VOL16_4.txt

   
      
         
            The Germanization of American English



            I can still remember the disappointment I felt,
many years ago, when I first discovered that the
phrase to be in the picture had been stolen from me.
In England we had a always used this phrase to mean
`to be in the foreground, to play a prominent part.'
If I said, “I'm just not in the picture when Boris is
about,” this meant that in the presence of Boris I
hardly counted, I was scarcely noticed.  It was a nice,
graphic way of putting it.  Then I came across the
American usage for the first time, the employment
of the same phrase to mean to `be informed, in the
know.' I was annoyed, I was embittered, for I foresaw
that the genuine English usage was going to be
ousted by this upstart--and how right I was!  I was
all the more annoyed because I knew where the new
meaning came from: from German, from the phrase
im Bilde sein .  Some German (or Swiss, or Austrian)
settler in America had wrongly translated his native
expression into English, the unsupecting Americans
had taken it over, and now we had it round our
necks, while the original, genuine English expression
had received the kiss of death.

            Ever since that time I have writhed repeatedly
as I have seen one Germanism after another creep
into the English language.  I suppose most Germans
who settled America, especially recently, were fairly
literate people, whose sayings were easily taken as
legal tender by the local inhabitants.  Americans tend
to be uncritical and snap up everything new, accepting
the mistakes that Germans make as features
of American English.  Today these Germanisms do
not even stay put in the United States.  They are
promptly exported across the Atlantic, so that all
Britain now speaks pidgin German.

            This must actually have begun before my time,
for in the twenties of this century I was already
stubling upon what were clearly Germanisms in
use in America.  The dumb blonde who got fresh was
obviously eine dumme Blondine, die frech wurde .  In
British English the verb stem had always meant to
`hold back, resist,' as in stem the tide , for instance.
My Concise Oxford Dictionary (1964) still gives only
that meaning.  Americans, however, had long been
saying that something stemmed from something else,
`was descended from or caused by it,' exactly in the
sense of the German stammen von .

            Alas, it was only a beginning.  Germans who
wanted to translate their word interessanterweise
into English tried “interestingly,” which in those
days sounded horrible to British ears; but the Americans
at once pounced on it.  There followed a number
of other, similar formations, such as “importantly.”
Americans must have realized about this
time that the German ending - weise has an English
equivalent, and this was accordingly resuscitated:
the old likewise and crosswise family was joined by
neologisms like countrywise and stylewise .  Then
came hopefully , a word which had long existed in
English and meant `in a hopeful manner': you could
apply for a job hopefully because you were `full of
hope.'  The Germans, however, stumbled upon hope - fully
because they wanted a word for their own hoffentlich ,
admittedly a useful word; so hopefully was
soon being used in a quite different sense, viz.  to
mean `it is to hoped.' Consequently we now have
a measure of confusion, which, be it noted, is not
shared by the Germans, as they have two different
words for the two senses: hoffentlich for `it is to be
hoped,' and hoffnungsvoll for `hopeful(ly).'

            Even during the Second World War, when you
would have expected the Anglo-Saxons to react allergically
to Germanisms, they continued to infiltrate
the language.  I remember my astonishment at
hearing “It's a bit much” for the first time.  This turn
of phrase became very popular in the war, though it
is in fact a direct translation from the German Es ist
               ein bisschen viel .  We did not really need it, for we
had a perfectly good English equivalent: “It's a bit
too much.” In any case, it was a bit too much for me.

            Another is the expression almost nothing .  Had I
written that in an essay when I was a boy at school,
I should have been accused of tone-deafness for
English idiom.  It was not, in any case, a thing that
any of us would have said.  The idomatic English
was hardly anything .  Germans, however, were not to
know this, and brashly translated their fast nichts .
Granted, in this particular case the French and
Italians might have had a finger in the pie, with their
presque rien and quasi niente ; but I feel pretty sure
that the Germans were the main offenders.  One may
of course ask what is wrong with almost nothing ,
and the question is not easy to answer.  The fact is
that English is, idiomatically, an extremely subtle
language, with many taboos, particularly in the area
of positive/negative statements and degrees of affirmation
and negation.  Why can we say “I haven't
much money,” but not “I have much money”?  It is
hard to find a logical explanation, yet these subtle
distinctions are part of the spirit of our language,
and it is this spirit that is easily destroyed forever,
like a delicately balanced biotope, when people
walk roughshod over it.

            Anyone with a good knowledge of German who
finds it amusing to hunt down Germanisms in American
English will soon be reaping rich harvests.  I cannot
go into such detail here, though I have come to
the conclusion that German has been even influenced
basic features of the American language.  For instance,
the American sailboat (for British sailing
               boat ) is surely a copying of German word-formation
( Segelboot ), as is also ski school ( Skischule ), though
what you learn in such a school is obviously skiing.

            In recent times the direct translation of German
phrases into English seems to have gathered
strength.  It shocked me when one of the leading
writers of English textbooks told me in a letter
that he would “come back on” one of the points
I had raised.  He could easily have “returned” or
“reverted” to it, but the pressure of the German
( zuruckkommen auf ) is evidently too great.  I recently
heard another to “load off” is children at their grandtended
to “load off” his children at their grandmother's:
German abladen .

            Yet there are things that worry me far more than
these examples.  I strongly suspect the Germans, for
instance, of having initiated--or at least aided and
abetted--one of the most disturbing developments
now under way in the English language: the disappearance
of the verb may/might .  This verb was formerly
used to express possibility (or sometimes permissibility),
while can had to do with ability.  No
Englishman, fifty years ago, would ever have been
heard saying “It could rain.”  It is quite obvious
that it can rain when it wants to, but what we are
talking about here is not ability but possibility: “It
may rain,” “It might rain.” German speakers are of
course far less likely to use this from in English, for
in their own language they have no alternative to
can : Es kann sein, Es konnte regnen .  They will therefore
tend to use can forms even where they are not
idiomatic in English.  In any case, one hardly hears
anything else today but these can forms, which have
somehow become the fashion: It can happen , We
could be wrong .  What we are therefore observing is
the loss of a valuable distinction, and in fact the slow
extinction of the verb may/might , an extinction
which in the linguistic world seems to me just as
distressing as the loss of the elephant in the zoological
world.  Might we not yet be able, by a united
effort on the part of all lovers of the English language,
to save the world may ?

            Another development that worries me is the
employment of plurals in an adjectival sense.  It has
been a rule in English from time immemorical to put
a noun into the singular when it is used as an adjective
before another noun.  Thus we have anteaters
and carol singers , although they eat ants and sing
carols in the plural.  This rule is upheld even when a
number is specified: a six-foot pole, a tenpenny
               stamp, a twenty-mile stretch .  Yet today this rule is
being broken more and more often, and the rot certainly
started in America with such terms as materials handling
and greetings cards .  Nowdays my favorite
scientific magazine talks only of drugs firms
and chemicals manufacturers , though such expressions
must surely grate on the ears of anyone who
still has a little feeling for the English language.  Do I
need to mention that the German for these expressions
is Drogenfirmen and Chemikalienhersteller , because
in German the plural is used in such cases?  Of
course, we cannot blame the Germans for making
these mistaked, but we can blame English speakers
for swallowing them whole, and with such a blatant
lack of feeling for English idiom.  As it is, I dare
hardly scrutinize English publications any more for
fear of coming across even more barbaric examples
than those we already have--“nuts-crackers,” perhaps,
or “windows cleaners.”

            There are, I must confess, a few cases in which
the Americans have not followed the German.  More
and more of them--and alas, more and more
Britons--can today be heard talking of “kiLOMetres.”
[See IV, 3.] The other case in which Americans
have not taken German as a model is a major catastrophe:
in the words billion and trillion .  A billion ,
one would think, is a “bi-million,” that is, a `million
million,' and that is exactly what it is in German as
well as in French, and always was in British English
till the American pressure queered the pitch.  A trillion
was equally simply a `million million million,”
or `10\sub\18\sue\.' With this system, there is also a good word
for a `thousand million': a milliard , as used in French
and German.  Alas, all clarity has gone by the board
since Americans arbitrarily decided to use billion for
a `thousand million.'  Utter confusion has since
reigned.  Why one earth didn't the Americans make
their old mistake and follow the German?
         
         
            The Logodaedalian's Dictionary of Interesting
and Unusual Words
            This book appeared originally under the title,
The Oxter English Dictionary (Facts On File, 1984),
then as The Penguin Dictionary of Curious and Interesting
Words (Penguin, (1986).  As oxter means `armpit,'
the original did not appeal to me and, if I was
sent a review copy, I didn't bother to open the book.
I did not receive a review copy of the Penguin edition.
The present edition, atrociously overpriced
considering it is a reprint (albeit with some addenda)
is worthy of mention as a dictionary of hard words
with citations.  The editing has been rather careless,
though, as the opening line of HOW TO USE THIS DICTIONARY
bears witness in referring to itself at The
Penguin Dictionary of ... when it clearly has become
The Logodaedalian's ...

            There are some other curiosities, not confined
to the unusual words selected but to their usage by
the author: in the Introduction he refers to an episode
in which his father completed his Bachelor's
degree “at the behest of the Marine Corps.”  The
day the US Marine Corps issues “behests” for Bachelor's
degrees is not yet here.  Another item in the
same section refers to “forebearing” friends, who I
assume are those who had offspring before the author
(clearly a woman using a nom de plume).

            The situation scarcely improves in the dictionary
itself.  Saussy III does not know what hysteresis
means and missed Pynchon's metaphor by a mile;
horripilating does not mean `shuddering' (though
the rest of the definition is correct); houghmagandy
is defined as `fucking as a pastime,' the last three
words of which make in inaccurate; the usual spelling
of gallimaufrey is without the e; gibbous , usually
applied to the three-quarter moon, is here
defined as “hump-backed, arched” with the citation,
“...her upper lip gibbous...as the moon—,”
(from pynchon) in which it means `swollen'; guddle ,
“to use a fishing technique involving the use of only
the hands, to grope” is not quite correct: it is `to (try
to) catch a fish (esp. a trout) by tickling its underbelly'
(which is actually easier than it sounds); and
gurn, girn , is incorrectly defined as “to snarl, to
show the teeth in anger”: it really means `to make
faces.'

            So much for the relative value of the definitions,
of which the preceding are only a sample.  The interesting
thing in the book is its words list, taken from a
relatively small corpus of books including ones by
Burgess, Vonnegut, and (especially) Alexander Theroux
( Darconville's Cat ), all of them writers who enjoy
playing with the language.  The last-named book
is largely a spoof on linguistic pedantry, and I fear
that Saussy III has been drawn in.  It is a pity that he
made so many unwarranted assumptions about the
meanings of words he did not understand, could not
divine from the context, or failed to find elsewhere.

            There may be some readers who enjoyed the
two earlier editions and are craving more.  If so, they
might be induced to buy this edition because it contains
55 pages of words, definitions, and citations not
previously published.  There are, I suppose, worse
things that could happen to you than buying and
reading this book, but it is hard to think of any at the
moment.

