What’s the word for a know-it-all who really knows it all? We didn’t have one until Yiddish gave us maven in the mid-twentieth century. A maven is more adept than a mere expert, more authoritative than a mere authority, sharper than a pundit, more up-to-date than a past master.

Since the word was introduced to English (with attestations going back to 1952), we have been blessed with a multitude of mavens…

Regrettably, this word was not in the English language when Edgar Allan Poe wrote his most famous poem. He would have found it useful: “Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou, I said, art sure no maven, Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore.”

English should be so lucky to get words from Yiddish! [source]

Ah, vocabulary…

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1: a dissenter from established religious dogma; especially: a baptized member of the Roman Catholic Church who disavows a revealed truth

2: one who dissents from an accepted belief or doctrine: see also NONCONFORMIST

There’s a negative connotation, though–as anyone who dissents from the established doctrine is therefore “rocking the boat” and otherwise causing trouble and contributing to the decline of the establishment.

So it’s wonderful that this word should come (in a long and complicated journey) from the Greek hairetikos–”able to choose.“

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Godiva’ s new ad campaign, as seen on a poster in a Metro station:

A woman in a slinky dress kneels on the floor next to an enormous chocolate box. She’s tearing the ribbon off to get to the chocolates, which are at least the size of her head. Tagline: “Let the decadence begin.”

Now, BusinessWeek apparently has a problem with this slogan because Godiva isn’t decadent enough for them. But linguaphiles should point out another problem: the word itself.

“Decadence” comes from the same root word as “decay.” It means “a period of decline, downfall.” “Decadent,” a back-formation from decadence, is “marked by decline or decay.” The etymology is right there in your face.

In modern usage, the word “decadent” can be applied to self-indulgent pleasures (“this cake is so decadent”) but that definition is listed third on Merriam-Webster. I don’t hear the “decay” in most sentences using “decadence” or “decadent,” but this ad just seems to bring out the rot. There’s something sinister about the way the woman tears into the chocolate box (shades of Turkish Delight?), and of course, everyone knows that chocolate makes your teeth decay. It’s as if the ad is inviting the comparison between chocolate (not, on the whole, a bad food item) and this unwholesome rot. In this context, I get an extremely visceral reaction from this word and this ad.

Time to go buy some Cadbury…

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Gloaming

“Twilight.” Actually a noun (nothing ever “gloams,” for example), the word comes from Scottish Middle English and is over 8000 years old.

Fungible

“Interchangeable” (in that the two fungibles perform the same function). The odd one out in this list. I just love that it sounds like so many other common words (like fungus and fun) and that it’s practically impossible to guess the definition.

Pulse

In the sense of “rhythmical beating, vibrating, or sounding” though that definition takes most (but not all) of the poetry out of it. From “pellere to drive, push, beat.” In British English mostly, “pulse” also refers to what we Americans call legumes. Mirriam Webster doesn’t note the UK/USA distinction, but google for “pulse recipe” and seven of the top 10 results will be from the UK or traditionally British-English-speaking places.

Slouch

“Origin unknown.” Yeats liked this word:

The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
[The Second Coming - more here]

I didn’t pick these words for any specific reason or theme. They’re just fun, solid words (with the exception of “fungible,” I suppose). One of my personal missions (vendettas?) is to use as many “solid” words as possible. A quick Google search indicates that I may be the only person on the planet who uses that distinction, which makes me either unique or crazy. I’ll write about solid words in the coming days, so stay tuned!

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A long time ago someone suggested I write about color words. I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not an artist and that most of my color knowledge comes from the Crayola Box of 64. But it’s true, color words are fascinating.

For example, vermillion comes from the Latin for “little worm”–there must be a species of bright red worm in Italy. (Vermicelli, the thin pasta, comes from the same root. And don’t forget about vermin.) Cerulean refers specifically to the blue of the sky. Magenta is named after a dye discovered near the town of Magenta, Italy. Cerise is French for cherry.

Orange is the color of an orange–the word hasn’t changed much since ancient times. In Sanskrit it was “naranga” and the modern Arabic word is “naranj.” What should have been “a naranj” became “an aranj” and thus the fruit and color we know today. Chartreuse, apparently, gets its name from a liqueur of the same name.

