A fun controversy:
What generic term do you use to describe a drink such as Coca-Cola, Sprite, Pepsi, 7-Up, etc.?
You can submit your choice at this site. There is a map of the results submitted. And, at Strange Maps you can see a national map by county based on use of the terms Soda, Pop, or Coke.
Where I live, the majority of people say 'Coke'. I find this humorous; at my office, by majority opinion, Pepsi brand products are stocked in the drink fridge. Beer, of course, would have been the first choice, but that was vetoed for obvious reasons.
What do I say? My dad was from Chicago; my mom from Philly. I think it was a compromise: Soda-Pop. Not Soda. Not Pop. But Soda-Pop.
Another common word usage in my neck of the woods that makes people from elsewhere laugh: there isn't such a thing as a 'potluck' dinner; it's a pitch-in!
I can't explain it for the same reasons I can't explain why the locals pronounce the word wash as if it is wahrsh.
Showing posts with label Language. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Language. Show all posts
12 September 2008
15 March 2008
Dipped in Raspberry Juice: Some musings on metaphors
About a week ago, Bloglily wrote a post titled "It was Like, You Know", about figurative language. As an example, she included, from her story "The Centerfold Club", this bit describing a pole dancer as "a rotisserie chicken, all heated, bronzed, exposed skin, rotating around them both, for as long as the green light stayed on".
In her post, Lily wrote about a literary agent who decreed that one should never have more than two metaphors or similes in an entire literary work. As you might expect, many of Lily's readers offered their opinions in the comments, disagreeing with the literary agent. Write without metaphor? You must be joking! I don't think I can converse without metaphor or simile.
Lily writes:
I agree with Lily that metaphor works similarly to wit. And both are good fun. But, the writerly pleasure of crafting a great metaphor is the aftereffect of achiving one's purpose in writing: to communicate with your reader. If humor is the recognition of the intersection of two incongruent thoughts, certainly metaphor is also.
As I wrote in the comments on Lily's blog, I like to think of metaphor as like a Venn diagram. Each vector in the diagram is disparate, but where they overlap, in the unexpected, not previously explored, region is where the writer uses figurative language to clarify something for the reader in a new and exciting way.
Although seemingly a simplistic way to describe a complex thought process, I see it like this:
What I know and what you know may be different, but if I am trying to convey an idea to you, I should start on common ground. I take two things that you have knowledge of and link those concepts together so that you can understand what I want to convey. F. Scott Fitzgerald is credited with saying that "[T]he test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function." What a writer does with metaphor is to stretch that common ground in unexpected ways to broaden the reader's understanding by purposely forcing the reader to not only hold those two disparate ideas, but at the same time to merge them into a new concept.
The speaker of The Red Red Rose, to use Robert Burns' poem as an example, says "My love is like a red, red, rose". The reader thinks: "okay, she's like a flower. A pretty, red flower". The poet and the reader both understand love, and roses, and now they both understand that the speaker of the poem sees his love like a beautiful rose. The poem continues: "That's newly sprung in June". Now the reader understands more -- it is a fresh, just blossoming flower. But Burns doesn't stop there: O my love's like the melody/That's sweetly played in tune. Now the reader can move on to another image of the lover's sweetheart; his understanding is deepened by the second metaphor. The overlapping area of the diagram expands in yet another unexpected way.
But, you might say, the image of a lover as a red rose -- or any kind of rose, perhaps even a sickly one as Blake used (see "The Sick Rose") -- is cliche. And you would be right. But when it was first used, it was not cliche; it was unexpected. The same could be said for Homer's description of 'rosy-fingered dawn'. But, the lasting power of these images is due to their effectiveness.
But metaphor and simile aren't only used in poetry. Anytime something needs to be described, metaphor is the tool to have at hand. Take this passage from Howard Nemerov's essay "On Metaphor":
I first read this essay of Nemerov's many years ago and I used it to describe metaphor to a classroom of bored teenagers. They may not have understood Burns or Blake on the whole, but they understood what Nemerov was writing about when he described his recognition of the birds dipped in raspberry juice.