            Laurence Urdang
         
         
            The Glamour of Grammar



            
               Grammar and glamour are historically the same
word.  Back in the eighteenth century one of
the meanings of grammar was “magic, enchantment”;
the Scots let slip the r into an l , and lo, came
forth glamour .  In the popular mind, grammar is anything
but glamorous.  Whatever magic resides in the
subject is felt to be a sort of black magic, a mysterious
cauldron filled with creepy, crawly things.

            At St. Paul's School we are convinced that the
study of grammer need not be an arcane, in vacuo ex-
ericise; and all of our students explore the structure of
English, from the parts of speech to the phrases and
clauses, ultimately applying their knowledge to usage,
punctuation, and sentence creation.

            “Every self-respecting mechanic,” said John
Dewey, “Will call the parts of an automobile by their
right names because that is the way to distinguish
them.”  Thus it is with the writer.  If Alexander Pope
is correct in asserting that “True ease in writing
comes from art, not chance,” a nameing of the grammatical
parts, we believe, will reduce the chance
and enhance the art, even if the names are one day
forgotten.  And if students are slipping structural
cogs, we need a common language to communicate
these problems: “John, you should use the possessive
form before the gerund”, “Mary, try combining
these two sentences by using an appositive.”;
“George, your sentences are repetitious; try varying
your sentence openings with introductory adverbs,
phrases, or clauses.”  Ultimately, though, our initial
and primary assumption is that, in the words of
structuralist Paul Roberts, “the best reason for
studying grammar is that grammer is interesting.”
Grammar may not be glamorous in any glittery
Hollywood sense, but grammar can be very interesting,
even enchanting.

            After our scholars have completed their study of
descriptive English grammar, they are frequently assigned
the writing of a “supersentence”--a single
sentence that includes one example of each of the
four phrases and three subordinate clauses that are
indentified in English grammar.  These are: prepositional
phrase, participial phrase, gerund phrase, infinitive
phrase, adverb clause, adjective clause, and
noun clause.  These units may occur in any order in
the sentence.

            One afternoon, while grading a batch of super-sentences,
I decided to try writing one myself, using
the fewest words possible.  (Before continuing, the
reader may wish to try this feat, too.)  An hour of
intense industry produced the following:


1 When people 2 who swing want 3 to see 4 what's happening,
they try 5 attending parties 6 given by hipsters.  (16 words)

            

            The numbers in the above sentence indicate the
beginning of each phrase and subordinate clause--
(1) adverb clause: “When people who swing want to
see what's happening” modifies the verb try in the
main clause; (2) adjective clause: “who swing” modifies
the noun people ; (3) infinitive phrase: “to see
what's happening” acts as the direct object of the
verb want ; (4) noun clause: “what's happening” acts
as the direct objective of the infinitive “to see”; (5)
gerund phrase: “attending parties given by hipsters”
acts as the direct object of the verb try ; (6)
participial phrase: “given by hipster” modifies the
noun parties ; (7) perpositional phrase: “by hipsters”
modifies the passive participle given .  In subsequent
sentences I shall provide numbers but leave the
reader to identify the structures, which will appear
in varying orders, so as to avoide cluttering the discussion
with labyrinthine explanations like this one.

            I proudly presented my 16-word concoction to
my departmental colleagues and to my students, and
a few days later I was summoned by an emissary
from a Fourth Form (tenth grade) English class that
met a few rooms down the hall from my class.  I entered
this strange territory, and thereon the chalkboard
was inscribed:


Fred, ' 1 wanting 2 to win 3 by 4 playing hard, practised
more 5 than I, 6 who knew 7 he stank.  (15 words)

            

            Among the triumphantly glowing faces in the
alien classroom was that of Bruce Monrad, the finest
young linguist in our school at the time.  Bruce, it
turned out, was the author of the 15-word super-sentence--a
creation that not only contains an elliptical
adverb clause of comparison, “than I [practised],”
and a hidden noun clause, “[that] he stank,”
but compacts the four phrases into the subordinate
part and the three clauses into the main part.

            not to be outdone, I laboured mightily for a few
days and came up with:


1 stung 2 by 3 what happened, Lederer began 4 trying
5 to write better 6 than Monrad, 7 who fainted.
(14 words)
            

            The next morning I marched into the rival classroom
and confidently wrote my new sentence on the
blackboard, only to be instantly one-upped by
young Monrad, who stepped forward and inscribed:


1 Helping 2 win 3 by 4 scoring more 5 than I, 6 who
thought 7 he stank, Fred overcome.  (13 words)

            

            Here Bruce's Brilliant excision of one word is accomplished
in his second phrase, the infinitive, in which
he lifts out the to : “Helping [to] win by scoring....”

            Now I was growing desperate.  Word of the contest
had spread throughout St. Paul's School.  How
could I ever again face my colleagues and my students
if I were to be defeated by a mere stripling?
The whole affair was beginning to give the lie to
William Cobbett's resigned admission: “The study
of grammar is dry.  It engages not the passions.”  Resolving
not to give out, up, or in, I closeted myself
for the entire weekend and finally emerged with
“Eureka!” on my lips, for I had written:


1 Helping 2 win 3 by 4 overcoming 5 what threatened,
Lederer, 6 who persisted 7 when challenged, triumphed.
(12 words)
            

            In addition to being eminently readable, my super-sentence
is characterized by two clever strokes: a
clause within a phrase within phrase within a
clause within a phrase in the first five words, and
the distillation of the adverb clause into a two-word
cluster, “when [he was] challenged,” instead of the
previous three words, “more than I.”  Not only are
all the structures as concise as they can be, but, with
the exception of the subject, Leadere , all nouns, adjectives,
and adverbs are now replaced by phrases
and clauses.  This sentence was traveling at the speed
of light.  I could become no smaller.  Or so I thought.

            On Monday morning I strutted into Bruce's
classroom and hubristically engraved my “ultimate”
supersentence on the enemy's board, delivering a
learned lecture proving that we had reached the end
of the road supersentencewise.  As I wheeled to
leave, Bruce giggled, “Not so fast, Mr. Lederer.”  He
then explained that he too had discovered the formula
for the two-word adverb clause and that, moreover,
he had been able to replace all nouns, adjectives,
and adverbs with phrases and clauses.  He then
chalked up:


1 Whoever rebels, 2 dafring 3 oppose 4 by 5 fighting
6 when oppressed, 7 which overcomes, conquers,
(11 words!)

            

            While reaching the theoretical limit for super-sentences,
Bruce's creation is rather awkward, with
the adjective clause, “which overcomes,” emerging
as a dangling modifier.  Still, I have never been able
to improve on Bruce's effort, and I invite VERBATIM
readers to submit more graceful and coherent super-sentences
of eleven words.  Like two boys choosing
sides for a baseball game, Bruce and I have run our
hands up the bat, and there isn't any wood left.  Actually,
we have both won; and when the game of
grammar is played with a sense of enjoyment and
humor, everyone can be a winner.

            If you move, please tell us.  Send old and new addresses
to address listed on page 2.
         
         
            Bernstein's Reverse Dictionary;
            As a practicing lexicographer (I have complied
two Arabic bilingual dictionaries with illustrative
sentences), but more important, as one who continually
has trouble retrieving certain English words
from my mental lexicon, I consider this book a real
gold mine.  The blurb on the back of has it
absolutely right: “A new and expanded edition of
the popular `reinvention' of the standard dictionary
first created by legendary New York Times language
expert Theodore Bernstein.”  Although I seldom
work crossword puzzles, this is a must book for the
crossword-puzzle addict or even the occasional
player.

            I like this dictionary because, like most people,
I often find myself groping for words that are right
“on the tip of my tongue.”  How many of you, like
me, cannot always remember that a rhinologist is the
medical specialist dealing with nasal problems?
(Why not a nasologist ?) Even after memorizing osteologist
(skeleton), heterologist (tissue), or helcologist
(ulcers), I have difficulty in remembering these particular
words.  I have occasionally confused a hematologist
(blood) with a hepatologist (liver).  And many
of my students in introductory linguistics courses
confuse etymology (word origins) with entomology
(the study of insects).  Now that I have succeeded in
getting you to see that a reserve dictionary is much
more than a thesaurus with which, of course, it
shares some similarities, its purpose is really to list
definations in alphabetical order which, in turn, will
give you the word that you have forgotten, confused,
or just plain do not know or cannot recall.

            One can quibble, as always, with some of the
definitions presented in any dictionary, so this work
is not different from many others in this respect.  For
instance, a `wrestler or boxer over 175 pounds' is
called a heavyweight (p.274). I do not think I have
ever seen (on TV's professional wrestling) a heavyweight
wrester who weighted 175; most of them
weight over 200.  Although this is a picayunish point,
consider that wrestlers are also divided up, according
to the author, into lightweight, featherweight,
welterweight, middleweight , and heavyweight , as are
boxers.  To my knowledge, these terms are not normally
used in professional (dare we call it “entertainment”)
wrestling as they are in professional and
amateur boxing.

            Under language expert (p. 133 and p. 271), one
finds logogogue whereas I would have thought the
proper choice to be linguist or perhaps even the
awkward linguistician (a term to be avoided).  Also,
I fail to see how polyglot (p.133) can be defined as
`language mixture' since it merely refers to a multilingual
person.  `Language mixture' may refer to
what linguists call pidginization and creolization of
languages, a process of language simplification (although
even this is misleading and not the entire
story).

            To illustrate how useful the volume can be, let
us assume that you have heard the two common Yiddish
loanwords used in English, schlimazel and schlemiel .
How do you find them in a reserve dictionary?
You have to remember that both refer to a bungler
or bungling person, and that is indeed what you have
to look under to find them.

            Bernstein explains in the introduction (p. vii)
how he got the idea for the book in the first place.
He was chatting with a friend about Chinese food,
and in the course of the conversation he remarked
that the words won ton (a Chinese dumpling used as
an ingredient in a soup of the same name) “made
perhaps even more sense if they were read backward.”
His friend immediately replied “— just
like in Madam , I'm Adam .”  And neither one could
retrieve the word for something which read the
same forwards or backwards.  ( Palindrome, of
course!)  If you are still addeled, addle-brained , or addlepated
(p. 49), do not be: look up `confused' in this
dictionary!  If you like words (and are looking for a
great game to play at your next coctail party), this
book is definitely for you.  About the nicest compliment
I could give Bernstein (and Grambs) for producing
this excellent work is to remark, why did I
not think of doing it first?

            Alan S. Kaye
            
               California State University, Fullerton
            
         
         
            Words That Make a Difference
            This book was first published in 1983 by Times
Books as Words in Action .  Although that is a better
title than the new one, something more apropos
would be Words to Impress Your Friends By .  Its main
goal is to increase your vocabulary.  As any reader of
VERBATIM knows, there are many books on the market
designed to do exactly this; however, one can
rarely get through more than the first few chapters
of such tomes.  This volume, I am happy to report, is
different.  I recommend it for those (as the book's
cover observes): “—who want to speak more effectively,
write more colorfully or be better prepared
for the SAT” (the verbal portion of the Scholastic
Aptitude Test, a widely used instrument for
university admission).

