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One morning, while browsing John Ayto's Dictionary of Word Origins: The Histories of More than 8,000 English-Language Words, I came upon this entry:
hoi polloi see polyp
Hoi polloi? Polyp? Was this some sort elitist commentary, equating the general masses with a potentially cancerous growth? (I didn't really think that, but it does make for some interesting musing.)
Turns out that the syllable common to hoi polloi and polyp--pol--traces back to the Greek root pollus, "many." Polyp originally denoted an octopus (a "many-footed" creature), and the word was metaphorically applied to the tentacled growth we now know as a polyp. Hoi polloi? Literal Greek, meaning "the many."
In the parlance, Whoda thunk it?
Such are the wondrous discoveries awaiting us when we examine word histories. Unseen connections (as in hoi polloi and polyp) . . . and unseemly associations, as well (as we'll see throughout this book).
Deep within the histories of many words, you'll find secrets and surprises and origins that might chafe the sensitive: you'll find bodily function in words like fizzle and poppycock, war and mayhem in words like belfry and ovation, drunkenness in words like bridal and symposium, insults in words like pretty and coax, Medieval torture in words like travel and guy, unpleasant thoughts for the squeamish in words like muscle and porcelain.
You'll find, as the saying almost goes, skeletons in the verbal closets. (That phrase, by the way, that did not arise the way the popular internet etymology would have it: that ancient doctors proudly hid the skeletons formerly owned by the cadavers they dissected in their studies. Some keepsake, that.) Unfortunate English opens the closet. The pages that follow alert you to the improprieties, disgusting notions, licentiousness and other foul thoughts that you speak daily without realizing it. We'll point out what sensibilities you'd be offending if people took the words you use for their original meanings.
This book concentrates on words that--at their core--had meanings or origins less than savory to today's thinking, to today's word usage. We pay very little attention to words that may have taken a pejorative or unseemly meaning along the way. These words simply got just dressed up in different clothing as time went on, donning a metaphorical mask or a euphemistic costume or a slang-conversion disguise. For example, aunt always meant sister of one of your parents. For a time, it was used as a euphemism for mistress or whore. Aunt is therefore not originally an unseemly word, and therefore not covered in this book. On the other hand, spill had bloody meanings from the very beginning, until the word softened to the quietly sloppy word it is today. And thus, spill gets its due here. Occasionally, we dip back into what the word meant in the language it was borrowed from, even though its original use in English was innocuous and straightforward. For instance, lasagna in English has always meant the Italian multi-layered pasta dish. But the Latin word that led to lasagna arises from . . . well, you don't want to know (but I'll tell you anyway in the chapter called "And This Is What We Put Into Our Mouths?").
Keep in mind, too, that the origins discussed here might not be offensive in and of themselves, but they are presented here because they might be out of joint with modern sensibilities and some political or social movements or agendas. For instance, I have no problem with enjoying a few drinks--neither the concept nor the actual performance. I'll likely pop a beer myself after completing my writing day's work. But alcohol watchdogs might be taken aback at the words that resulted from association with drink.
Some words, of course, have meanings out of joint with almost everyone's sense of propriety, whether words of torture, violent bloodletting, smelly bodily functions, or blush-blush body parts boldly displayed in public.
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Finally, this book does not pretend to be any sort of comprehensive language history or explication of the many mechanisms of word creation and how words change in meanings, spellings and uses. I've listed several excellent sources for such investigations; many exacting and intelligent people have devoted themselves to the intricacies of etymology, and they've shared their expertise and their findings in reference books both scholarly and popular. Unfortunate English shares curmudgeonly smartass observations about individual histories and theories of histories; this book is simply rounding up the unusual suspects, and explaining how they secreted themselves into their current meanings. (And if the use of the word smartass in the previous sentence bothers you, gird yourself.)
At least we can take comfort that these polyps--these disgusting pre-cancerous growths--are largely today benign.
Unfortunate English starts off by picking a fight . . .
(And to read about the fight that Unfortunate English picks, read the "Alarm" entry here.) |
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