Whether the metaphor is describing dawn, a beloved, a unfamiliar bird, or a pole dancer, each of these examples uses the common knowledge of the dissimilar to communicate precisely what the writer wants the reader to understand. Perhaps it is the cliched use of figurative language that the uncredited literary agent was referring to. I would agree that the cliched should be avoided. But using metaphor to convey an image by comparing unlike things that are known to the reader -- like comparing the exotic dancer to a rotisserie chicken -- is a tool that all writers use. It is basic to communication. That region in the Venn diagrams of our minds where two unlike ideas come together is where our limited vocabularies and mere words on the page are used to stretch our imaginations and to make something perfectly clear.
In her post, Lily wrote about a literary agent who decreed that one should never have more than two metaphors or similes in an entire literary work. As you might expect, many of Lily's readers offered their opinions in the comments, disagreeing with the literary agent. Write without metaphor? You must be joking! I don't think I can converse without metaphor or simile.
Lily writes:
I think writers use simile and metaphor because thinking up a good simile/metaphor is just plain fun. Wit, as I recall, has to do with combining dissimilar things, in a way that gives the reader (and the writer) pleasure.
I agree with Lily that metaphor works similarly to wit. And both are good fun. But, the writerly pleasure of crafting a great metaphor is the aftereffect of achiving one's purpose in writing: to communicate with your reader. If humor is the recognition of the intersection of two incongruent thoughts, certainly metaphor is also.
As I wrote in the comments on Lily's blog, I like to think of metaphor as like a Venn diagram. Each vector in the diagram is disparate, but where they overlap, in the unexpected, not previously explored, region is where the writer uses figurative language to clarify something for the reader in a new and exciting way.
Although seemingly a simplistic way to describe a complex thought process, I see it like this:
What I know and what you know may be different, but if I am trying to convey an idea to you, I should start on common ground. I take two things that you have knowledge of and link those concepts together so that you can understand what I want to convey. F. Scott Fitzgerald is credited with saying that "[T]he test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function." What a writer does with metaphor is to stretch that common ground in unexpected ways to broaden the reader's understanding by purposely forcing the reader to not only hold those two disparate ideas, but at the same time to merge them into a new concept.
The speaker of The Red Red Rose, to use Robert Burns' poem as an example, says "My love is like a red, red, rose". The reader thinks: "okay, she's like a flower. A pretty, red flower". The poet and the reader both understand love, and roses, and now they both understand that the speaker of the poem sees his love like a beautiful rose. The poem continues: "That's newly sprung in June". Now the reader understands more -- it is a fresh, just blossoming flower. But Burns doesn't stop there: O my love's like the melody/That's sweetly played in tune. Now the reader can move on to another image of the lover's sweetheart; his understanding is deepened by the second metaphor. The overlapping area of the diagram expands in yet another unexpected way.
But, you might say, the image of a lover as a red rose -- or any kind of rose, perhaps even a sickly one as Blake used (see "The Sick Rose") -- is cliche. And you would be right. But when it was first used, it was not cliche; it was unexpected. The same could be said for Homer's description of 'rosy-fingered dawn'. But, the lasting power of these images is due to their effectiveness.
But metaphor and simile aren't only used in poetry. Anytime something needs to be described, metaphor is the tool to have at hand. Take this passage from Howard Nemerov's essay "On Metaphor":
While I'm thinking about metaphor, a flock of purple finches arrives on the lawn. Since I haven't seen these birds for some years, I am only fairly sure of their being in fact purple finches, so I get down Peterson's Field Guide and read his description: "Male: About the size of House Sparrow, rosy-red, brightest on head and rump." That checks quite well, but his next remark -- "a sparrow dipped in raspberry juice" -- is decisive: it fits. I look out the window again and now I know that I am seeing purple finches." (A Howard Nemerov Reader, pp223)
I first read this essay of Nemerov's many years ago and I used it to describe metaphor to a classroom of bored teenagers. They may not have understood Burns or Blake on the whole, but they understood what Nemerov was writing about when he described his recognition of the birds dipped in raspberry juice.