            The reason that most books of this type ( How to
Increase Your $5 Words in 7 Days or Double Your
Money Back [Satisfaction Guaranteed]) fail is that
they are boring, or mundance, or both.  The reader
gets the book home and proceeds to memorize polysyllabic
words by the dozens, with their lenghthy definitions
coupled with made-up sentences which often
make little sense or, if they do make sense are
dull at best.  Then the student gets through the mechanical
task of taking multiple-choice examinations
or fill-in-the-blank quizzes, which are usually a
waste of time because the words and its meaning are
usually forgotten within a day or two.

            How does this book then differ from the competition?
For one thing, the author has taken as illustrative
examples many important words and expressions
from the rather lively and well-composed
pages of The New York Times (1,455) lexemes, to be
exact, although we can quible about some of the
entries).  For another, the definitions are, on the
whole, well written and to the point.  For example,
consider the word electic , which is defined as:
“composed of material or ideas gathered from a variety
of sources.”  Its meaning is illustrated quite
nicely by the following New York Times passage:


Live artillery shells, a dead sea turtle half the size
of a Volkswagen Bettle, a drowned giraffe, antique
crockery, pocketbooks, chemical sludge,
raw sewage and about 5,000 cords of driftwood
a year--the waters of New York Harbor yield a
strage and eclectic bounty.

            

            Most of the 1,455 examples are excellent
choices, and Greenman's definitions and illustrations
are well done; there are, however, some significant
errors to report.

            Under the term lingua franca (p. 196), for instance,
we learn that “the original lingua franca (Italian,
Frankish language) was a hybrid language...
spoken...in the 17th century.  It consisted mostly
of Italian words without their inflections.”  Linguists
have demonstrated that the first lingua france (called
Mediterranean Lingua Franca by many linguists) was
actually spoken before the first Crusade began in A.D.
1096.  There is a document written in it from Djerba,
Tunisia, dating from A.D. 1353.  In addition to Italian
vocabulary, the language also included many items
from another Romance language, Proven\ccedil\al.  As mediterrancean
Lingua Franca was used on the Barbary
Coast of North Africa, there were many words that it
borrowed from Spanish and Portuguese.  In fact, one
such word is savvy (`shreed; in the know'), which
Greenman erroneously derivers (p. 284) from Spanish
sabe usted `do you know?' The word came into Mediterranean
Lingua Franca from Portuguese.  That is not
such a serious error, however, since Spanish and Portuguese
are closely related.

            Some of the book's lexical entries are questionable.
I see no reason to include, for instance, the
following words: antiseptic, novel, nosh (`snack,'
from Yiddish), novice, theorem, threshold , or tycoon .
I believe all of these, with the exception of nosh , are
fairly well known by the average college freshman,
though readers may decide for themselves if I am
wrong on this point.  I do not consider the word nosh
important enough, or for that matter frequent
enough, to have been included.  Certainly, it is
doubtful that one would encounter it on an SAT examination.
I have exactly the same sentiment for
chutzpah `brazen nerve' (from Herbrew via Yiddish),
which is also included (p. 62), as well as bubkes
`something trivial' (from Russian via Yiddish, p. 46).
However, one must remember that The New York
Times is read in New York, which has a sizable jewish
population, and these three examples are probably
known and used by most New Yorkers (even
gentiles, such as the late authour and raconteur Alexander
King, one of my all-time favorites and a regular
on the old Jack Paar Show, who used them regularly
in speech as well as in writing).

            I am delighted to report that the special diacritica
are shown for the common European loanwords
like French nat\i2dot\veté `artlessness; ingenuousness' (p.
218), or German Gemütlichkeit a `feeling of warmth
and congeniality' (p. 145).  These diacritical marks
are now, unfortunately, left off in many publications,
so we must praise Greenman's efforts here.  Alas, the
way things are going in many periodicals, diacritics
in English will soon be a thing of the past.

            One can also find some definitions here and
there that are not entirely wrong yet with which one
might disagree.  Kamikaze (p. 187), for example, is
defined as: “a suicide attack by a Japanese airplane
pilot in World War II; the airplane or pilot in such an
attack.”  In my own semantic system (and English is
my native language), Kamikaze does not usually
mean `a pilot' because I have to say `Kamikaze pilot'
to refer to someone who is involved in a kamikaze
mission.

            The pronunciation transcrition system (see the
Key, pp.3-4) the book uses follows the N.B.C.
Handbook of Pronunciation (Thomas Y. Crowell,
1964), Which is imprecise and hard to interpret in
many places.  I have never understood why the International
Phonetic Alphabet is not used in English
dictionaries of all sorts, but this is beyond the scope
of our remarks in this review.  I would certainly recommend
the I.P.A. here.

            An extra treat ends the book (pp. 343-379).
Short essays on verbs of action, puns, slang (we are
told that wimp was popular during the 1960s and
'70s, p. 348; how about the ' 80s where it was very
frequently used in the 1988 election campaign?),
nuance words, and how to use the colon, semicolon,
dash, and parentheses.

            I found the last two essays the most entertaining
and particularly useful: 1) “E Pluribus Unum: The
Melting Pot of English” (pp. 362-365) deals with
the many languges that have served as sources for
English vocabulary, and 2) “Usage: The Good, the
Bad, and the Ugly” (pp. 366-379) comments on
such common errors as carat for karat .  In case you
do not see the point with these two words, the book
is probably for you.  (Even many dictionaries have
this wrong, as carat is not a free variant of karat ,
although both derive from Arabic q\itilde\r\atilde\t.  “Gemstones
are weighed by carats ...the fineness of gold is
measured in karats ” [p. 371].)

            As you have no doubt already surmised, this is
not (to use another Greenman word) a schlock (p.
285) book.  It is worth buying and reading for fun
and, you never know, for profit too.

            Alan S. Kaye

            
               California State University, Fullerton
            
         
         

            I lived David Galef's “Backwords and Newances”
[XVI,2], but he certainly is not a techie (from
technician, usually electronic technician `one familiar
with and capable of dealing with technology')

            There are three ways of transmitting a desired
telephone number from your telephone (instrument).
The first is pulse .  This is the method used
since the invention of the automatic telephone exchange
by Strowger and others early in this century.
It operates by electrically acting as if the receiver
(handset) had been rapidly and repeatedly replaced
on the little pushbuttons (hook switch) inset into the
top recess (cradle) of the main portion of the telephone
(base).  Phone freaks sometimes dial by rapid
jiggling (jiggling) of the hook switch, which is the
same action as far as the telephone exchange (central
office) equipment (switch) is concerned, but I'm getting
too old and can't do this fast enough any more.

            The second “dialing” method is tone (DTMF or
dual-tone multi-frequency).  The trademarked name,
by AT&T, is touch-tone®, which operates by sending
more-or-less musical tones from your instrument
to the switch to specify the number desired.  Pulsetone,
as mentioned in Galef's footnote, is the label
(placard) on an instrument for a switch that adjusts
the instrument to operate on one or the other.
“Pulse-tone” is not a technical term.

            Rotary phones have the familiar dial, with a circular
motion and finger holes.  They invariably dial
by the pulse method; although it is certainly technically
feasible to arrange for them to dial with tones,
nobody has figured out why anyone would want to
do so.  Pushbutton phones have pushbuttons (sometimes
techies are not terribly imaginative with language--it's
not usually their strong suit).  Pushbutton
phones often are arranged so that they may
generate either pulses or tones (thus the switch).
Some switches cannot handle tones, and often there
is an extra charge for touch-tone® service so some
users must have pulse phones.

            The third method is digital , and I'm not going to
go into that.  It's too techie.



         
         
            
“Instead of their usual Friday collections on December
25 and January 1, Friday customers will be picked up on
Saturday, December 26, and Saturday, January 2.”  [Holiday
garbage schedules in the San Francisco Examiner , .  Submitted by ]
         
         
            
“We're going to pay now, or pay later.  Now, we're
paying later.”  [Sen. Lawton Chiles (D-Fla), commenting
on the need for prenatal care for poor women, NBC
Today, .  Submitted by 
]
         
         
            
               Solution to Verbal Analogies IV

               
1 : Ptarmigan     6 : Presidial      9 : Mob
2 : Sublimation   7 : Maillot       10 : Cheliform
3 : Brinell       8 : Ouagadougou   11 : Cow
4 : Hebdomadal                      12 : Wasp
5 : Thyrsus

            
         
         

            I enjoyed David Galef's definition of backword
to mean the modifier added to a previously specific
word which has been made generic by the advent of
a new technology.  I cannot add anything to his excellent
treatment of the etymology but can respond
to his uncertainty in one of the technical areas.

            The generic term, computer , was extended beyond
its human meaning to refer to computing machines
during World War II.  All these machines
were, indeed, what are now known as analog (or analogue)
computers .  They were mechanical analogs of
the objective processes, used in such devices as gun
aiming systems and bombsights.

            The advent of the digital computer , after the
war, necessitated the modifying of the old term by
the backword, analog , to distinguish it from the new
digital computer.

            The analog computer does not compute by
means of discreate voltages or any other physical
quantity.  Rather, it embodies a continuous physical
process that is an analog, often in a different medium,
for the process for which information is desired.
By measuring the instantaneous value of quantities
in the analog, we can determine the value of
their analogous quantities in the object process.

            The digital computer, on the other hand, simply
performs arithmetic operations by counting very
quickly.  When dealing with a continuous process, it
can only compute its state at discrete instants of
time, since it only manipulates discrete numbers.

            Analog and digital timepieces are, in fact, computers
where the object process is the continuous
motion of the Earth.  The fact, however, is that both
are analog computers.  The analog process in a mechanical
watch is the motion of the pendulum or balance
wheel and, in quartz watches, the electrical
wave produced by a crystal oscillator.  Both count
the oscillations to determine the passage of time and
transform the analog signal into a digital one.  They
differ only in the method used to display the results.
The analog watch converts the digital counts back
into a more or less continuous movement of the
hands.  The digital watch simply prints out the numerical
count in proper format.

            It is my belief that those who originally coined
the terms analog and digital watch intended only to
describe the display, not the underlying physics or
any relationship to computers.  An analog display
moves continuously, like the Earth or time, and a
digital display shows numbers.

            To my knowledge, the only timepieces that are
truly digital are the atomic “clocks” used as time
standards that operate by counting discrete particles
emitted by a radioactive substance.

            Returning to etymology, clock in the above
paragraph is incorrect in horological usage.  Strictly
speaking, clock should only be used when referring
to a timepiece that also incorporates a striking
mechanism to sound out the time at regular intervals.
The word stems from the German word for
`bell,' Glocke .



         
         

            [We apologize for a typographical error in Mr. David
W. Porter's EPISTOLA [XV,3], written in comment
on Joseph Hynes's “Do Mistake--Learn Better”
[XV,1].  Mr. Porter had written “These difficulties
produce such monstrosities as sutoraiki for English
`strike'--one syllable in English, five in Japanese.”
Inadvertently, we printed sutoraike for sutoraiki ,
which prompted a critical comment from Mr. G.
Sharman [XV,4].  After pointing out our error, Mr.
Porter continues in response to Mr. Sharman...]

