by Ammon Shea
Painstaker (n.) One who takes pains.
The kind of person who is greatly advantageous to have along on a camping trip.
Palaeolatry (n.) Excessive reverence for that which is old.
A curious form of nostalgia, extending far back to before when the person who feels it was even born. People who suffer from palaeolatry always seem to focus exclusively on the glories of the past, and never get around to mentioning the things that came along with them, such as a life expectancy that was half what it is now, wholesale slaughter, and bimonthly bathing. also see: mumpsimus
Pandiculation (n.) The act of stretching and extending the limbs, in tiredness or waking.
Everyone does it, and no one knows what to call it.
Panurgic (adj.) Ready for anything.
Panurge was a character Rabelais created, and he certainly lived up to his name. The roots of it are the Greek words pan and ourgos (“one who does anything”).
Parabore (n.) A defense against bores.
It would be a very lovely thing indeed if there existed some magical device that you could carry around with you to ward off bores. The closest thing to this I have seen is a contraption Alix gave me a few years back: a little black box on a key chain that will turn off every nearby TV with the push of a button. I carried it with me everywhere and used it whenever I came across that particular form of boredom.
Paracme (n.) The point at which one’s prime is past.
It is potentially one of the most depressing points in a person’s life—the instant they first realize they can no longer do some or many of the things that they formerly could. In other words, the it’s-all-downhill-from-here point. However, most of us seem to be equipped with abilities of self-delusion potent enough that we are able to convince ourselves that this is not so for years past the point at which it is true.
Pathopoeia (n.) A passage designed to affect or arouse the emotions.
The single greatest example of this I can think of is the first movement of Igor Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring, which provoked a riot at its first performance in Paris in 1913 among the largely upper-crust attendees.
Patrizate (v.) To take after one’s father.
It seems that whether this is viewed as a good or a bad thing
varies from generation to generation.
also see: father-better, father-waur
Pavonize (v.) To behave as a peacock might.
Which either means to flaunt one’s appearance in a vain fashion, or to peck at the ground in the hopes of finding bits of food and to clean one’s hindquarters with one’s mouth.
Peccability (n.) Capacity for sinning.
It feels inappropriate that impeccable (not liable to sin), which is far more rare an occurrence, should so exceed in popularity the word that connotes the converse.
Pejorist (n.) One who thinks the world is getting worse.
I used to fall prey to the strangely comforting lull of being a
pejorist, but the more I think about it, the more I realize that
the world is pretty much the same degree of horrible it has always
been.
also see: deteriorism
Penultimatum (n.) The final demand before an ultimatum.
A heady mix of penultimate and ultimatum, the penultimatum is the demand that you set forth when you are too scared of what the possible results of an actual ultimatum would be.
Peristeronic (adj.) “Suggestive of pigeons.” (OED)
Although I did spend the better part of a year of my life reading this dictionary, and in doing so lost some of my eyesight and much of my mind, it was certainly not in vain. After all, one cannot put a value on such things as knowing a word that is defined as “suggestive of pigeons.”
Perpotation (n.) An instance of drunkenness.
This is one of the words the OED does not provide its own definition for, relying instead on the writings of previous lexicographers to tell us what the word means. This practice works well for the most part, but occasionally gives rise to possible misunderstanding. For instance, under the entry for perpotation we are told not only that Henry Cockeram defined it in 1623 as “ordinarie drunkenesse,” but also that Nathan Bailey defined the same word in 1721 as “a thorough drunkenness.” What are we to make of this—that Cockeram was a lush? Or perhaps that Bailey couldn’t hold his liquor? It is possible that the word simply changed its meaning in the hundred years between the two books.
Pertolerate (v.) To endure steadfastly to the end.
I am of the opinion that the word tolerate should be used to describe enduring life’s everyday banalities. Pertolerate, on the other hand, as it refers to seeing something through to the bitter end, should be reserved for describing enduring something that is particularly grueling and tiresome, such as musical theater, or performances of any sort by children not your own. also see: sitzfleisch
Pessimum (n.) The worst possible conditions.
The anti-Candide word.
Petecure (n.) Modest cooking; cooking on a small scale.
Very few people eat in an epicurean fashion, yet many of them know what the word epicure means. A great many people eat in a simple fashion, and yet no one knows the word for this.
Petrichor (n.) The pleasant loamy smell of rain on the ground, especially after a long dry spell.
Petrichor is a fairly recent word, having been coined by Isabel Joy Bear and R. G. Thomas for an article they wrote in 1964. I first came across this some six or seven years ago, thought to myself, “What a lovely word,” and then promptly forgot what it was. I have spent far too much time since then wondering vainly what it was. When I found it there, buried in the midst of P, it was as if a kink in my lower back that had been plaguing me for years suddenly went away. also see: impluvious
Philodox (n.) A person in love with his own opinion.
The OED tells us this word is found chiefly in the translations of Montaigne, and it seems rather a pity that this should be so, since philodox (coming from the Greek words for “to love” and “opinion”) is readily applicable to so many people who have never even heard of Montaigne.
