by Ammon Shea
I soon realize why, as un- goes on for 451 pages, and reading a 451-page list composed largely of self-explanatory words is only slightly more exciting than reading the phone book.
After ten pages of this I think to myself, “This isn’t so bad.”
After twenty pages I begin entertaining thoughts of just skipping ahead to the end, reading the last un- word and pretending the whole thing never happened.
After fifty pages I sink deep into a petulant rage and turn the pages violently, occasionally tearing one, as though this whole enterprise was the invention of some cruel taskmaster other than myself.
By the time I’ve read one hundred pages I am near catatonic, bored out of my mind, and so listless I can’t remember why wanted to read any of this in the first place. At this point, telling myself “You only have 351 more pages of un- words to go” does not seem helpful. I don’t quite feel as though I have lost my mind, but it often seems as though it is on vacation somewhere else, just east of sanity.
I am convinced there must be some other use for this section of dictionary aside from it being an extraordinarily thorough scholarly record of some small corner of the alphabet. It could be used to lull unruly children to sleep or as an effective threat of punishment. It could be used to remove unwanted guests (“I would really love to read you some of my favorite pages from un-”). It could be used in much the same fashion that some convenience stores use Muzak, blasting it into their parking lots at night in order to repel idle teenagers.
But at certain points in the vast tundra of un-, in the midst of wondering why I don’t just skip ahead and pretend I’ve read every word, I come across an entry so remarkably singular that it rouses me just enough to continue reading. Words such as unbepissed (which refers to something that has not been urinated on) and underlive (to live in a manner that does not measure up to one’s potential).
Because it is at times such as this, under the duress of unrelenting tedium, that the true appeal of reading the dictionary makes itself known. It’s not that I’m a great fan of boring activities, but they do make the rest of life that much more special when they come alive.
Ultra-crepidarian (n.) One who offers advice or criticism in matters beyond his scope; an ignorant or presumptuous critic.
Ultra-crepidarian is a word born of a strange etymology. It comes from the Latin ultra crepidam (beyond the sole), which is itself a shortening of the response the ancient Greek painter Apelles famously gave to the shoemaker who had dared to repeatedly criticize his work.
Umbriphilous (adj.) Fond of the shade.
Although this is a botanical word, used to describe things arboreal, I choose to use it to describe myself.
Unasinous (adj.) Being equal to another in stupidity.
If you are uncertain how one might use this word, just think of any two political parties. also see: constult
Unbepissed (adj.) Not having been urinated on; unwet with urine.
Who ever thought there was an actual need for such a word?
Is it possible that at some time there was such a profusion of
things that had been urinated on that there was a pressing
need to distinguish those that had not?
also see: lant
Unconversable (adj.) Not suitable for social converse.
The more time I spend reading the dictionary, the more unconversable I become. After a long day trying to wrestle obscure polysyllabic words into my brain I have difficulty engaging in any conversation beyond “make it a double.”
Undisonant (adj.) Making the sound of waves.
The sound I believe is the most beautiful in the world, and the
only conceivable reason to live in California.
also see: psithurism
Unlove (v.) To cease loving a person.
There is no easy way to tell someone that you no longer love them, and this rather obvious and blunt word does not offer even the slightest bit of euphemistic cover.
Upchuck (v.) To vomit.
According to the OED’s citations for upchuck, the word was included in Harold Wentworth and Stuart Berg Flexner’s magisterial Dictionary of American Slang (1960), which also supplied the additional information, “Considered a smart and sophisticated term c 1935, esp. when applied to sickness that had been induced by over-drinking.” This is a classic example of language change: upchuck no longer has quite the same panache.
Utinam (n.) An earnest wish or yearning.
Utinam is derived from a Latin word of the same spelling,
which originally meant “oh, that!” Etymologies like this one
make me doubt that languages are in fact formed in a logical
rule-based fashion.
also see: desiderium
V
ONE MORNING IN THE MIDST of this colossal project I woke up and, with mounting horror, realized that I actually knew the differences between Jacobean, Jacobian, Jacobin, and Jacobine. I did my utmost not to think about it, and the knowledge soon passed from my mind. But it is probably still lurking around in there somewhere, hiding in some dark corner, waiting for just the right inappropriate moment to jump out and ruin whatever conversation I might be having.
This got me wondering just how much useless information I’ve picked up through all this OED reading. A considerable amount, I would guess. I like to think that I’ll forget it all soon, but I’m afraid that won’t be the case. Some small part of my brain will be busying itself with holding on to all the words that are defined as “hiera picra” (nine) or all the different obscure words that begin with g and mean “to gnash the teeth” (granch, grassil, grent, grint, grist, and gristbite).
It might be a small part of my brain that is busying itself with these minutiae, but there’s a lot of minutiae flowing in, and at some point it has to take a toll on how well my brain functions in other areas. Some part of my unconscious is forever occupied with trying to match a word with its definition or to remember what that funny etymology was. I imagine there are prefixes and suffixes forever becoming stuck, like bits of mud or grit, in the cogs of my memory. If I don’t find a way to clear all this useless information out I’m afraid my critical faculties will seize up like a computer that has been asked to do too many things at once, and I’ll forget how to speak altogether.