            As for Gone with the Windo --a mistake it certainly
is, but just as certainly not mine.  This mistake,
as the others in the same paragraph of my letter, was
culled directly from the writing (in English) of Japanese
speakers.  “Gone with the Uindo”?  Wind would
be correct!  Offhand, I do not recall the proper way
to transcribe the unrounded Japanese u .



         
         

            I unfortunately missed the review of Family
Words in XV,3; referred to by Donald Morris in
XVI,1.

            My grade-school art teacher, Mrs. Cook, was
apparently familiar with the phenomenon.  I recall
her telling my class about the time she had asked
another group of pupiles to draw Christmas pictures.
One youngster drew a recognizable manager with the
baby Jesus, accompanied by Mary, Joseph, and an
enormously fat man.  The student was rather surprised
that Mrs. Cook had to ask who the man was.
He was, of course, “Round John Virgin.”



         
         
            The Lot of Malarkey


            The derivation of malarkey , a term still frequently
heard in New York, is nowhere to be found.
The first edition of OED does not list it.  The second
OED , like Webster's Third , seems to have tried to
find the derivation but given up, as have other standard
references.

            Suggestions that the word came from an Irish
name--a Professor Malarkey, for example--lead nowhere.
A Ugandan prophet called Malaki or Madam
Misharty, a 1930s' fortune teller known for her exaggerated
claims and predictions, did not seem
worth pursuing.  But an examination of Partridge's
A Dictionary of Slang and Unconventional English
(Routledge & Kegan Paul, London, 1937) yields the
Greek malakia , defined as “masturbation” and
“tricky.”

            So directed, one can peruse a number of Greek
dictionaries--especially Creighton's “Mega Hellano-Anglikon
Lexikon, p. 919)--and read definitions
emphasizing delicacy, softness, effeminacy in
men, homosexuality, and masturbation.  Malacia is
used in pathology for an abnormal softening of part
of an organ.  (Incidentally, for whatever reasons,
dictionaries published by Oxford University Press
either do not list malakia or show it but avoid including
any reference to masturbation.) Another, apparently
related, Greek word, malaka , is defined by
Creighton as “softening of the brain, stupidity, and
imbecility.”

            The 1988 World Almanac cites these cities and
population centers of Greek-Americans: Chicago,
Philadelphia, New York, and Washington, D.C., in
order of highest percentages.  Considering all that I
have examined, I suggest the following background
to a derivation:

            Around the time of World War I (before or
right after), Greeks came in numbers to the United
States, settling mostly in the cities mentioned.  The
term malakia was commonly used in popular (i.e.,
not polite) speech, much like our Don't give me that
jazz or Quit jerking me around .  How did the term
spread around the country, if indeed it did?  VERBATIM
readers may be able to contribute further suggestions
and comments.

         
         
            
“Attractive, divorced Jewish woman 41.  Reubenesque,
professional.”  [From a personal ad in the White Plains Reporter-Dispatch ,
.  Submitted by  who suggests, “Maybe she wears
dotted Swiss.”]
         
         
            Jingo Lingo



            Twenty-five years ago, the French scholar René
Etiemble launched his now classic Parlez-vous
franglais ?  It was the cri de coeur of a single-minded
patriot beset by the idea that the purity of his
mother tongue was being corrupted by the Anglo-maniac
leanings of his countrymen.  Disgustedly, he
pointed at words like cockpit, bowling, snack , and
hundreds of others, constantly used by French technicians,
sportsmen, youngsters--in fact, everybody.
Lest the national language be eventually supplanted
by le sabir atlantique (the Atlantic pidgin), he urged
the government to set up a system of penalties to
divert the linguistic polluters from the path of sin.

            Feelings of bitterness did not keep the author
from presenting his admonitions in an easily digestible
style.  All the fire and brimstone were wrapped
in a lighthearted tone and padded with humorous
remarks.  The book became enormously popular, and
the term Franglais entered the world's dictionaries.
But most people happily went on introducing words
like le workshop, le tour-operator (they insist on the
hyphen), le self (self-service restaurant), le must (the
thing to wear), le pick-up (the truck or the record
player, not the girl), le hi-fi (pronounce: “eefee”).
Even now, it becomes a bit easier each day for an
English speaker to read a French newspaper.

            However, Etiemble's appeal caught on with the
powers that were.  In 1966, only two years after the
publication of the book, General de Gaulle, then
president of France, established a High Committee
for the Defence and the Expansion of the French
Language.  Through subsequent legislation each government
department was equipped with one or several
terminology commissions with the responsibility
of compiling lists of “approved terms” in their
respective spheres.  The use of these terms is statutorily
required, not only in official documents, but also
in all business correspondence and advertising (including
labels, catalogues, waybills, etc.), employment
contracts, radio and television programs,
notices in public places, and certain schoolbooks.
Replacing such a term by a foreign equivalent is a
penal offense, and may cost the offender anything
from $90 to $200.

            The Office of the Commissioner General for the
French Language, a supervisory body, has recently
published a new edition of the Dictionnaire des Né
ologismes Officiels , which lists the 2,000-odd terms
so far approved (plus some 400 “recommended”
ones whose use is obligatory for certain publications
only).  To judge from this batch, the purge is going to
be less radical than one would expect from a system
professedly resting on the tenets of linguistic protectionism.
Indeed, quite a few of the listed terms are
identical to their English counterparts (in spelling,
that is: this regime rarely interferes with pronunciation).
Examples: adobe for `adobe,' management for
`management,' drone for ` drone ' (in military avionics).
More than that, the Dictionnaire gives its blessing
also to several words of blatantly English stock,
such as hall, drugstore , and pipeline (pronounce:
pea-PLEAN), even including portmanteau words ( bit,
pixel ) and acronyms ( laser, radar ).

            Along with these outright borrowings came hybrids
composed of an English root and a French suffix,
such as clonage for `cloning,' scorer for `to score,'
nurserie for `nursery' (`fish-breeding plant'), and
supporteur/supportrice for `supporter.'  In some
cases, slight spelling changes have been applied, but
the English origin remains unmistakable: chalengeur
for `challenger,' dribler for `to dribble,' média (mandatory
plural: médias ) for `media,' astronaute for `astronaut.'
(The last term seems, in both languages, a
rather hyperbolic denomination for a person who
travels less than two light-seconds away from his
home planet.  But then, it is modest compared to the
Russian cosmonaut .)  Some of the Dictionnaire's Anglicisms
have undergone more drastic transcriptional
surgery, e.g. gazole for `gas oil,' fioul for `fuel'
(oil), roquette for `rocket,' bipasse for `bypass.'

            All this seems a far cry from the uncompromising
overhaul Etiemble must have hoped for.  To his
mind, French was a rich enough language to meet
any new requirements from domestic resources.  He
might even have snubbed the many Dictionnaire entries
created by literal translation of the imagery embodied
in the corresponding English term, as souris
for `mouse' (of a personal computer) or retombées
for (nuclear) `fallout.'  Application of this method to
compounds results in calques like banque de données
for `data bank' or atterrissage sur le ventre for `belly
landing.'  However, since French compounds tend to
be rather explicit, and their components are generally
strung together by all kinds of grammatical particles
(conjunctions, prepositions, articles), this
method often leads to tapewormish constructions,
such as espace extra-atmosphérique for `outer space'
or boucle en épingle à cheveux for `hairpin loop.'

            Etiemble would probably have warmed more
readily to entires which in no way derive from an
English model, like logiciel for `software,' axénique
(`without foreign matter') for `germfree,' or suramplificateur
for `booster.'  The Dictionnaire offers
many such ingenious coinages but they generally
lack the pithiness and sprightliness that enliven such
a great deal of scientific and technological terminology
in English.  Vibreur sonore for `buzzer,' tireur
isolé (`lone rifleman') for `sniper,' and mitraillage au
sol (`machinegunning towards the ground') for
`strafing' are of course correct, but they sound like
punctilious definitions rather than handy appellations.
Even more ponderous are exposition inter-professionnelle
for `trade show,' transport maritime á
la demande for `tramping' (the activity of tramp
steamers), and véhicule lourd de dépannage for
`wrecker.'  The heavyweight champion is perhaps
contrat á terme d'instrument financier for what they
call `financial futures' at the Stock Exchange.  Unsur-prisingly,
the French law shows little patience for
the charming onomatopoeias which the technical
people have invented for audio equipment and its
tantrums, like `tweeter' and `boomer,' or `wow' and
`hum.' The renderings imposed by the latter-day index
expurgatorius are, respectively, haut-parleur
d'aigus (tolerated second choice: tuiteur), haut-parleur
de graves (ditto: boumeur), pleurage (`weeping'),
ronflement (`snoring').

            To be sure, the Dictionnaire does not consist exclusively
of naturalized or Frenchified alien words
and wordy phrases of bureaucratic facture.  Many an
entry had already had a life of its own before a ministerial
decree raised it to its present status.  Some of
them are real gems: tableur (`tabular operator') for
`spreadsheet' is concise, precise, and original;
baladeur (`stroller') for `walkman,' although basically
a loan translation, adds a fresh nuance to the
imagery; best of all perhaps is ordinateur for `computer,'
the French term (current since the 1960s,
adopted by the Dictionnaire in 1983) meaning something
like `methodically arranging agent.'  Since the
machine is not, as generally believed in former
years, a new kind of calculator but rather a high-speed
symbol manipulator, ordinateur hits the mark.

            Whatever the merits of all those novelties, the
French seem to have a relaxed attitude to the disciplinary
aspects.  They use both prescribed and proscribed
terms, depending probably on efficiency,
personal preferences, and `what others do.'  In one
respect, however, they are unanimous.  They stick to
an odd collection of English words which have a different
meaning or are nonexistent in English-speaking
countries.  As in Etiemble's days, they say smoking
for `dinner jacket' and slip for `underpants.'  The
choke in an automobile is still referred to as starter
(the real starter is called démarreur), and a female
radio or TV announcer as speakerine.  And they have
lots of men in France: rugbymen, tennismen, taximen,
recordmen, comingmen, etc.  When the streets of
Paris were still enlivened by streetcars (French:
tramways), there were even wattmen.
         
         
            
               ETYMOLOGICA OBSCURA
            
         
         
            Conquering Conch


            A people's culinary eccentricity has often determined
the name by which the rest of humanity
comes to know them.  The predilection for the flesh
of Strombus gigas, the queen conch, by the white
Bahamians and their relatives on the Florida Keys is
cited by many etymologists in explaining the origin
of the appellation Conch for a `native or inhabitant
of the Florida Keys' or a `Bahamian.'

            I am a native of the Florida Keys, as was my
father, but I was never called a Conch in my home
town.  Only since moving to the mainland have I
been tagged a Conch, and, as some dictionaries now
define any native of the Florida Keys as a Conch, I
no longer demur.  But can a black native of the Florida
Keys be a Conch?  I have never known of the
word being used in this way except when referring
to a member of a team fielded by Key West High
School (the Key West Conchs).

