Three Words from Shakespeare

As I look forward to my annual pilgrimage to visit my friend, Elissa, and see a play at the Pennsylvania Shakespeare Festival—this year, Measure for Measure—I figured that a blog on words from Shakespeare’s plays would be appropriate.  To this end, I consulted Shakespeare’s Words: A Glossary and Language Companion by David Crystal and Ben Crystal.  To get a blog’s worth of material, I figured three words would do.  I chose “gleek,” an obsolete word that I particularly like; “tongue” because of an archaic meaning (which I found by “dictionary dipping); and “pretty,” because of an uncommon usage.

“Gleek,” as Nick Bottom uses it in my all-time favorite play, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, as a verb means, “make a pointed joke, jest, jibe.”  Bottom is a bumbling bumpkin who spends much of the play with the head of an ass, caught in a juvenile joke in a dispute between two gods.  Oberon causes Titania to fall in love with the ass-headed Bottom through a love-in-idleness potion, and she fawns over him ad nauseum.  At one point, Bottom says to the love-besmitten goddess, “I can gleek upon occasion.”  In a way, it is a joke within a joke.  As a fan of gleeking, I use the word upon occasion.

“Tongue,” as Shakespeare uses it in Measure for Measure (another reason I chose this word), means “reproach, censure, berate.”  Angelo thinks he has taken sexual advantage of Isabella, who has recently entered a convent.  As part of a bed trick, Angelo has actually slept with his former fiancée.  In contemplating his predicament, as he is engaged in a war on fornication, he muses, “How might she tongue me out?”  Angelo is confident that Isabella’s shame as a nun in losing her virginity will prevent her from revealing his own extramarital lustful activity.  While according to my American Heritage Dictionary, 4^th edition, this usage of “tongue” is archaic, it does bear relation to “tongue-lashing.”

Finally, I found “pretty” looking to see if Shakespeare used any words similar to “Prescott.”  The name is actually a contraction of “priest’s cottage,” so I figured Shakespeare may have used a similar word.  Much to my disappointment, he did not.  However, I found a usage of “pretty” as an adjective meaning “clever, ingenious, artful.”  Shakespeare’s Words lists five different usages of “pretty” in this meaning.  It reminded me of the Wicked Witch in The Wizard of Oz who refers to Dorothy as “my pretty.”  Certainly, the witch means “clever, ingenious, artful” in this context more than she means to complement Dorothy on her good looks.  Actually, this usage is listed as in current in my American Heritage Dictionary.

A second usage of “pretty” as an adjective meaning “childish, trifling, naïve” caught my eye.  This usage comes from Sonnet 41, “Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits . . ..”  This usage seems to be obsolete.  (I am away from home and so do not have my OED at hand.)  If someone is acting childishly, we can use the adverbial form of “pretty,” “to a fair degree, moderately” to claim that the person is “pretty pretty.”

At any rate, I will end with the injunction that I used to write on the bottom of chalkboards when Laura gave me tours of her classrooms at Smith:  “Read More Shakespeare!”

The thing about "thing"

The thing about “thing” is it is one of those words writing teachers despise because of its abstract nature, but language users love because of its versatility.  When all else fails—memory, articulateness, prudence—the word “thing” fills in the blank appropriately.  It can refer to everything from body parts to possessions to abstract ideas.  Hamlet famously decides, “[T]he play’s the thing/ Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the King.”  In this statement, by “thing” he means strategy. (See Note 1)

“Thing” has served the English language well.  As a formal word, “thing” is of Old English origin, going back to the 7^th century when English was emerging as a recognizable language.  In its original form, now obsolete, the OED defines it as “a meeting, assembly, esp. a deliberative or judicial assembly, a court, a council.”  If that meaning were still in use, Mr. Ding-a-ling and Sno Cone Joe would have gone to Thing to have their case decided.  (As it is, “dingaling,” also “thingaling,” has a meaning not appropriate to ice cream vendors.) (See Note 2)

As the English language developed, “thing” broadened in formal meaning to include actions, business affairs, obsessions, deeds, ideas, entities, attributes, and more.  It is no wonder, then, that according to the Chambers Slang Dictionary, “thing” took on an informal meaning, as well, in the 13^th century, initially meaning “a person, esp. someone whose name one does not know or who is unimportant.”  In the 20^th century, “thing” developed the abstract meaning which writing teachers despise, “a non-specific descriptor, used when one either cannot or does not wish to use the correct term.”

