, for instance. And for the person experiencing this fleshment (which, by the way, is a terrible-sounding word for such a potentially sweet concept), it can impart the feeling that anything in this world is indeed possible. Unfortunately, it can also have the same effect when you win some small amount of money the first time you play at craps—the mistaken illusion that the world is your oyster.
Foiblesse (n.) A distinctive weakness or a weakness for something.
Foible has such an inelegant ring to it; it positively reeks of
bad habits and decisions of dubious merit; in contrast, foiblesse
makes the notion of having a weakness for something
seem acceptable, even downright commendable.
also see: hamartia
Fomes (n.) “Any porous substance capable of absorbing and retaining contagious effluvia.” (Robert Mayne, A Medical Vocabulary, 1862)
If you are one of those people who would rather balance precariously in the middle of a moving subway train rather than
hold on to the same handholds as the rest of the disease-ridden public, or you’re one of the contortionists who insists
on opening bathroom doors with your elbow, this is the word
for you. Pack it away in your brain, right next to the section
that reminds you to buy more bleach and antibacterial hand
wipes the next time you’re at the drugstore.
also see: mysophobia
Foreplead (v.) To ask too much in pleading.
You are pleading when you ask for your job back; you are fore-pleading when you ask for a raise to go with it.
Fornale (v.) To spend one’s money before it has been earned.
We live in a nation that is overwhelmingly and crushingly in debt, awash in credit card debt and subprime mortgages. How is it possible that the only word for “spending money before it is earned” is an obsolete Scottish one?
Forplaint (adj.) Tired from complaining.
It can indeed be tiring, having to constantly remind the world at large that it does not quite live up to your exacting standards. We should recognize those among us who are forplaint, and thank them for their selflessness in trying to better our world with their ceaseless haranguing and nitpicking.
Frauendienst (n.) An exaggerated sense of chivalry toward women.
An example of the evolving notion of chivalry. Frauendienst was the title of a thirteenth-century work by Ulrich von Lichtenstein, in which he details all the utterly remarkable things that he accomplished in the service of his preferred lady (defeating hundreds of opposing warriors, undergoing mutilation, and the like).
G
WHEN I FIRST BEGAN READING THE OED I envisioned it as a project in which I would while away my days at home, flitting back and forth between a comfortable armchair and the kitchen, happily reading and occasionally staring ruminatively out the window. But it turns out that reading at home doesn’t work very well. There are far too many distractions.
The car alarm that goes off every day at noon is a distraction. The neighbors upstairs, playing their horrible dance music and shuffling about in what sounds like metal-soled clogs, are a distraction. The couple across the hall who cook salt cod four days a week, opening the door to their apartment and ventilating the smell into mine, is a distraction. And most of all, having all my other dictionaries right h
ere is a distraction.
I find myself constantly drawn to my bookshelves to check on something, whether it’s a word that isn’t in the OED but I think I’ve seen somewhere else, years ago, or it’s a definition I’ve just read in the OED that doesn’t match what I think I’ve seen in some other edition of Webster’s Third or Funk and Wagnalls. So I get up, telling myself that I’ll just look for this one small thing, and the next thing I know I’m surrounded by competing dictionaries, all of which are clamoring for my attention. Thirty minutes run by, and while I may have leafed through twenty different definitions of some particular word, I haven’t got any reading done.
So I decide to begin reading in libraries. You can find the OED in almost any major library, which is pleasant, as I do not enjoy lugging it around with me. It is like the Gideons Bible of the library system: ubiquitous, and yet I never see anyone using it. But someone must be reading it, as in each library I have visited the copy of the OED shows obvious signs of wear and use. Some are so heavily worn that I wonder if it is being used for some purpose other than as a reference book, as if someone has been stacking the volumes up and using them as a stepladder.
Each one has discernible signs of use, sometimes through a particular page being significantly grimier than the rest, and sometimes through impromptu editorializing. Entries will be crossed out, or exclamation points show up next to words that particularly interested someone. These words that have aroused the most interest usually seem to be ones with definitions someone might disagree with, such as epithets based on gender or race. Every single copy I have seen has had some pages ripped out, although it is not clear to me whether this happened because the reader was covetous of what was on the page and wanted to keep it, or was offended by it and wanted to keep it from the world.
Having many fond memories from my youth of the various New York City public libraries I decide they will be excellent places to read. I pack a bag with a lunch and some coffee and head down to the glorious main reading room of the Forty-second Street branch. My stay there lasts about three hours, enough time to be scolded by several clerks, to see at least three men who seem inordinately fond of scratching themselves, and to witness one fairly spectacular fistfight, complete with chairs and books being thrown and a phalanx of library guards charging into the room. This is all very entertaining, but not conducive to reading, so I set about finding another library.