            I was told by a black Bahamian that the origin of
the word Conch came from Conchy Joe which is the
black Bahamian equivalent of `whitey.'  You see, the
inner surface of the queen conch shell has a color
that approximates that of the epidermis of the Bahamians
of British ancestry.  While folk etymology
might be at play here, this explanation certainly
seems possible and may explain another etymological
puzzle.

            Two of my dictionaries inform me that the origin
of the term honky is unknown, and Mr. Beresky's
articulate arguments for “hunky” [IV,4] have not
swayed me.  Now honky means `whitey' and rhymes
with Conchy.  May I suggest that honky was (I no
longer hear it!) a corruption of Conchy (Joe)?

         
         

            As an addendum to Milton Horowitz's letter
[XVI,2] about the depiction of Moses with horns, I
want to come to the defense of St. Jerome.  That holy
curmudgeon is usually chided for translating Exodus
34:29 incorrectly in the Vulgate Bible.  Alas, I have
few scholarly works to which to refer, but I looked
confidently into my battered copy of Edward Robinson's
A Hebrew and English Lexicon of the Old Testament
(25th Edition, 1888).  This is a translation and
amplification of Gesenius' original Latin work.

            Of the entries under qaran (pp. 943f.) only the
use in this passage is translated without some reference
to “horn.”  Robinson notes initially with regard
to this verb that the primary syllable should be compared
to the Sanskrit carnis `horn,' from car `to
bore.'  The derivative forms (qeren, etc.) are all translated
with some reference to “horn,” except the
dual form, qarnaim, which is translated “rays of
light, splendour.”  But Robinson goes on to note
even with this form: “So Arabian poets compare the
first rays of the rising sun to horns; and hence call
the sun itself the gazelle....”

            Even more illuminating is an entry (p. 944):
“Hence in prophetic vision, horns are” symbolic of
“kings, powerful princes...” Daniel 7:24 and 8:21
are cited.  And then Robinson bids us compare “the
Arabic epithet of Alexander the Great” which he
translates as the Latin word, bicornis `two-horned.'
He goes on to observe that this is “the symbol of
power, might; so both Alexander and the Seleucidae
are represented on coins with horns....”

            The Septuagint translates qaran , in the passage
of Exodus 34:29, with a Greek verb used in the New
Testament to mean: “to praise, extol, magnify, celebrate;
to honor, do honor to, hold in honor; to make
glorious, adorn with lustre, clothe with splendor; to
make renowned, render illustrious, i.e., to cause the
dignity and worth of some person or thing to become
manifest and acknowledged; to exalt to a glorious
rank or condition...” (Thayer, A Greek-English
Lexicon of the New Testament).  How readily St.
Jerome might associate these meanings of the more
philosophical Greek with the horn imagery of power
in the more ancient Hebrew.

            The symbolism of power conveyed by horns and
horn-related Hebrew (and other Semitic) words as
portrayed on the aforementioned coins (or some
others, which might have used the same imagery but
which are no longer extant) may well have led St.
Jerome to his translation.

            In any case, his translation, in light of the foregoing,
seems as plausible to me as the exceptional
usage given approval by the “accepted” translations.
So, before we fault St. Jerome for a blunder,
let us consider that so impressive a linguistic scholar
as he may have chosen to give Moses horns deliberately
by using cognate imagery he understood to
stand for dignity and power.
Roy B. Flinchbaugh, Jr.
York, Pennsylvania
            

            [By the way, Michelangelo's statue of Moses
(with horns) is in the church of San Pietro in Vincoli
(“St. Peter in Chains”) on the Esquiline in Rome.  It
was spelled incorrectly in VERBATIM.--Editor]

            Lysander Kemp reminded me of a malapropism
in Spanish which I created for myself.  When I was
eight my family moved from London to Buenos Aires.
My Mother, who believed that children should
learn languages as early as possible, dropped me into
the local Argentine school where I absorbed Spanish
by a kind of osmosis--except for one phrase.  In
school we sang a song the first line of which was:
“En los patios de la escuela la cesando el gran rumor.”
(In the school patios the great noise--`hubbub'--is
ceasing).  I happily sang: “En los patios de
la escuela va Cesandro, el Gran Rumor.”  who
“Cesandro” was or why he was the Great Rumor,
whatever that was, I hadn't the faintest idea but obviously
he was out in the patios while we were in
class.  It was very many years before, remembering
this, I realized what I had been supposed to be singing.



         
         


            I recently purchased a new computer, and, because
it operated on a system different from the one of
my old computer, I asked a few friends to recommend
a word-processing package that I might find useful.  I
was particularly interested in one that would allow me
to designate a variety of typestyles during keyboarding,
ideally one that showed the styles on the monitor
as the text was being typed.  That is called WYSIWYG,
pronounced “wizzywig,” for `What You See Is What
You Get,' in other words when you designate text to
print in boldface or italic type, it appears in boldface
or italic type on the screen.  For those who are
unfamiliar with computers and the need for a word-processing
package, I should explain (with what I
hope is merciful brevity) that when you buy what is
fondly called a “personal” computer, you get three
pieces of equipment (though they may be combined in
some models or makes): a rectangular box with some
slots in the front and sockets in the back, which is the
computer; a monitor, which is a small TV set without
the usual buttons; and a keyboard, which looks like an
ordinary typewriter keyboard but, in many models
sold today, has a number of additional keys alongside
those for the familiar alphanumeric characters.  On
mine, nestled among some control keys on the right
side is what is called a “number pad,” which resembles
the key arrangement one sees on an adding machine or
calculator; on the left side is a double bank of five keys
marked F1 through F10 which, when pressed alone or
in combination with another key, perform certain
functions, some of which are useful, others of which
are evidently thought useful by the manufacturer but
which I never use.

            These boxes come with wires (called “cables” in
the trade because that sounds more impressive) that
allow them to be connected to one another and into a
power source.  The trick is that they will not do anything
unless and until the Disk Operating System,
which comes with the machine, is installed.  After
that, the DOS, as it is called, performs certain functions,
though seldom any that anyone but a computer
specialist would want to perform.  In order to do something
useful, you have to buy a program, which is a
package consisting of a number of diskettes and a manual.
A diskette is also called a “floppy”; the reason for
the name is not immediately apparent (nor why the
item is called a “diskette,” for that matter), but all
becomes clear.  The so-called diskette is a flat black
square sealed envelope of rather tough plastic with a
hole in the middle and an oblong slot on each of the
flat sides; it is said to be 5¼ inches square, but that is
a lie: as the only person who probably ever measured
one of these things, I can tell you it is 5 3/16 inches
square; that may seem irrelevant, but it is only the
beginning of the Great Deception.  Inside this square
plastic casing (which you should never open) is a
flimsy flat black plastic papadum.  If the diskette is
placed in the slot of the machine, a motor engages the
center of the disk inside and spins it around at a great
speed so that portions of it are exposed through its
oblong slot, allowing them to be “read” by some device
inside the box.  The diskettes that contain programs
have information on them that the computer “understands”
and translates into a number of commands
that make the machine do certain things.  The things
done depend on what kind of program is on the diskette.

            
I bought a word-processing program called
FRAMEWORK II.  It is quite versatile and, as I required,
allows me to create certain kinds of files in which I am
able to style the text as I wish.  (In case you are interested,
it allows me to mark text in any of the following
styles, which appear on the monitor screen in a close
approximation: roman, bold roman , underlined roman,
underlined bold roman , italic , bold italic , underlined
italic , and underlined bold italic .  I acknowledge
that no self-respecting typographer would ever have
anything to do with underlined italic, underlined bold
italic, or some of the other styles described, but you
have to remember that those are merely regarded (by
me, at least) as a means for discretely coding styles
that I do want--like small capitals--that are not provided
by the program.)

            FRAMEWORK II is sold by Ashton-Tate, a silicon-valley
concern that makes quite good programs but,
like most of the software companies, produces such
abominable manuals with directions for using the programs
that they have to maintain a staff of several
dozen “technical personnel” who are on duty about 12
hours a day, beginning at about six in the morning
(California time) merely in order to answer the questions
of confused customers.  This failing appears to be
epidemic throughout the industry: I recently spoke
with an executive of Okidata, a manufacturer of a very
good computer (laser) printer, who told me that his
technical staff answers 60,000 telephone queries a
month.  I pointed out to him that if he made available
a proper manual he could probably reduce the calls by
a factor of 10.  Only the telephone company is profiting
from such ineptitude.

            But the foregoing is all preliminary and background
to the main theme.  One of the services performed
by FRAMEWORK II is in a program subroutine
called the Spelling Checker.  I do not need a spelling
checker, but I have found it extremely useful as a
means for proofreading text that has been keyboarded
and stored.  The way it works is this: after completing
an article, chapter, or what-have-you, you press a few
keys and the program automatically scans every word
of text, comparing each with a “dictionary” contained
in the program.  It is not really a dictionary, of course,
because it lacks definitions; it is merely a word list.  You
cannot display the entire word list to examine it, but,
from the directory of programs I can invoke on the
monitor, I know it contains about 223,000 characters,
or about 37,000 words.  Being a computer, the machine
performs this comparison checking very, very rapidly:
it takes only a minute to “proofread” a file containing
about 7,000 words.  If it encounters a word that is not
in its repertoire, it offers a choice of actions: at the
stroke of a key or two you can ADD the word to the list;
GO ON and ignore the word entirely; or EDIT the questionable
item (by correcting a typo, for instance).
There is another option called SUGGEST, which, if invoked,
lists up to seven or eight words that you might
have had in mind when you wrote the one that offended
the machine, and this brings me to the point of
this article.

            It seems unnecessary to point out that FRAMEWORK
II cannot have a very sophisticated list of words if it has
only 37,000 in its memory, but I thought it might be
interesting to see what suggestions it might make as
substitutions for the words it “disliked.”  In each listing
below, the boldface word is the word that FRAMEWORK
“disliked”; the words following are the substitutions it
suggested.  Where ellipses occur, I have not bothered to
copy down the entire list of offerings, selecting only
those that struck me as odd, either because of the
incongruity of the choice or because I could not, in my
wildest flights of dyslexic, schizophrenic fancy, imagine
the criteria employed in arriving at the selections.  I
am fully aware that some of the words in my text are
not everyday items you find about the house, but I
included those anyway; your attention is drawn, particularly,
to the suggestions for the more common
words.


arthropods - arthropod, arthritis, arthritides, orthodox,
arthritic

gallium - galling, gleam, galleon, gulling, gallon,
gelling, gullying, gamily

thermionic - sermonic, thorniness, sermonize, thermoset,
theorematic, thermometer

interstellar - interstate, interstitial, interstice, interceder,
underscore, understate

q.v. - TV

caecum - chicane, cocaine, cocoon, caucus, caching,
cactus, coaching

Myriapoda - moribund, morbidly, marriageable,
marigolds, moratoria, marauding

vermiform - forevermore, Vermonter, verifiers, vermicular,
formicary, forefinger

neuromuscular - murmurously

nucleic - nucleate, nutlike, neglect, knuckled, nutlet,
nickeled, niggled

streptococcus - stereoptions, scrupulosities, stroboscopes

staphylococcus - sycophantically, sycophantishly

lakeside - lattice, legislate, legalized, localized,
leakiest, ladyship, regicide

Algonquian - Eglantine, Halogenating, Accounting,
Eglantines, Ugandans, Accountant

yellowjackets - illogicality, illogicalities

unmanageable - unimaginable, manageable, inimitable,
manageably, amendable

breastfeeding - breathtaking

horseracing - resurfacing, reassuring

childbearing - ...chalkboards

unemotional - ...emanational, unmentionable,
unanimously

nonflammable - mentionable, nonviolently, monosyllable,
nonvolatile

reawakens - weakens, wakens, reddens, rattans,
weaklings, walk-ins, walk-ons

Beaujolais - beguiles, bobtails, beauteous, bodiless,
beauties, bellicose

Bordeaux - burdocks, bureaux, broadax, paradox,
birdseed, bordellos, birdhouse

            

            ...Well you get the idea.  I had some fun substituting
the program's words in my sentences and in simple
sentences, too.  For instance,


All arachnids and insects are arthritic.