Then of course there’s lavender, coral, amethyst, rose, violet, thistle, chestnut, olive, lime, and dozens of other colors derived directly from nature.

John Ciardi in “How Does A Poem Mean?” (I am very distressed to find that this is out of print) argues that every word comes from something concrete. A daisy is a day’s eye, and so forth. His theory seems to hold up for the words discussed in this post, but I’d love to see what he’d do with Phthalo Blue.

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But Anu Garg’s newest book, The Dord, the Diglot, and an Avocado or Two: The Hidden Lives and Strange Origins of Common and Not-So-Common Words, looks to be pretty great. Anu Garg is the guy behind the A Word A Day mailing list, which (in my opinion) is far superior to the dictionary.com mailing list or other such imitators. The guy’s been sending out a daily word, Monday through Friday, for years, and I’m pretty sure it’s just him doing it–no assistants or interns or nothing. The theme weeks are pretty impressive; one recent theme was “words originally having something to do with fabric” and another was on toponyms (toponyms and eponyms seem to be two of Garg’s favorite categories, as those themes surface often). The book looks like more of the good stuff from the mailing list, with more of a focus on etymology and less on “words one can actually use in daily life” (not something Garg ever really focuses on, except for maybe one week out of the year).

Anyone fascinated by words should check this book out, or just sign up for the mailing list.

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• Avoid grammar errors
• Check your paper for plagiarism
• Good writing

Apparently, you people just want me to help you cheat on your homework. That’s fine. This post should help anyone who is ever asked to write something without the use of Microsoft’s spellcheck.

A professor of mine gave us a spelling test the other day. I haven’t been asked to take a spelling test since 5th grade–when I was sent to regionals for the spelling bee, not to toot my own horn or anything. Out of 50 commonly misspelled words, I got eight wrong and had to seriously think about another handful. Perhaps going over a few of these words will help me, and others, learn how to finally spell them correctly. Some of these words I personally spelled wrong, some are ones I see misspelled when I tutor writing, and some are just interesting words. No, I won’t tell you which are which.

(Warning: This is about as dorky as one can get with words. So sue me, I think words are fun!)

Supersede – Commonly seen as “supercede” because of the prevalence of other words ending in or otherwise using the suffix -cede, such as antecedent, concede, precede. “Cede,” to yield, give way to, confuses the matter further, and to make matters worse, the spelling of “supersede” has fluctuated between “s” and “c” over the years.
“Supersede” means “to supplant, to take the place of” but literally means “to sit above.” If I remember that the “-sede” comes from the same root as “sedentary” it may be easier to spell.

Separate – This is just cake, really. The word comes from “to make ready, prepare” according to the Oxford English Dictionary, but why this would be so is beyond me. Luckily, you can just memorize the saying passed down from my father, who is even more of a nerd than I am: “There is a rat in separate.”

It works. Don’t knock it.

(Bonus points for looking up my dad’s other dorky phrase, which he did not coin but uses a lot nonetheless: “Nothing propinks like propinquity.”)

Desiccate – Commonly misspelled “dessicate” because, heck, it just sounds better. This is probably because no other common English words draw on the Latin root, “siccus,”  meaning “dry.” “Exsiccation” refers to the action of drying what is moist, like desiccate, or can mean “absolute dryness,” but I don’t think I’ve ever seen this word used. However, “hortus siccus” (dry garden) seems to be a somewhat common phrase in modern use.

Receive – “I before E except after C.” (See also: conceive, deceive.) The Latin for this word is “re” plus “capere,” “to take,” so I’m going to blame the French for changing the vowels. (When in doubt, blame the French.)

Liquefy – This is a fun one. “Liquid” has a second “i” in it, so why not “liquify”?
God I wish I knew. This word, meaning “to make liquid,” has always been spelled with an “e,” according to the OED. It’s just one of those words that must be memorized.

I think five is enough for now. What do you guys think about this type of post? I’ve got plenty more words I could post about, believe me.

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