Whether the metaphor is describing dawn, a beloved, a unfamiliar bird, or a pole dancer, each of these examples uses the common knowledge of the dissimilar to communicate precisely what the writer wants the reader to understand. Perhaps it is the cliched use of figurative language that the uncredited literary agent was referring to. I would agree that the cliched should be avoided. But using metaphor to convey an image by comparing unlike things that are known to the reader -- like comparing the exotic dancer to a rotisserie chicken -- is a tool that all writers use. It is basic to communication. That region in the Venn diagrams of our minds where two unlike ideas come together is where our limited vocabularies and mere words on the page are used to stretch our imaginations and to make something perfectly clear.
05 December 2007
Wednesday: Words and Winter
I read recently that the collective noun for Ravens was an unkindness of ravens. "Before or after Hitchcock made that movie?", I thought.
This led me to a search engine to confirm. While I can't find a definitive origin (I'm sure it's out there, but I didn't look extensively), I did find that there are numerous collective nouns for birds.
How about a murder of crows? Or a siege of bitterns? Others include:
-a wake of buzzards
-a cast of falcons
-a confusion of guinea fowl
-a kettle of hawks (Dinner, anyone?)
-a parliament of owls
-a congress of eagles
-an exultation of skylarks
I thought a A Unkindness of Ravens, A Murder of Crows might make a good title for a mystery. I don't read mysteries, but I wasn't surprised when I queried Amazon that I found results. Ruth Rendell wrote a book called An Unkindness of Ravens; Cuba Gooding starred in a movie in 2000 called A Murder of Crows. More on collective nouns for birds can be found here.
********
Winter is still a few weeks away, but we had our first snowfall overnight. I love the first snow of the year: new, fresh, bright, the whiteness of it all. I like celebrating the cycles of the seasons and snow, rather than ice or cold, is the sign of winter to me. I like to be reminded of it, but I would be happy if winter only lasted a few days and then we could get on with it. Snow that melts after a few hours is the best kind. Today's was like that, at least on the roadways. I had to grab my camera to capture the snow before it melted away:
The thick wet snow coating the limbs of the trees:
The last few green leaves on the undergrowth, struggling against the elements:
Chimneys seem purposeful. I like the monochromaticism of this picture, all whites and grey. A plume of smoke would have been perfect!
The abandoned, seasonal bench on the front porch, where it isn't too welcoming at this time of year:
The beauty of a single leaf upon the new snow:
This led me to a search engine to confirm. While I can't find a definitive origin (I'm sure it's out there, but I didn't look extensively), I did find that there are numerous collective nouns for birds.
How about a murder of crows? Or a siege of bitterns? Others include:
-a wake of buzzards
-a cast of falcons
-a confusion of guinea fowl
-a kettle of hawks (Dinner, anyone?)
-a parliament of owls
-a congress of eagles
-an exultation of skylarks
I thought a A Unkindness of Ravens, A Murder of Crows might make a good title for a mystery. I don't read mysteries, but I wasn't surprised when I queried Amazon that I found results. Ruth Rendell wrote a book called An Unkindness of Ravens; Cuba Gooding starred in a movie in 2000 called A Murder of Crows. More on collective nouns for birds can be found here.
********
Winter is still a few weeks away, but we had our first snowfall overnight. I love the first snow of the year: new, fresh, bright, the whiteness of it all. I like celebrating the cycles of the seasons and snow, rather than ice or cold, is the sign of winter to me. I like to be reminded of it, but I would be happy if winter only lasted a few days and then we could get on with it. Snow that melts after a few hours is the best kind. Today's was like that, at least on the roadways. I had to grab my camera to capture the snow before it melted away:
The thick wet snow coating the limbs of the trees:
The last few green leaves on the undergrowth, struggling against the elements:
Chimneys seem purposeful. I like the monochromaticism of this picture, all whites and grey. A plume of smoke would have been perfect!