Scientists at NASA are developing an interstate
rocket that will take 20 light-years to complete
its journey.

They removed his formicary appendix.  (No wonder
he acted as if he had ants in his pants!)

Some children are unimaginable at the age of five.
Why is she still breathtaking when her child is
already four!

Willie Shoemaker devoted his life to resurfacing.

(A statement applicable more accurately to Elvis
Presley.)

The prisoner was unmentionable when the verdict
was read out.

I certainly do enjoy some bordellos or beauties with
my steak.

            

            As if the preceding were not enough, I also noticed,
assuming that the program did not stop and
offer choices if the word was in its memory, that oligopsony
is in, but psychoneurotic is not; Winston is in,
Churchill is not; isosceles is in, scalene is not.

            It is a good thing that the technical staff at Ashton-Tate
is not being asked to field questions about its
Spelling Checker; I am not sure I would want to hear
the answers.

            The preceding may be considered as an introduction
to a review of Webster's Electronic Thesaurus ,
Proximity Technology, Inc., 1987, $??.  (I seem to have
lost the information about the price but recall it was
about $100.)  This software consists of two disks, one
labeled Installation and Program, the other Synonym
Linguibase, and a manual.  The manual sets forth
everything with clarity, and the program is simple to
install, requiring only a few minutes.  Only one thing
made me a little suspicious when cranking up the system:
in the descriptive text that appears on the screen,
the word labeled is spelt “labelled”--decidedly unAmerican.
However, I went ahead, and, since I was
typing--Oops! keyboarding is the word nowadays;
typing is out--the text you are reading, returned to
the beginning of the paragraph to see how some of
these words would fare.  I looked up the word preceding
and was, after a brief moment, asked to type in the
word, which I did.  The screen bloomed forth with the
following:


Query: preceding
1) adj being before especially in time or arrangement

            

            There were also some other parts of speech: one
definition for the preposition and three for the verb
(participial) senses.  I called up the synonyms for the
adj and the following appeared:


Synonyms:
antecedent, anterior, foregoing, former, past,
precedent, previous, prior
            

            The way the program works is this: one uses the cursor
to highlight a particular word for which synonyms are
desired.  It is similar, in principle, to finding a synonym
in a synonym dictionary and then successively looking
up its synonyms to find their synonyms.  I am not sure
why, but I expected the program to “network” in the
same way.  However, when I highlighted antecedent ,
what appeared on the screen was the same list of synonyms
but with antecedent missing; but preceding had
reappeared.  If all this is too complicated to follow, let
me summarize: you look up word X and get synonyms,
A, B, C, D, E, F, and G.  You look up the synonyms for
word A, and you get synonyms X, B, C, D, E, F, and
G.  Even the definition provided for the sub-listings is
identical in wording to that of the word originally
sought.

            This is very economical of space and involves a
clever computer ploy, but it does not provide a particularly
useful synonym dictionary, for, as we all know,
synonymy in language does not yield to the mathematical
law that states, “Things equal to the same thing
are equal to each other.”  Perhaps the Proximity people
thought that they had got round that little problem by
giving the same definition for each of the items in the
list; but we know that only very rarely are two synonyms
bi-unique (which is another way of saying that
just because ingredient means `constituent,' not all
meanings of constituent mean `ingredient,' an ineluctable
fact of language).

            If a relatively limited access to a synonym dictionary
is likely to be of use, then this package may be of
service.  It works with a hard disk or with a set of
floppies and can be used with 29 popular word-processing
programs.  (That was the number listed
when I received my copy; it might have increased.)  It
also has a few neat features, like suggesting a few
alternatives if you happen to think that preceding is
spelt “preceeding” (as some people do).  It has a useful
“Help” feature that can be called upon at any stage.
Also, if you enter jump , you get the synonyms for that;
but if you entered jumped , you get the (same) synonyms
but inflected--including the variants leapt ,
leaped for leap .  All in all, for a primitive system, it is
not too bad; but you would have to be in love with
your computer to use it in preference to the far more
complete books of synonyms available (especially The
Synonym Finder , Rodale in the U.S. and Canada,
Longman elsewhere, which offers more than 800,000
synonyms, more than three times the number listed in
any other synonym book).

            The blurb on this book/disk package reads, “Supplies
you with 470,000 true synonyms for 40,000
entries.”  My guess is that such a quantity might be
reached if one counted all the permutations and combinations;
in reality, though, there are probably far
fewer actual words.  Readers can judge for themselves
the validity of this numerical legerdemain.

         
         
            [P.S. The foregoing was written more than a year ago.
Since then, I have updated FRAMEWORK II to FRAMEWORK
III to add, as they say in the trade, a few “bells
and whistles,” and, because my present computer is
configured with only 640,000 bytes of RAM (RandomAccess
Memory) and can perform only a pitiful five
zillion operations a second, I am planning to add RAM
and memory to enable it to perform a few zillion
more--or is that per millisecond or microsecond?--in
order to have a device that can keep pace with the
speed with which I change my mind.  Move over! Make
room in the fast lane!]
         
         
            Joining the ranks of companies that ought to
have the resources required to employ people (especially
in advertising agencies) who are reasonably
perceptive about language but appear to have lost
whatever touch they might have had is the British
firm, Honeywell Bull.  Originally, the American concern
with the well-established name Minneapolis
Honeywell joined with Groupe Bull and NEC to form
Honeywell Bull , not the most attractive of names.  On
22 February 1989, in a full-page color advertisement
in The Times , the Honeywell was severed, leaving
the new company name Bull .  At the same time,
the big brains came up with the slogan To business
problems , we say Bull , rather an unfortunate decision
for two reasons: first, bull is an almost-polite
shortening of bullshit , as (almost) everyone knows;
second, bull (or Bull !) as a retort means `bullshit;
nonsense; balderdash' and, particularly, `Whatever
you said [like, “I have a business problem”] is a lot
of bullshit.'  That might be perceived as reflective of
a rather cavalier attitude toward prospective customers'
problems.  As a vast amount of information is
couched in language, and the new firm associates
itself with Worldwide Information Systems , one
might be given to wonder how adroit their handling
of linguistic information might be.
         
         
            
“Box 2101 Terminal Annex.”  [The address of a life
insurance company in Los Angeles.  Submitted by ]
         
         
            About ¥50,000 of taxpayers' money is being
spent on a court case which has been brought in the
Court of Appeal by the Attorney General, Sir Patrick
Mayhew, to determine what the word obtained
means in the context of the insider dealing laws.
         
         
            The case is vital to the offence of insider dealing.
It results from the acquittal of Mr. Brian Fisher,
a businessman, on charges of insider dealing, after a
ruling in Southwark Crown Court which threatens
to severely restrict the scope for prosecutions of insider
dealing.

            Mr. Fisher had been charged with insider dealing
in shares of Thomson T Line just before a takeover
bid for the company.  He had claimed to be interested
in bidding for Thomson, but Kleinwort
Benson, the company's merchant bank, told him out
of courtesy that the company had accepted another
offer.  He immediately bought 6,000 shares himself,
ultimately netting a profit of ¥3,000.

            
However, he was saved--and acquitted of insider
dealing--by the dictionary definition of the
word obtained.  Judge Gerald Butler said that Mr.
Fisher had not actually obtained price sensitive information
in the sense of actively seeking or procuring
it.  He had merely received it.

            He ruled that the proper meaning of the word
in the Companies Securities (Insider Dealing) Act
1985 connoted active conduct in the sense of seeking
out information.

            The Attorney General argued in court yesterday
that the word obtained “embraces both the active
and passive usage.”

            “Dictionary definitions are not always helpful to
the court, and slavish adherence to these should be
avoided if the result is to frustrate the intention of
the legislation,” he said.

            He submitted that the wider construction of the
word obtained gives “proper effect to the statute.”

            Judgement was reserved.  [The Times, 27 September
1988]
         
         
            Anyone laboring under the delusion that English
is not an acquisitive language should be disabused
by the following caption from an article about
delicatessens that appeared in the Magazine Section
of The Sunday Times [London], 7 January 1989:
[“Foreignisms” are so set in the original.]


In its scale, menu and good-humoured vulgarity,
Minsky's is reminiscent of the rather palatial,
slightly déraciné delis of suburban New York.  Dé
cor is belle époque with cod Tiffany and a superabundance
of gleaming copper work.  The cringe-making
menu prose--“50 ways to love your
liver”--disguises a reasonably echt core of standard
deli fair [sic]: cream cheese and lox, salt beef
[`corned beef'], gefilte fish--with a few nouvelle
intruders like sun-dried tomato and mozarella [sic]
salad.  Staff are perhaps too irrepressible.  Me: “I
think I'll go for the pastrami.”  Waitress:” You
won't be disappointed, sir!” It is all better than
serviceable, less than exciting.  Minsky's at the Hilton,
Regent's Park, Lodge Road, NW8 (01-722-7722)
            
         
         
            The Franklin Language Master, a ¥199.95,
hand-held, electronic dictionary, offered in a mail-order
catalogue accompanying The Sunday Times
[London] of 8 January 1989, is illustrated by a photograph
of the device with the following display:


1.  dic<.>tio<.>nary
(noun) dic<.>tio<.>nar<.>ies
:reference book of words with information
about their meaning
            

            Shouldn't that be “meanings?” The centered
dots mark hyphenation points; the standard calls for
a dot between the n and the a, not the o and the n.
Little confidence is inspired by the presence of
three errors (one appearing twice) in only 12 words
of information.  As the contrivance is American, it is
sold in the UK with a card that shows the “correct
Queen's English” where spellings differ.  No comment
is made about differences in hyphenation that
result from differences or variants in pronunciation.
For instance, if a Brit pronounces the word (as many
do) conTROVersy, then the hyphen ought to come
after the v, not as in standard US in early January,
fore the v.  At rates of exchange in early January,
¥200 is equivalent to $355, which seems a lot to
spend, in pounds or dollars, to get it wrong.
         