But is all this information really any more useless than much of the rest of the knowledge I’ve accumulated over the years? For example, at some point in the last thirty years I learned that An-drew Jackson’s nickname was “Old Hickory” and that an earth-worm experiences a rise in temperature of about one degree Fahrenheit for every three hundred feet it burrows into the ground. Are granch, grassil, and the rest of the teeth-gnashing words of any less value?
I have managed to willfully prevent one small bit of knowledge from entering my brain. Even though I now know that there are nine different words in the OED defined as “hiera picra,” I have absolutely no idea what a hiera picra is. I’d already become tired of this definition by the time I reached H, and in a small and petty act of obstinacy I refused to read this one entry when I came across it. If you meet me at a cocktail party or in a library basement, please don’t quiz me on it.
Valentine (v.) To greet with song at mating-time (said of birds).
When birds open their mouths and let forth with song in the hopes of attracting a mate it falls into the category of “marvel of nature.” When a man does this same activity it falls into the category of “grounds for a restraining order.”
Vanitarianism (n.) The pursuing of vanities.
Only one citation is provided for this word, and it comes, rather unsurprisingly, from Thackeray, a writer who seems to have an unreasoning fondness for the word vanity. also see: quomodocunquize
Velleity (n.) A mere wish or desire for something without accompanying action or effort.
Every once in a while I come across a word which years ago I misplaced and had long since forgotten. Velleity is one such word. Whenever I find a word like thi
s it puts me in a good mood for several hours. It is as if I’ve just found money in my pocket that I’d forgotten was there. also see: twi-thought
Vicambulist (n.) One who walks about in the streets.
Now that streetwalker has taken on connotations some people may not care to ascribe to themselves, we have a dearth of words to describe someone who simply likes to walk about in the streets of a city. Here’s hoping vicambulist will enter everyday language anew. also see: solivagant
Videnda (n., pl.) Things worth seeing ; things that ought to be seen.
What every travel guidebook promises to capture and never actually does. Which must be why one so often sees them being sold in the dollar bin at used bookstores, or on window ledges, propping up air conditioners.
Vitativeness (n.) The love of life.
Let the French keep their joie de vivre and the Germans keep their freude zu leben, we have no need of these silly Continental expressions now. Actually, you’re much more likely to get your point across if you use the expression joie de vivre than if you go with vitativeness, which seems to be a term used primarily by phrenologists in the nineteenth century.
Vocabularian (n.) One who pays too much attention to words.
In the past I have been accused by various parties of paying too much attention to words. Which is true, I suppose; but what else do I have to pay attention to?
Vomiturient (adj.) Characterized by a desire to vomit.
For many people, vomiturient will conjure up images of hangovers, car rides, pregnancies, and other nauseating experiences. It makes me think of words such as set and prefixes such as un-, since if I have to read those passages again I will be feeling vomiturient indeed. compare: nauseant
W
SOMETHING IS A BIT OFF IN W. I was reading for a few hours before I remembered that there was no such letter in ancient Latin, and so the vocabulary of W is overwhelmingly Anglo-Saxon in origin. Some words from Greek and Latin roots have snuck in, usually in the form of compound words, but they are rare. The overall effect of this is fairly disconcerting—for more than twenty-thousand pages I’d been looking at a word list of which about 80 percent was derived from Greek and Latin, and suddenly it all changed. It was almost as if I had picked up the wrong dictionary.
The upside to this is that W has significantly fewer words of a scientific nature, which tend to be words I find achingly dull. The downside is that it also has fewer words that are fantastical or outrageous. Anglo-Saxon tends not to lend itself to long and elaborate words that have strung together three or four affixes to create a rhetorical term for a very obscure thing.
While reading all the way through a dictionary one notices things that one never would see if just browsing, or even if consistently looking up words. These things are generally not terribly interesting or useful, as when I read Alexander Warrack’s Scottish dictionary and found that there were five or six different words all defined as “the viviparous blenny,” which is not the term for the town drunk, but instead a type of small fish that bears its young live. I am perfectly content knowing just one or two words for the viviparous blenny, so I did not bother to write them all down.
But of the many things in the OED I have found striking, most tend to be considerably more interesting than varied descriptions of small fish. For instance, it has a tremendous number of words describing the state of being “deserving” or “worthy” of something. One can be deserving of derision (irrisible), of ruination (perdition-able ), or of receiving a beating (verberable). Something can be worthy of being rejected (rejectaneous), of being rejoiced at (laetable), or of being desired (appetible). One can be worthy of being helped (helpworthy) or a person who deserves to be whipped (mastigoporer ).
If you’ve ever wondered whether there is a word for something, there is a fairly good chance that it does in fact exist, and the OED is the place to find it. I would encourage you to grab a volume and start looking. Even if you don’t find the word you’re hoping for, I promise you’ll discover enough surprising and remarkable gems along the way to make up for any possible disappointment.