Pissupprest (n.) The holding in of urine.
I do not think this word requires any further explanation
from me.
also see: micturient
Plinyism (n.) “A statement or account of dubious correctness or accuracy, such as some found in the Naturalis Historia of Pliny the Elder (AD 23-79).” (OED)
Here is a word that makes me sad. Not because of its definition, but because of the man whose name it was taken from. Pliny the Elder was a distinguished Roman naturalist, the author of the Naturalis Historia, and sounds like an all-around interesting fellow. According to his nephew, he died during the eruption of Vesuvius because he wanted to stay to watch the volcano and help those in need. Yet in the OED his name is forever linked with error. Why? Because in 1702 a bitter small man by the name of Cotton Mather did not much care for Pliny and coined this word. Mather seems to have been the only person ever to have used the word, yet sometimes that is enough to gain entry into the annals of language, rightly or wrongly. Perhaps there should be a related term, something along the lines of mather, say, which would mean “to attack a writer of far greater stature than oneself.”
Postferment (n.) One’s removal to an inferior office. As opposed to preferment.
No, this word does not refer to having your desk moved out of the corner suite with the window and into the janitor’s closet. It is close in meaning to demotion, but with a somewhat broader connotation.
Postreme (n.) He who is last.
Although it also functions an adjective and an adverb, the appeal of postreme lies in the fact that you can use it to refer to a person. While it is true that the word is not defined with the notion of insulting someone, that doesn’t mean you cannot utilize it in such a fashion. After all, a word like postreme can describe the person who comes in last place, or is picked last, or is just generally lagging behind the
rest of humanity. In other words, it is the technical term for "loser.” also see: leese
Postvide (v.) To make plans for an event only after it has occurred.
As opposed to provide, the original meaning of which the OED defines as “to make provision for beforehand; to take measures to ensure that something shall not happen.” Postvide is the much less known and much more common antonym of this word.
Pot-fury (n.) Excitement or anger from drunkenness.
Pot has been used to describe the mood-alterer that one drinks far longer than it has been used to refer to the one that is smoked (sixteenth century versus early twentieth century). Pot-fury is just one of a host of words in which liquor has had a hand.
Pot-meal—a drinking bout.
Potpanion—a drinking companion.
Pot-punishment—the punishment of being forced to drink.
Pot-sure—bold or confident from the effects of alcohol.
Pottical—full of, or inspired by, alcohol.
also see: well-corned
Preantepenult (adj.) Not the last, not the one before the last, and not the one before the one before the last. The next one.
A sterling example of how it often can be far more confusing to use one word than several. It is far easier to say “the third from the last” than preantepenult.
Prend (n.) A mended crack.
A pithy word that gets right to the point, and serves its purpose admirably, describing something for which I know of no other word. Sometimes I find myself wishing that our whole language was made up of these handy and monosyllabic words.
Propassion (n.) The initial stirrings of a passion.
Propassion comes from the postclassical Latin propassio, which the OED defines as a feeling that “precedes or anticipates desire or suffering.” Most of the uses of propassion are ecclesiastic in nature, and the passion referred to in the definition typically has more to do with “the Passion of the Christ” than it does the passion of the boudoir.
Psithurism (n.) The whispering of leaves moved by the wind.
Perhaps psithurism does not sound like a beautiful word to you, or as though it would describe a beautiful thing. But even a crank like me cannot resist the gentle rustling of autumnal leaves in a breeze, and every time I think of this word it brings that pleasing sound into my head. also see: undisonant
Psittacism (n.) The meaningless or mechanical repetition of words or phrases.
Although I had long thought that parrots and college students who have just begun taking classes in literary theory were the main sufferers of this malaise, I have recently come to realize that it afflicts just about everyone.
Q
SHORTLY AFTER RUNNING INTO a friend of mine who remarked that I look somewhat more sallow than he remembered, I decide I need to get out of the library basement. It is the middle of summer, and I have spent almost all of it, and the entirety of spring, in the corner of a subterranean and windowless room. I haven’t quite felt that I am missing anything; I’ve always considered summer to be the most overrated of the seasons, a nasty vulgar affair during which people feel compelled to visit places I don’t want to go (like the beach) and do things I don’t want to do (like swim and relax). And yet I don’t want to become too much of a recluse, and perhaps the fresh air will clear my head as I read.
After all, one of the joys of reading is that you can do it almost anywhere. I always have a book with me anyway, for those moments such as when the train arrives late, or is on time, or doesn’t show at all. I resolve to begin visiting other places to read, places that share none of the characteristics of where I have been reading—places with no fluorescent lighting, Formica desks, or low ceilings.
My first attempt is a small park at the easternmost end of Fifty-seventh Street. It’s a pleasant little patch, large trees overhead and what seems to be a perpetual and gentle breeze blowing through. There is shade, and a number of moderately comfortable benches to sit on. Best of all, it overlooks the wide expanse of the East River, and occasionally an enormous ship floats by.