The abandoned, seasonal bench on the front porch, where it isn't too welcoming at this time of year:
The beauty of a single leaf upon the new snow:
07 November 2007
words on wednesday
At the beginning of the year, one of my non-resolutions was to blog more often. As frequent visitors might note, that didn't happen. In fact as there became less opportunity for frequent visitors to be frequent readers, they, unsurprisingly, became less frequent visitors.
One of the things that I thought I would do would be to have a weekly post titled something like this one -- Words on Wednesday. It was to be about, duh, words. It's only taken me to the 45th week of the year for an inaugural Words on Wednesday post.
One of the reasons I make non-resolutions: Follow-through. Or lack thereof.
This evening, after continuing reading more of Thomas Paine (on to The Age of Reason), I was looking for something in the bookcase. Whatever it was, was lost to me once I glanced upon the copy of Samuel Johnson's Dictionary that I picked up on a bargain table months ago. This is not the full 2-volume dictionary, but selections from Johnson's famed work.
In the introduction to this edition, Coleridge is cited as saying that it wasn't so much a dictionary as "a most instructive and entertaining book. A quick look through some of the "A" entries supports that:
abbey-lubber. A slothful loiterer in a religious house, under pretence of retirement and austerity.
abecedarian [from the names of a, b, c, the three first letters of the alphabet.] He that teaches or learns the alphabet, or first rudiments of literature.
This word is used by Wood in his Athenae Oxonienses, where mentioning Farnaby the critic, he relates, that, in some part of his life, he was reduced to follow the trade of an abecedarian by his misfortunes.
abracadabra A superstitious charm against agues.
ague An intermitting fever, with cold fits succeeded by hot. The cold fit is, in popular language, more particularly called the ague, and the hot the fever.
answer-jobber [from answer and jobber] He that makes a trade of writing answers.
And two of my favorites:
to hang an arse A vulgar phrase, signifying to be tardy, sluggish, or dilatory.
asshead n.s. [from ass and head] One slow of apprehension; a blockhead.
I will have to continue to read the introduction to the Dictionary and Johnson's Plan. Maybe I'll post some more on this. Maybe on a Wednesday.
For now I need to get some sleep, or I will hang an arse getting to work tomorrow and have to deal with some real assheads.
One of the things that I thought I would do would be to have a weekly post titled something like this one -- Words on Wednesday. It was to be about, duh, words. It's only taken me to the 45th week of the year for an inaugural Words on Wednesday post.
One of the reasons I make non-resolutions: Follow-through. Or lack thereof.
This evening, after continuing reading more of Thomas Paine (on to The Age of Reason), I was looking for something in the bookcase. Whatever it was, was lost to me once I glanced upon the copy of Samuel Johnson's Dictionary that I picked up on a bargain table months ago. This is not the full 2-volume dictionary, but selections from Johnson's famed work.
In the introduction to this edition, Coleridge is cited as saying that it wasn't so much a dictionary as "a most instructive and entertaining book. A quick look through some of the "A" entries supports that:
abbey-lubber. A slothful loiterer in a religious house, under pretence of retirement and austerity.
This is no Father Dominic, no huge/overgrown abbeylubber; this is but a/ diminutive sucking friar.
abecedarian [from the names of a, b, c, the three first letters of the alphabet.] He that teaches or learns the alphabet, or first rudiments of literature.
This word is used by Wood in his Athenae Oxonienses, where mentioning Farnaby the critic, he relates, that, in some part of his life, he was reduced to follow the trade of an abecedarian by his misfortunes.
abracadabra A superstitious charm against agues.
ague An intermitting fever, with cold fits succeeded by hot. The cold fit is, in popular language, more particularly called the ague, and the hot the fever.
