After an evening with Arvin, the greater part of which was consumed with a discussion on the etymology of common political language, I called him at about 3:45am, excited to share what I’d discovered about the word ‘sincere’. At least, I tried. Due to the presence, in my kitchen, of an intruder, or at least a person unknown to me who was, by the sound of it, sawing the legs off a chair, I was unable to raise my voice to an audible level. So I texted him, instead, to explain that ‘sincere’ comes from the Latin ‘sine cera’, meaning ‘without wax’. Workmen of the Roman era, contracted to deck out the dwellings of the spoiled with marble floors and pillars, would sometimes attempt to fob their clients off with sub-standard materials, and would disguise cracks and other imperfections with wax. Thus ‘without wax’ – ‘sine cera’ – came to mean ‘with integrity’, or ‘honest’.
A few moments later he texted his reply: “Oh my god.”
The next morning I went out to my car to find that a brick had been thrown through the passenger-side window. Around it was duct-taped a small, spiral-bound notebook. What did I find inside? Why, prose-poetry, which I like to call ‘brave-chicken’.
‘What’s in a word?’
Number One:
‘Mortgage.’ (from French, mort+gage, meaning “death pledge”.)
Prior to the 16th century, loans were commonly for smaller sums, or apples. Then, someone came up with the idea of a loan so large and burdensome it was said one would “pay it till the day you died.”
Like a meme, what started as a wry aside became pervasive and bothersome, and death upon settlement of loans became a standard stipulation in most contracts. Thus, the word “mortgage” was born. Not only that, but the outstanding balance quickly became the most accurate measure of a man’s lifespan.
Obviously, the property market exploded, house prices skyrocketing as people overpaid grossly for even modest dwellings. Records show, par exemple, that, in 1819, a professional pipe-cleaner named Laurent Robais paid over forty-trillion French francs for a bilet doux. He is still alive today. Indeed, after adjusting for inflation, he is expected to live for another 24,802 years.
For the love of words!
Number Two:
‘Sniff.‘
In the early, heady days of onomatopoeia, there was a separate word for each of the different sounds generated by a sharp intake of breath through the nostrils. ‘Snuff’, ‘snoff’, ‘sneff’, ‘snaff’, ‘snaeff’, dialectical variants ‘snerf’, and ‘snorf’, and the tricky to pronounce printers’ term ‘snf’ were all utilized, where appropriate, for many years. During the great move towards a common standard of speech, however, moves were made to eliminate words that were seen as superfluous and, due largely to Papal influence, ‘sniff’ won out. Later on, attempts were even made to standardize the action itself. Indeed, men were fined or arrested for ‘snoffing’, or ‘snaffing’. Which seems a bit rough – after all, when you gotta go, you gotta go!
What in the word?!
Number Three:
‘Infinity.’
Ever wonder why ‘gastronomy’ and ‘astronomy’ are almost the same, exact word?
In early-18th-century society, it was customary, prior to a function, for hosts to inquire of their guests their favorite foods, and construct the menu accordingly. Those guests with more exacting tastes, or displaying particular specificity were called “finicky”. Those less so, “infinicky”. In kitchen parlance, the latter word came to mean a limitless array. Over time, like the smell of onions, it suffused the house, and even wafted into the street, and general conversation. By the mid-1800s, however, the less-fussed decided they could indeed be fussed after all, and quite a bit, but only about the food. The drinks? – fine, whatever. So the word became “infini-tea”, that being the slurp-du-jour, then, due to some errant spelling, “infinity”.
The moral of the story: don’t be too fussy. After all, who knows what drinks they serve at the edge of the universe from that crazy bartender like an octopus?
Wordy Guthrie!
Number Four:
‘Football.’
Originally, “foot-ball” was an English game for two-to-eighty players. The aim was for one of the players to kick any other player in the testicle. For this violation he was awarded one point. For the kicking of two testicles, he was awarded two points, and the owner of the offended testicles was out of the game. The awarding of a “two-pointer”, or “a-ha”, relied heavily on the honesty of individual players, though you could tell quite a bit from facial expressions.
As technique improved, strikes grew firmer, and as the popularity of the game increased, the birth rate in towns where foot-ball was played began to drop exponentially. Soon, thick padding began to be worn in the groin and leg-pits, but organisers merely adapted the rules to include kicks to the head, shoulders, knees, and nose. Padding was soon applied here, also, which lead to the development of American Football, which Americans are so good at today. In 1883, with football’s star on the wane, the sport was given a kick up the rear, as a real ball, usually of leather, or lead, was introduced to the field of play, and attacks on other players penalized. Football, or soccer, as we know it today was born.
Incidentally, the phrase “hat-trick”, meaning the act of a player scoring three goals in a single game, comes from the idea of a kick so hard that one’s testes, it was said, would end up in one’s hat.
Word did you say?
Number Five:
‘Etymology.’
The following is an excerpt from an interview with Father Ransard Heinkel, d1578, the famous word-inventor:
“Etymology? (LAUGHS) Yeah, that was one o’ mine. I made up a lotta’ words back then. Man, I was makin’ ‘em up all the time. Plagiarism was always a thing, y’know? So, anyway, I was lookin’ up a word to make sure no-one had done it before – “untrousers”, I think – when I started to question myself: am I a fucking loser, or what? Who looks up words? And I answered myself: bookworms! Y’know, nerds, dorks. Then I was like: what would a bookworm look up? Well, it’s an insect, right? Close enough. A bug, spaghetti, whatever. And the answer was – duh – “entymology”! The study of insects! Then I thought: what would a bookworm do? I know! He’d eat the shit out o’ that word! So “etymology” – it’s like he ate the “n”. Like he’s just startin’ out, and bam! I had a word. I knew it was a good one, so we all went out to celebrate. Boy did we get drunk that night. Larry tried to make out with a dog and puked in its face. Things fell apart pretty quickly after that.”
Word to your mother.
A.R.
Arvin called me later to apologize. I told him there was no need; he now has one less brick than before. I have one more. Who wins? One day I shall have even more, and build a beautiful bridge across the wide water. Without wax.
Poor Arvin. I think he may be suffering, mentally. I know he’s not been sleeping well.
Sweet dreams,
J.R.
The Morning Corporation **** 