AUTHOR: Ernest Hemingway. No, not really. Bill Bryson.
PUBLISHED: First edition, 1983; second edition, 2004
GENRE: Reference
Reading the OED: One Man, One Year, 21,730 Pages
AUTHOR: Ammon Shea
PUBLISHED: 2009
GENRE: Reference
It is a source of some great amusement for some around me that I have a habit of reading books that are basically dictionaries. To them, such an endeavor would seem as useful, or as fun, as reading a phonebook. But I love it. It’s where the writer and the history major in me meet: new words + how they came to be = joy.
But not all word compellations (these aren’t really dictionaries, in that they are not all-encompassing, in length or in explanation) are built the same. Bill Bryson’s Dictionary of Troublesome Words is a practical guide. For writers, it’s the answers to all those grammatical queries that begin with wait, is it (blank) or (blank)? and end with, ah, crap. I should really know this. It reminds us of the difference between factious and factitious, explains the differences between fable, myth, and parable, and clarifies the correct spelling – or lack thereof – of the Great Bard’s last name. (Shockingly, there is no real consensus on how to spell Shakespeare. Some add the last e, some don’t. The OED spells it as Shakspere. But more on the OED later.) A good example looks like this:
Historic, historical. “The Landmarks Preservation Commission voted yesterday to create a historical district on a gilded stretch of Manhatten’s East Side” (New York Times). Generally speaking, something that makes history or is part of history, as in the example above, is historic. Something that is based on history or describes history is historical (“a historical novel”).
Some of them really are limited in their practically uses, such as my favorite, the difference between convince and persuade:
Convince, persuade. Although often used interchangeably, the words are not quite the same. Briefly, you convince someone that he should believe but persuade him to act. It is possible to persuade a person to do something without convincing him of the correctness or necessity of doing it.
I cannot imagine ever being chastised for saying, “I convinced him to go to the movies”, rather than “I persuaded him to go to the movies”, but it’s good to know the difference nonetheless.
Reading the OED is a far less practical affair. Author Ammon Shea is an extreme lexiphile and a collector of dictionaries. (A lexiphile is someone who loves words, much like a cinephile loves movies and a Francophile loves French stuff. A person who hated words would be a lexiphobe.) Hence his decision to read the entirety of the OED, or the Oxford English Dictionary, the alpha and omega of dictionaries. This thing is huge. Over 20,000 pages huge. The simplest of words – set, make, lie – can take up a dozen pages. The OED doesn’t just give you the definition, it gives you the etymology, or the history, of it, with specific examples of usage. Reading all 20 volumes is not for the faint of heart, and sometimes, Shea’s narrative makes it sound like he’s on his way up Mount Kilimanjaro. It makes some sense then that Shea decided not to focus on the practical but on the fantastic, singling out those words you didn’t know existed and couldn’t have ever possibly imagined. For example:
Acnestis (n.) On an animal, the point of the back that lies between the shoulders and the lower back, which cannot be reached to be scratched.
If my dog could speak, I’m pretty sure he would just say, “I can’t reach that damn spot!”, not, “I cannot each my acnestis.”. There is no real conceivable usage for such a word. And yet, it exists. Some of the entries are disgusting even on the page, leading you to wonder what the heck the writer could have been doing to necessitate its invention:
Rhypophagy (n.): The eating of filth or disgusting matter.
Or:
Unbepissed (adj.): Not having been urinated on; unwet with urine.
This would seem at first a good thing, but its mere creation implies that there was once so much being peed on that to be dry needed specifying.
Some are words that were once presumably commonplace but are now forgotten:
Bowelless (adj.): Having no bowels; lacking in mercy or compassion.
This word might finally explain that peculiar scene in A Christmas Carol, where Scrooge states that people had always said that Marley had no bowels, but he had never believed it until now.
Others deserve to be resurrected:
Jehu (n.): A fast or reckless driver.*
Jehu was an Israelite king renowned for his furious chariot driving, as explained in 2 Kings 9:20: “the driving is like the driving of Jehu the son of Nimshi; for he driveth furiously”. Apparently the ancient Israelites had road rage issues just like us.
Or:
Natiform (adj.): Buttock-shaped.
A word that could be applied to Kim Kardashian in various ways.
The problem with Shea’s book is that while the words may seem so outlandish at the time of reading as to be indelibly burned into your brain, they often disappear as soon as you turn the page, because there can be no practical usage for them. Hence there’s a lot of, I have to tell someone about this!, only to be followed by, what was that word again?. Bryson’s book, while not nearly as titillating, is far more applicable, especially if one writes or reads on a regular basis. It’s a good ol’ copy of Webster’s Dictionary to Shea’s randy urbandictionary.com. Either way, if you like words, you’ll enjoy yourself. Just prepare yourself for the funny looks.
MAINSTREAM OR NOT: No, as much as I would love for people to enjoy dictionaries as much as I do.
SO, SHOULD I READ IT OR NOT?: Either one will work for a lexiphile. If you are looking for something to explain whether to use affect or effect in your report, Bryson’s is the way to go. Shea’s is the one you read for fun and then leave on the shelf; Bryson’s is the one you’ll go back to over and over again.
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