Wailer (n.) A professional mourner; one who is paid to weep.
What does it say about us, as speakers of this language, that we have need for any word that denotes a hired mourner at a funeral, much less the fact that there was apparently enough demand for such services that we’ve managed to accumulate at least a half dozen terms for it? In addition to wailer, we have black, keener, moirologist, mute, and weeper, all of which of the OED reveals as one who is paid to mourn.
Well-aired (adj.) Having sweet-smelling breath.
I think we can all agree that this is a wishful, mythical quality. With breath, as with family reunions, the most that one can reasonably hope for is an absence of bad.
Well-corned (adj.) Exhilarated or excited with liquor.
Happy-drunk, as opposed to barley-hood (drunk and mean). also see: perpotation
Well-lost (adj.) Lost in a good cause or for a good consideration.
As in the lie (“I’m helping to fund public education”) people tell themselves when they fail to win the lottery for the ten-thousandth time.
Well-woulder (n.) A conditional well-wisher.
The well-woulder is far more common than the everyday wellwisher;
he may in some small way wish you success, just so
long as it is not more success than he has.
also see: backfriend
Wine-knight (n.) A person who drinks valiantly.
As entries occasionally are in the OED, this is wonderfully unclear. How exactly does one drink valiantly? Draw your own conclusions.
Wonderclout (n.) A thing that is showy but worthless.
Surgically augmented breasts and a large vocabulary are two
things that come to mind when I contemplate that which is
showy and of little value, but I’m certain that you can think of
others.
also see: toe-cover, trumpery
X
AN ENTREATY: STOP THINKING ABOUT the dictionary as though it is nothing more than a cold and foreboding authority—a finger-shaking, tsk-tsking book that only exists to tell you that you are wrong about something. Stop viewing it as the book that is consulted only in times of linguistic duress. Stop putting it away after you’ve looked something up; instead, leave it out, and start reading it.
The previous chapters, chronicling as they do my loss of eyesight, sanity, and social graces, might not be seen as an effective exhortation to go out and read the dictionary, but this is exactly what I am proposing. Just go get a dictionary and read it.
You do not have to read the whole thing. You could start with the OED, and tackle just one letter—X, for instance. It forms by far the shortest section in the OED, only thirteen pages, short enough to read in an evening. Make yourself a nightcap, a warm cup of milk, or whatever drink suits your fancy, sit down in the most comfortable armchair in the house, and read X. It might not be the most interesting letter in the alphabet, but you can read it all the way through, and once you have you can say to yourself that you’ve read absolutely everything the OED has to say about words that begin with the letter x.
Or you could start smaller than a whole letter—you could just find a prefix you like, and leave a bookmark in it. Be- is a fine prefix to walk through, as are for- and ob-. Leave the dictionary sitting out, and let your eyes light on it whenever you happen by.
The dictionary you set out to read does not have to be some massive and unabridged multivolume work, nor does it have to be particularly current. If you are looking for up-to-date information on our language, you shouldn’t be looking at a reference book from the nineteenth or early twentieth century. However, if you are simply looking to be educated in unexpected ways by a book, you can readily accomplish this with any one of a number of outdated dictionaries.
Find a good college dictionary, like any of the eleven Merriam-Webster has published. (I myself am partial to the tenth edition, but
that is mainly because it’s the one Alix worked on.) We have eight or nine of them lying around the house, and so one is always within reach. We need only take a step out of the kitchen or lean forward on the couch to find a word. Do not think that just because it is called a collegiate dictionary and you yourself have already graduated from college, it is somehow beneath you or you wouldn’t learn much from it. You will make discoveries on every page; even if they’re only minor discoveries, you’ll be pleased to have stumbled upon them.
How many books can you think of that have such an abundance of useful information? How many authors say something interesting on every single page? Reading the dictionary reminds me of the first time I read Gabriel García Márquez—I was astounded that any writer could capture my interest so unrelentingly.
I suppose it is possible that many readers will consider me touched in the head for suggesting this. But for those of you who are willing and able to begin viewing dictionaries as something other than the embodiment of that scolding English teacher, the one who tortured you over your creatively spelled words and dubious syntax, go ahead—grab any dictionary and start reading it.
Well, perhaps not any dictionary; there are a great number of bad dictionaries out there.
For instance, hundreds of “Webster’s” dictionaries have been published in the last 150 years. Shortly after George and Charles Merriam bought the rights to publish Noah Webster’s dictionary in 1844 they displayed what was either a serious lack of knowledge regarding copyright law or an almost touchingly naïve faith in their fellow publishers to not infringe on their property. When the copyright lapsed they suddenly found themselves in direct competition with an enormous number of other “Webster’s” dictionaries, put out by anyone who had access to some sort of word list and the means of printing a book. Lawsuits were filed, but it was too late—the name “Webster” had gone the way of the Hoover, and was public domain and free for any publisher to use as the name of a dictionary.