         

            On January 12th, 1989, Carole Leonard, who
compiles a chatty column for The Times of items
picked up on the Rialto in The City, reported that a
“reader in Surrey” (not, for a change, “Disgusted,”
Tunbridge Wells) received a tax form with the instruction
“Send the cheque and payslip unfolded to
the Collector in the envelope provided.”  “I looked
inside,” wrote the mystified reader, “but couldn't
find him.”  A few pages on, the Scots Law Report
carried the headline, “Causing death by reckless
driving of person unborn at time of accident.”



         
         
            
“Wednesday, September 2 will be declared a Monday
for purposes of class attendence.  This designation of
Wednesday as a Monday is for the first week of Fall semester
only.”  [From the University of Southern California catalogue.
Submitted by ]
         
         
            
“Through the use of ultrasound, University of Washington
researcher...studies women who develop high
blood pressure during pregnancy with the assistance of
AHA-WA funds.”  [From Heartlines , a Washington affiliate
newsletter of the American Heart Association, Vol. VI, No.
2, ]
         
         
            Nifty Nomenclature



            Has your name haunted you and convulsed others
since you were a child?  Was it nearly impossible
for you to have a peaceful elementary
school experience?  Could you barely wait until you
were old enough to use your first and your middle
name?  Have you never told your middle name to
anyone (except the teachers at school)?  Were you
stuck with a family name that the dog wouldn't even
answer to?

            On the other hand, has your name always been
plain, generic, and no-frills?  Do you fail to lift a bureaucratic
eyebrow at the Motor Vehicle agency?
Have you contemplated marriage only because you
get to change your name?

            There are those who suffer with names and
those who don't, and, personally, I have always
thought the sufferers have the better time of it.  They
are usually the center of attention at parties and at
conferences their name tags positively glow with
recognition.  Who remembers Jane Smith when Jayne
Smyth can warm collective cockles on any day of the
year.  Since I have been a nonsufferer with a truly
dull name (not even marriage made a difference),
I've become a collector of offbeat names, a genuine,
green-eyed, envious Name Maniac.  Names became
significant to me at an early age.  It was the year I
discovered that Pansy Euphonia Ubrecht resided in
the cabin next to mine at summer camp.  I listened in
fascination as each camp counselor and administrator
vied to involve her in extra roll calls.  Pansy
couldn't understand why her name was music to my
ears when she simply despised it.  I was oblivious to
her moans of disgust.  All I wanted was to follow her
everywhere to listen to others say her name.  Coming
from a staunchly conservative, two-syllable past,
I longed desperately for such melody in my life.  Her
name ran through my thoughts at random moments
for four months.  My destiny was quietly locked into
place: look forever for other names of the Pansy Euphonia
ilk .

            Accordingly, I've kept a name list for years--
great reading for anyone with two or three hours of
spare time.  After all, names are not just read: they
must be savored, rolled about on the tongue.  Since
the original list is so long, I've extracted a select
number of names in the health professions only, as
listed in the publications that have passed over my
desk--a tribute to my employer, a famous medical
publishing firm.  These are names that catch the eye
and the ear, and make beautiful music of their own.
Some are unusual, incongruous, gross, strange-look-ing,
downright odd, and some depend solely upon
juxtaposition.  Most can be categorized; others must
stand alone.  As for pronunciation, just say it the way
you see it.  However, whatever, these are real folks,
every one.


Specialties
A.G. Pissidis--colon    R. Reutter--sinus
and rectal surgery                   (first name Roto?)
R.C. Snip--ophthalmic   H. Ichinose--sinus
surgery                              D.G. Cutright--surgery
D.L. Dungworth--        J.H. Butt--bowel
veterinarian                         V. Mutt--canine
A.R. Crap--             research
gastroenterology                     E.A. Gall--liver
E.J. Catcott--feline    Dr. Kock--urology
surgery                              V. Colon--urology
R.D. Leake--pediatric   C.H. Organ--surgery
urology                              P.I.G. Frelier--
J.D. Yeast--            veterinarian
gynecologist
J.D. Noshpitz--
nutritionist

Furry, Feathered, and Wet
A. Cats                 J. Bambi         D.A. Shamoo
W. Kattwinkle           F. Buzzard       [works at Sea
                        R. Beaglehole    World?]

Sounds--Pleasant and Awful
A. Ding                 J.J. Hoo         P.P. Klug
W.K. Hoots              H.G.             H. Gong;
H.J. McClung            Schnurch         H. Gong, Jr.
C. Choo [first          Victor Vroom     M.A.
name Chu?]              S. Smookler      Cornbleet
M.E. Nimni              C.C. Crump       Yoogoo Kang
[say it fast            W. Oh            N. Gesundheit
several                 W.J. Blot        Nils U. Bang
times]                  B. Woo           C.G. Plopper

Destined to Be a Doc (of Some Sort)
E. Colli                C.W. Health      H. Body
Y. Nose                 M.C. Horsinek    B. Miedema
J. Noseworthy           (vet)            Dr. Saltpeter
Sylvan Stool            E. Rump          D. Purpura
L.J. Van                M. Pain          E. Cutz
Cutsem                  J.P. Clot        L. Doctor
A.C. Tongue             J.D. Brain      (Dr. Doctor?)


Food and Related Stuff
Louis Lasagna           P. Onion; D.     G.B. Grindem
P.J. Garlik             Onions           N.H. Fridge
O. Croissant            M.A.
E. Raisin               Peppercorn
A. Vinegar

Bodily Functions and Parts/A Bit Raunchy
J.M. Smellie            W. Thumfart       G. Lust
M.A. Arce               K. Dikshit        R.V. Gumbs
R.O. Crapo              R.J. Gummit       J. Keaster
A.B. Fuks               P.A. Butts        W.P.
T.A. Assykeen           M.L.F.            Cockshott
W. van Pee              Knuckles          H.W.
R. Glasscock            R.A. Pubek        Windschitl

Listings

Tweedle, D.E.           Kiss, M. E.

Have a Nice Day!
I. Sunshine             J.T. Goodgame     K. Hug
J.R. Perfect            B.A. Friend       F. Happy
R.D.                    E.I. Grin
Goodenough

The Hyphen's the Charm

W.F. Moo-Penn           B.V. Low-Beer
R. Pitt-Rivers          J.L. Bravo-Bravo
T. Poon-King            L. Noronha-Blob

Team Spirit
Gittus                  Decker            Cook and Ware
Salt and                Doupe and         Billiard and
Shenker                 Chance            Ball
Kwong and               Crummy and        Hook, Hooten,
Ong                     Turnipseed        and Horton
Balls and               Barthel and       Ali and Katz
McCabe                  Butt              Rude and
Pippi and               Young and         Sharpe
Lumb                    Poore             Peachy and
Mule and                Young and         Creame
Camiel                  Eger              Rossetti and
Shoulders and           Huch, Huch,       Hell
Proudfoot               and Rabbitts

Gotta Stand Alone

T.A. Vats               J.P. Isbister     Nirmal Mann
R.O. Greep              A. Tough          D. Muchmore
C.M. Pinksy             H.V. Unfug        A.C.
F.M. Dumpit             F.                Eyechleshymer
E.E. Tizzer             Wimpfheimer       J.D. Whynot
J. Alsofrom             C.M. Feek         J.D. Hosenpud
N. Publicover           I. Klatzo         A. Slob
Y. Ohno                 T.T. Puck         W.J. Virgin
D.F.W.                  J. Klicklighter   J. Clinkingbeard
Wurbs                   D. Walljasper


Trippingly Off The Tongue and the Eyeball

A.W. Miglets            Ruth Bope           A.G.G.
E. Fong-de-             Dangel              Turpie
Leon                    N. Speece-          J. Funhufnagle
D.I. Tudehope           Swens               Bo G. Crabo
R. Pitts Crick          W. Ripley           Camillus L.
Monto Ho                Ballou              Witzleben
C.C.                    Garrison            Mary P. Lovely
Wiggleshoff             Rapmund             M. Folk-
P.G.                    Hermes Grillo       Lightly
Peerbooms               Eldred Mundth       Desmond Duff
Drago                   P.C. Pairolaro      Hebe
Montague                V. Mikity           Chestnutt
Gaylord                 H.A.W.              Lasalle
Throckmorton            Hazewinkel          Laffall, Jr.
Delmar Finco            Bosco Postic        Bimbo Welker
D.J. Zitzewitz          Spotswood L.        Berten Bean
Monica L.               Spruance            Munro Peacock
Monica                  M.C.G.              Susan
B.E. Dahrling           Littlewort          Armstrong
Munsey W.               Birdwell            Screws
Wheby                   Finlayson


Feelings

J.G. Boring             C.G. Loosli         L. Iffy
I.B. Crummy             L.C. Grumbles       I. Sick
I. Leave                J. DeGrouchy        D. Rotten
M.R. Soggie

“Zing, Zing, Zing Went My Heartstrings”
J. Garland (cardiologist)                   E. Zingg

Initially Great

M.C.P.Ip                B.S. Bull
P.B.M.W.M.              O.K. Joe            M.D.
Timmermans              P.S.E.G.            McGoon,
H.P.A. de               Harland             M.D.
Boom                    I.R.G.              G.E. Sale
W.C.J. Hoo              Toogood             J.O.Y. Chew
I.N. Love

Championship Stuff

R.V. Allhands            it's still a       O.A. Fly
J. Feely                 problem)           D.D. Stiff
J. Crooks                W. Speed III       J.L. Sever
Roy S.                   J.B. Blood, Jr.    K.H.
Rogers III               H. Thing           DeWeerd
A.M. Dozy                A.L. Blotchy       T. Armbuster
S.C. Duck                O.M. Wrong         B. Safer
M.C.                     J.N. Groper        J.P. Truant
McWeeny                  I. Fatt            S.M. Killer
J. Duhm (long            P.H. Slug          A.H. Bizarre
or short u, M. Bunny

            
         
         
            Transatlanguage



            It was in a hotel bar in Chicago, on my first night
of a visit to the US, that I was given some advice
on how to communicate with Americans.  My volunteer
tutor, an executive with the Sears company,
explained that the British have a “beat-about-the-bush”
way of saying things, whereas Americans always
go straight to the point.  In America, he assured
me, I would hear “English with its sleeves rolled-up.”
Jet-lagged after ten hours in the custody of
American airline staff, I could neither believe nor
argue.

            Back here in rural Herefordshire, after two
months in the States, I've had time to reflect on what
the man said.  Did he have a point?  Well, I do say
taken to hospital rather than hospitalized , even
though the American term is two syllables shorter.  I
would never write All thru the nite just to save four
letters.  And I still remember being baffled by a British
news story in U.S.A. Today .  The paper reported
that the Duchess of York had been presented with
her pilot's wings “at Oxford Monday.”  I actually
checked the index of my Ordnance Survey atlas (Oxenwood...Oxford...Oxhill)
before concluding that there was no such place and what they really
meant was “at Oxford on Monday.”  Is it just because
I am English that I resent the dropping of a small
preposition?  Do I belong to a race of fusspots who
decorate their sentences with words that don't matter?
The man from Sears thought so and he was not
alone.  His belief turned out to be so widely held in
America that it was almost beyond question.