Going back to the OED, “thing” has many fun forms.  When we admit the existence of a thing, we grant it thinghood or we recognize its thingification.  In invoking such an action, we thingify a thing.  If something has qualities of a thing, it is thingish, thingy, or thingly.  An item “destitute of the character of a thing, insubstantial,” is thingless or possesses thinglessness.  Small things are thinglets or thinglings.  Thinginess admits that something has qualities of a thing.

The word “thing” allows English speakers a lot of latitude.  We can use it on purpose as a euphemism when we want to avoid using an objectionable word.  We can also use it when we just don’t know or remember the word we want to use.

In spite of its great usefulness, the thing about thing is it still makes for weak writing.

Note 1:  Somehow, “The thing’s the thing/ Wherein I’ll catch the thing of the Thing” does not have the same ring.

Note 2:  For those of you not in the northeast, recently in Gloversville, NY, one ice cream vendor was accused of harassing another ice cream vendor over territory.  The situation made the national talk shows

I develop a butt-head

Initially, for this blog I had intended to elaborate on variations of the word “thing,” as promised two blogs ago.  However, I have developed a case of “butt-head.”  While looking for a different file in my Word documents, I ran across a riff on the word “butt” from years ago.  At this point, I cannot remember exactly what set off those musings, BUT I believe it had something to do with my daughter and grandchildren.  (Sorry Laura.)

    1.    Butt (adjective)—an average-sized rear end

    2.    Butter (comparative adjective)—a bigger rear end

    3.    Buttest  (comparative adjective)—the largest rear end

    4.    Butt (noun)—a male rear end

    5.    Buttress (noun)—a female rear end

    6.    Buttery (adjective)—someone with a sizeable rear end

    7.    Buttock  (noun)—the second sound a butt clock makes

    8.    Buttick (noun)—the first sound a butt clock makes

    9.    Button (verb)—putting padding on the buttocks in order to make clothes fit better

   10. Buttoff (verb)—taking off padding from the buttock

   11. Butterfly (verb)—what happens when someone with a bigger rear end (see #2 above and NOTE below) makes a journey by air

    12.   Buttercup (noun)—what a butter drinks liquids from

    13. Butterscotch (noun)—a butter’s favorite alcoholic drink

    14.  Butternut (noun)—someone who likes butters a lot

    15.   Butterball (noun)—a butter’s favorite sport; a formal dance for a butter; a butter having a really good time

 (NOTE: For #11 to #15, I will not quibble if you interpret “butter” as someone who rams things, especially with the head, as in Chaucer’s Miller.)

After finding the original file, I went to my American Heritage College Dictionary, 4^th ed. to see what other forms of “butt” I might find.  I added a few variations to my list.  “Button” and “butter” are quite prolific parent words in various contexts.

I have to add two “butt-“ words new to me, in all seriousness. “Butt hinge” means “a hinge of two plates attached to abutting [my bold] surfaces of a door and door jamb and joined by a pin.”  Obviously, standard issue door hinges are butt hinges, so most of us with doors have butt hinges, which gives butting in doors (or butting on doors) new meaning.  (Do we “button” our doors instead of close them?  When we take the hinges off our doors, is our behavior “off-butting”?)  “Butt joint” means “a joint formed by two abutting [my bold] surfaces placed squarely together.”  Now, regarding how “butt joints” might relate to “buttocks,” I am going to let you make your own wise cracks.

Be-Booked--Beyond Katrina

One of the many pleasures of substitute teaching is I can keep learning in an academic setting without having to do the heavy lifting—lesson prep, grading, dealing with parents.  Part of this pleasure involves what I call “found books”—books I find on the bookshelves in classrooms or perusing school libraries.  For today’s entry, I am going to take a side trip from words (Be-Worded) to discuss a recently “found book” (Be-Booked).  In a local high school library, I found a book by Natasha Trethewey, the current U.S. Poet Laureate, who spent part of her life on the Mississippi Gulf coast in Gulfport and part in Atlanta.  Currently, she is at Emory.

Her book, Beyond Katrina:  Meditations on the Mississippi Gulf Coast caught my attention.  Since I cannot borrow books from school libraries, I searched the Upper Hudson Library System, only to find none of the member libraries owns the book.  I ended up getting it through interlibrary loan from the Utica College library.  Ultimately, I asked our local public library to purchase a copy for its collection.

Beyond Katrina is a combination of prose non-fiction and poetry.  Trethewey meditates not only on the after-effects of Katrina, both natural and human-made, but also on race relations on the Mississippi Gulf coast going back for decades.  It is a thoughtful, moving thin volume that I highly recommend.  (Unlike the one thin mint in Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life, this one thin volume will not make your head explode.)