This seems almost ideal at first. It is outside, but quiet. I can read largely uninterrupted, and whenever the urge strikes me I can take my eyes from the page and look across the river. Sometimes it’s nice to look at things that are far away.
I enjoy a full two hours of reading in my bucolic urban oasis before the baby carriages begin arriving.
Perhaps some people can in fact read in a small park full of screaming children—I am not one of them. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised—after all, it is a children’s park. But it sounds less like a park than a place to which parents bring their children in order to teach them how to scream. I beat a hasty retreat to my library basement and spend the rest of the day sulkily reading.
The next weekend I decide to venture somewhat further afield, and take the train under the river and across to New Jersey. Hoboken has a number of pretty riverfront parks, some of which stretch, pierlike, far out into the river. I arrive there early on a Sunday morning and set myself on a bench near the water. It initially seems like a lovely place to read, just as the park on Fifty-seventh Street did. Boats meander toward the bay, birds lazy to and fro, and of course, the glory of Manhattan stretches down the skyline. And no screaming children are in sight.
As it turns out, the children are not necessary, as the wind does a more than satisfactory job of making reading impossible. The only way I can read without having the pages whipped back and forth by what seems like a petulant gale is if I turn my back to Manhattan and the river, shielding the OED while crouched over. Aside from being an uncomfortable position to sit in, this also means that when I look up all I see is a row of nasty little condominium towers, composed of wan brown brick and promising midlevel elegance. I finish the coffee I brought with me and rush back to the island of Manhattan.
Another week of reading in the library, another week of shushing college students, another week of reading to the hum of intermittently working fluorescent lighting, and I am ready to give reading outside another try. This time I go to Central Park, and after bicycling around for some while, I settle on a bench by a small boat pond.
It doesn’t work. There is no wind, and no screaming children. The weather is lovely, and at this early hour of the morning there are barely any people around. There is nothing wrong here; I just don’t like it as a spot to read. There are too many minor distractions—a dog runs by and pauses to sniff at my feet, a car honks somewhere in the distance, a jogger struggles by with labored breath. The world manages to intrude on my reading in a thousand small and unintentional ways.
Suddenly I’m aware that it doesn’t have to be so. I do not need to waste any more time in windy, noisy outdoor settings. Another of the joys of reading a great book is that the world at large is rendered superfluous for the time you spend reading. You do not need to bring the book out into the world—the world comes to you, through the book.
Now that this has been settled, I pack the OED back into my bag and return to my library basement, happy and content to reach out to the world, at least for now, through the pages of the book in my lap.
Even though I am somewhat buoyed by my newfound comfort in reading in isolation in my library basement, I have to say that Q has been a disappointment. I’m not sure why, but I’d been approaching this particular letter with a great deal of anticipation. Even though I’ve read through Q in a number of other dictionaries and don’t recall ever being bowled over, I still had this feeling that it would be full of wonderful and interesting words that somehow had previously escaped my notice.
Additionally, the twitch in the small muscles of my left eyelid has been getting steadily worse. And the recently found knowledge that the word muscle comes from the Latin word musculus (from the word for mouse, supposedly because the movement of a muscle resembles that of a small mouse running underneath the skin) does nothing at all to make the twitch any less annoying.
Q is a boring letter, and I cannot in good conscience recomm
end that anyone buy the entire OED just to read it. The best thing to come out of Q is that during the reading of this letter I realize that most likely I will not lose my mind, perhaps because the section is so short that it gives me hope.
Perhaps twenty or twenty-five words are included that begin with a q not immediately followed by a u. If you are a Scrabble player and hunting for words such as these to baffle your opponents, do not read Q in the OED. Most of those non-qu words are not recognized by the Scrabble dictionary, and you will just lose your turn if you try to put them on the board.
Quaesitum (n.) The answer to a problem; the thing that is looked for.
It is a proven fact that if you use a big fancy word like quaesitum to describe your silly everyday problems it will be much more satisfying to solve them. At least that’s what I’ve heard.
Quag (v.) To shake (said of something that is soft or flabby).
Why is it that the most powerfully evocative words almost always evoke powerfully unpleasant images? The OED specifies that quag is an onomatopoeic word, which I find terribly disturbing.
Quaresimal (adj.) Said of a meal, having the qualities of food served during Lent; austere, skimpy.
Quaresimal is one of more than a hundred words listed in the OED for which James Joyce has provided the first citation. Other noteworthy words he coined include impotentizing (describing that which makes one impotent), pelurious (hairy), and smellsip (to smell and sip at the same time). also see: bouffage
Queaning (n.) Associating with women of immodest character.
At moments like this, when I see the OED clucking about associating with immodest women, I remember that a great deal of what I’m reading in it was actually written over a hundred years ago.
Quisquilious (adj.) Of the nature of garbage or trash.
From the Latin quisquilae (rubbish, trash), quisquilious is quite a fancy word for such a decidedly unfancy concept. I would enjoy it if more of our vocabulary did not match up with its meanings, and things of effervescent beauty were described with words such as skrug and more unpleasant things were described by words such as quisquilious.