            Let us question it now.  First of all, think of five
living English People and remember how each of
them speaks.  Come on...Margaret Thatcher, Dudley
Moore...any other three.  Are they euphemistic?
Is their diction cluttered with redundant words
and phrases?  Are their sentence structures so ornate
and pernickety that the meaning is obscured?  Now
think of a few people who are guilty of those linguistic
sins.  I can guess who they are: American airline
stewardesses, Pentagon Officials, New England hostesses,
and people who insist on being referred to as
“spokespersons” for social reform.

            In airline-speak and Pentagonese, the idea
seems to be to build up the number of words or syllables
in a sentence at the expense of its color, vitality,
and charm.  English is reduced to a bland, verbal
porridge.  “The no-smoking signs are illuminated at
this time.”  The sentence is in the present tense.
There is no need to say at this time (or even now ),
but the rules of airline English state that whenever a
stock, useless phrase may be inserted into a sentence
then that phrase must be inserted ( at that moment in
time ).

            The Pentagon is more extreme but perhaps
more honest.  Its euphemisms are so blatant that no
one could fail to recognize them as anything but
straightforward attempts to deny the truth.  Bombs
are called systems , poisons are agents .  Then there is
the marvelously uninformative Strategic Defence Initiative .
To help maintain the required standards of
blandness and inefficiency, the words situation and
located must be used (they would say utilized ) as
often as possible.  Unfortunately, the practices of
military and airline staff are contaminating the language
of the greater public.  In England we talk
about the weather.  In America, it is the weather situation .
In California, I saw a notice Scotch-taped to a
supermarket door: “This door is locked, please use
the other door which is located around the corner.”
In England, where everything is supposed to be so
long-winded, the sign would ask simply: “Please use
the door round the corner.”

            New Englanders deserve a special mention.  It is
they, I believe, who are mainly responsible for this
crazy notion that the English have a niminy-piminy
way of expressing themselves.  You know the sort of
thing-- inexpensive instead of cheap; R.C. instead of
Catholic; T.P. or even bathroom stationary instead of
toilet paper .  They believe it sounds English so the
rest of America believes it too.  What it really sounds
like is genteel, Victorian English, a style extinct in all
but a few suburban, lower-middle-class areas.  While
English people are more or less immune from the
mincing style of the Mayflower's granddaughters,
Pentagonese has seriously infected the language of
British trade union leaders.  Situation pops up like
acne all over their sentences and at this time has deteriorated
to at this moment in time.  Located has,
mercifully, not caught on.

            Even in England, trade unionists are put in the
shade by the speakers of Sociologese; they, in turn,
are outshone by their transatlantic counterparts.
American community workers are the champion
language-manglers.  In their world, nothing and no
one is ever specifically identified or accurately described.
Doctors and nurses are lumped together
with gophers and pen-pushers under the blanket
term health professional .  No one over owns up to
being the boss, the leader, or the headmistress, only
the coordinator .  Words that have a richness of meaning
are strenuously avoided in favor of cold, empty
terms that have no resonance.  Thus, biological
mother rather than natural mother .  This is not the
straight-to-the-point English usage on which Americans
pride themselves.  This is English with its
sleeves rolled right down around its ankles.  Of
course, to avoid being “negative” we'd have to call
it “Meaning-Free Language.”

            Is there any hope?  Yes.  The cavalry is coming.
In fact, it is already here.  The battle is on for truth,
clarity, and the elegant way.  Just as the staid, old
British English was rejuvenated after the First World
Was by the injection of American, no-nonsense grittiness,
so modern American English is being saved;
this time by the charge of honest and potent street-talk
into the flim-flam and flummery of the body linguistic.
Some of the best new words on both sides of
the Atlantic have come from the streets of America.
Mugger for instance.  How ever did we manage without
it?  There is the old English cutpurse but that
sounds too fancy for its purpose and has none of
the casual bluntness of the American word.  Then
there's scam, junkie , and copout ; neat, powerful,
armor-piercing words.  And where would we be
without rip-off ?

            The battle would probably be won by now,
were it not for the fact that the truth-dodgers have
managed to lay a false claim to the moral high
ground.  There are, however, encouraging signs that
they may not hold it much longer--even New Englanders
are calling black people black these days.
Perhaps it will not be too long before the man from
Sears, and every proud American, will be able to
welcome the foreigner to a land where people are
not afraid to roll up their sleeves.
         
         
            
“The Met Office--a part of the Ministry of Defence and
therefore shielded from accountability and the prying eyes of
outsiders--is beyond the pail.”  [From the New Scientist
(London), .  Submitted by ]
         
         
            
               Verbal Analogies IV--Miscellaneous
            

            D.A. Pomfrit Manchester

            To make the Verbal Analogy, select the appropriate
term or description from among the Answers provided.
To make it harder, cover the Answers.  The solution
appears on page 24.


1.  ant : termite :: grouse : ?

2.  liquid : solid :: evaporation : ?

3.  minerals : mohs :: metals/alloys : ?

4.  daily : weekly :: diurnal : ?

5.  Hermes : Bacchus :: caduceus : ?

6.  siege : garrison :: obsidional : ?

7.  two-piece : one-piece :: bikini : ?

8.  Mali : Burkina Faso :: Bamako : ?

9.  democracy : people :: ochlocracy : ?

10.  cleaver : dolabriform :: claw : ?

11.  ant : aphid :: man : ?

12.  vesperal : evening :: vespal : ?
            

            
               Answers

               
(a)  Brinell     (e)  Hebdomadal    (i)  Ptarmigan
(b)  Cheliform   (f)  Maillot       (j)  Sublimation
(c)  Cow         (g)  Ouagadougou   (k)  Thyrsus
(d)  Mob         (h)  Presidial     (l)  Wasp

            
         
         
            New Blood in the Namestream



            The most respected mechanic in the village of St.
Martin d'Ardèche, not far from where I live, is
called Monsieur Salaud .  And in another nearby village
the job of mayor is held down by the amiable
Madame Bordel .  Perfectly ordinary-sounding French
names--with the sole drawback that salaud means
`bastard' and bordel means `brothel'; and all over
France these unfortunates have for company the
bearers of such names as Lacrotte `turd,' Vachier
`piss off,' Connard `bloody fool,' and Putin `whore'--
not to mention such real unprintables like Baize and
Ducon .

            Having a name in this category is no fun in any
language--I speak from bitter personal experience--but
at least in most Anglo-Saxon countries effecting
a change poses no great problem.  Not so in
France, where names are part of the patrimoine , the
national heritage, and are not to be altered or forsaken
lightly: a poet friend had to spend several
years and a lot of money to get a missing s restored
to the official version of his surname, so that now,
instead of being B\acap\tard `mongrel' he's plain old Bastard
and, what's more, is very happy about it.

            But to get back to our Whores, Brothels , and so
on.  Some of them felt strongly enough about their
situation to form a pressure group and now, after a
long struggle, the government has caved in: a recent
Journal officiel lists four pages of people who are to
be allowed to change their names--when they can
come up with the 2000 franc (±$325) fee.

            It is not, however, a matter of “you pays your
money and you takes your choice.”  For the Journal
officiel also provides the alternative names acceptable
to the Fifth Republic; and if the Putins , for
example, do not like “Pertin,” well hard cheese,
they'll just have to stay as they are.  While the
Salauds get a government-guaranteed Hobson's
choice: “Saland” is going to remind everybody of
that unloved ultra-right general of the Algerian War
period and God help anybody called “Asslot” who
ever gets the urge to travel in the English-speaking
world.

            On the credit side two gentlemen called Hitler
can now safely come out of their bunkers: they'll be
known henceforth as Hiler and at school their children
may enjoy a peace that the fathers (and I for
that matter) never knew.

            One imagines that the majority of the Cocus
`cuckolds,' Beaunichons `nice tits,' Boccons (unprintable
again), and their comrades in suffering are going
to take more or less gratefully whatever name
the state cedes them.  But in doing so they are going
to break the heart of Michel Tesnières of the French
Onomastic Society.  Onomastics is basically the science
of worrying about names and Monsieur Tesnières--an
appellation, as it happens, regrettably
free of all sexual or scatological interest--is much
exercised by the fact that three centuries from now
97 per cent of all French family names will have vanished,
with only 7500 surviving out of the estimated
present stock of 250,000.

            Up until the 17th century you could call yourself
anything you liked in France (which makes you
wonder what the ancestors of today's Bastards and
Turds were thinking of), but in these more prosaic
and regulated times a number of ordinary everyday
factors is gradually eroding this part of the patrimoine .
The French, to the despair of every government
since the Revolution of 1789, are notoriously
good at not having babies, and even then half
the production at any given time are girls who do
not usually pass on their names when they marry.
Men are free to pass on their names as much as they
like, but some do not marry while others marry and
remain childless.  Add to this those perverse types
who voluntarily renounce such fine family designations
as Cupissol `Arsepiss' and the result, according
to an anguished M. Tesnières, is that 70 out of every
100 current surnames disappear in the course of a
single generation.

            Already the nation is top-heavy, with 25 per
cent of the population sharing 0.4 per cent of the
available names.  The twelve commonest names now
embrace a million people, with the Martins --there
are already 168,000 of them--heading the list.
Maybe when the crunch comes in 300 years' time
the Martins , who by then will in theory be one in 20
of the population, will start demanding the right to
call themselves Brothels or Bloody Fools .

            One thing M. Tesnières hasn't reckoned with,
though, is the Anglo-Saxon input.  The vogue for first
names such as James (pronounced JEMSS) is still far
from its peak, and freedom of movement within the
EEC means that English surnames are becoming
more and more common here.  Already a quick scan
of the local phone book reveals the presence of the
Broadbents, Coxes, Cockles, Willings, Whitworths ,
and Crackenthorpes .  Not that the English have a monopoly
when it comes to, as it were, injecting new
blood into the namestream.  The Irish haven't been
wasting their time either.  Friends in Bordeaux swear
by a French plumber called Patrick McGarvey and
our municipal musical school is overseen by that genial
organist--and Frenchman-- Rory Nelson .

            Just a little effort on the part of people with
names like this--put Cox with Willing , for example,
and something has to happen--could take some of
the strain off the neurotically prolific Martins,
Bernards , and Petits and send a welcome ray of sunshine
into the gloom-filled halls of the French Onomastic
Society.  But on second thoughts, maybe not:
M. Tesnières would doubtless see this foreign intrusion
as poor compensation for the loss of his homegrown
Whores, Bastards , and Hitlers .

            Leslie A. Dunkling
         
         
            
“Proceeds from sales of carved ducks go to handicap
children.”  [A sign in a Greek pizzeria in Peabody, Massachusetts.
submitted by .]
         
         
            The answers to Anglo-American Crossword Puzzle No. 50
appear on page 9.

            
               FIFTY ANGLO-AMERICAN CROSSWORDS, 120-page
book.  $6.75. Barry Tunick, 4470 Elenda, Culver City, CA
90230.