Trethewey makes the point that in the aftermath of Katrina, New Orleans has received the lion’s share of attention.  There is a dearth of literature about the Mississippi Gulf coast after Katrina.  However, the true appeal of this book is how Trethewey interlaces Katrina recovery with larger social and economic issues and with human’s attempts (futile) to control or manipulate nature.  (I never realized that the beaches of the Mississippi Gulf coast were constructed by humans in the 1950’s in order to attract tourism.  I always thought they were made by nature.)

When I was a child, we spent some time in the area of Gulfport and Biloxi visiting relatives.  I can remember the devastation which Camille wreaked.  I have not been along the Gulf coast since the late 1970’s, when we used to drive through to Florida, usually Pensacola.  Much has changed, evidently, since Mississippi legalized gambling and the floating casinos popped up along the coast.

In the wake of devastating hurricanes in the northeast--Irene and Sandy--I am curious to see the literature which these disasters generate.

My mark of a good book is one I would add to my personal collection.  Trethewey’s Beyond Katrina very well may make its way to my already overcrowded bookshelves.

NOTE:  As I edited this blog to post, an idea for a literature elective occurred to me--Literature of Natural Disasters.  I googled the idea to find that a book aimed at grades 3 - 6 exists, as does a course, but no such course exists in googleland for secondary or higher education.

Thingamabob (Cha-Cha-Cha)

Most of the time when we think about words, we think of a collection of vowels and consonants that combine to represent an object, an idea, or such—a small unit of communication.  We can play with words by punning—I once named a rescue cat “Clawdio” (see Note 2).  We can switch words around to create clever sayings—“truth is beauty, beauty truth,” as in “Ode on a Grecian Urn.”  We can reverse expectations—no good deed goes unpunished.

What is your favorite word and why is it your favorite?  Do you like its meaning, as in “vacation”?  Do you like the way it sounds, perhaps its alliterative quality, as in the word “essence”?  Do you like the way it looks, such as an anagram?  How many of you like a word because of the way it feels to say it, the way it rolls, bounces, or slides in the mouth, its sensual quality?

My favorite word to say is “thingamabob” because it uses all parts of the mouth, has a veritable dance party in the mouth, and because it is a silly, informal, all-purpose word.  When said aloud, “thingamabob” resonates.  It starts in the front of the mouth with the tongue against the teeth, creating the “th” sound.  Then, it travels back to the middle for the long “e” sound and immediately scoots up the nose for the twanging “n” before it slams against the back of the mouth for the guttural hard “g.”  It takes a pause in the middle with the “uh” (schwa) sound and then sneaks up to the lips and nose for the tingling, tickling “m” sound—a kazoo without the actual instrument.  Next, it slides back to the middle for another “uh” sound before bouncing to the lips for a plosive “b,” rocketing to the middle for the final “uh,” and ending with a resounding plosive “b.”  (In the “bob” part, the word does the Cha-Cha in your mouth!)

Recently, in conversation on this topic, someone asked about the word “thingamajig.”  “Thingamajig” differs basically only in the final sound, the hard “g.”  The “jig” starts as does “bob” in the front of the mouth with the tongue behind the teeth instead of with the bouncing “b” of “bob.”  The short “i” slides to the middle, as does the “uh” of bob.”  However, “jig” ends in the back of the mouth with the guttural hard “g” swallowed instead of bounced out as the final “b” in “bob.”  After some time spent repeating the two words, I personally prefer “thingamabob,” as I like to end with the exploding “b.”  (An influence, perhaps, of Monty Python?)

While my intent here is primarily the fun of saying the word, I cannot end without discussing meaning.  “Thingamabob” started its life as “thingum,” an informal, or colloquial, variation of “thing,” with the “um” a meaningless suffix.  Soon thereafter, the “bob” joined the word, yet another meaningless hanger-on.  The OED lists its first usage in 1680.  “Thingamajig” joined the linguistic nonsense around 1751.

I used to dream about words, such as “mellifluous,” “diaphanous,” and “avuncular.”  While these words are fun to say, especially “mellifluous,” “thingamabob” remains my favorite word to speak aloud.

NOTE 1:  In researching “thingamabob” and “thingamajig,” I took a look at the word “thing.”  The entry in the OED is quite long, including some amusing variations on the word, such as “thingness.”  Soon, I will devote a blog entry to the word “thing.”

NOTE 2: Many years ago, I adopted an older cat from the Humane Society.  As most people prefer to adopt kittens, I figured I had saved the cat from death row.  I named him “Clawdio” after Claudio in Measure for Measure, who is also on death row.  I tried my best to teach Clawdio to mew Shakespearean speeches.  Ultimately, I abandoned my efforts, realizing that I could not teach an old cat mew tricks.