Our castle's strength/Will laugh a siege to scorn. Here let them lie/Till famine and the ague eat them up. Shakespeare. Macbeth.
answer-jobber [from answer and jobber] He that makes a trade of writing answers.
What disgusts me from having anything to do with answer-jobbers, is, that they have no conscience. Swift.
And two of my favorites:
to hang an arse A vulgar phrase, signifying to be tardy, sluggish, or dilatory.
For Hudibras wore but one spur,/As wisely knowing, could he stir/To active trot one side of's horse,/ The other would not hang an arse. Hudibras, cant. i.
asshead n.s. [from ass and head] One slow of apprehension; a blockhead.
Will you help an asshead, and a coxcomb,/and a knave, a thin-faced knave, a gull. Shakespeare. Hamlet.
I will have to continue to read the introduction to the Dictionary and Johnson's Plan. Maybe I'll post some more on this. Maybe on a Wednesday.
For now I need to get some sleep, or I will hang an arse getting to work tomorrow and have to deal with some real assheads.
09 October 2007
Of Islands and Oranges
My job took me to this island, the island of the City Like No Other, many times over the last 6 months:
Oranges is a thoroughly delightful work of non-fiction that seemingly describes all there is to know about the luscious orange (at least at the time it was published in 1967): where they came from and how the introduction around the globe of this succulent, sweet fruit has followed the courses of history; how oranges have inspired poetry and wars and been used as religious symbols in art and influenced architecture (think orangeries); how they have have been coveted as objects of beauty; how crop failures due to insects and freezing weather have wrecked havoc on the economy of towns; how the engineering inventions to make concentrated orange juice almost destroyed the market for the fresh fruit, and how an adequate mechanical means for harvesting had yet to be invented. After finishing the book this afternoon, I read a bit on the web on oranges. Consumption of oranges has decreased in the last few years. The acreage of orange groves has decreased since McPhee wrote his book 40 years ago although the number of trees and yields per acre have increased. Brazil -- the originating place of the navel orange -- is now the leader in orange exports, exporting almost twice as many as the US. But, apparently, oranges are still hand-picked in the field, a difficult task described by McPhee when he profiled the 'Orange Men' of the Florida groves.
One curiosity spawned by this book is the origin of the word orange. McPhee writes about the origin of the English word, evolving from the Sanskrit, then likely, after many linguistic transformations, being confused with the Provencal place name for the town that eventually became known as 'Orange'. In many parts of the world, there are two words for oranges, differentiating between sour oranges (like the blood oranges of Seville that are so delicious in marmalade) and sweet oranges. Sweet oranges in many languages are known as "portugals" because they were developed in that country. But -- and this is my curiosity -- what about the derivations of the word for the color orange? The fruit can be a range of colors. The word orange to represent the color wasn't used until the mid-1500's. In Thailand, oranges are as green as limes. Yet, the Thai word sohm is used for both the fruit and the color.
Did Western Europeans have a word for the color orange before oranges were brought to Spain by the Arabs in the 12th century? Or did they need to invent a word for the color of the fruit that grew in the luxurious gardens of the Alhambra? Apricot, bittersweet, coral, peach, red-yellow, salmon, tangerine, titian are all listed as synonyms for the color orange. Three of them, interestingly, are names for other types of fruit. In some languages (e.g., Dutch, German, Russian) the word for orange has a similar origin to the word for apple, as oranges were once called 'Chinese apples' by the Romans. As different as apples and oranges: whether fruit or hue, they are very different things on my mental map.
I started to read McPhee's In Suspect Terrain about 15 or 20 years ago. I never finished the book, although sometimes, when I travel through northern Indiana and southern Michigan, I think about the theoretical existence of undiscovered deposits of diamond pipes under the Great Lakes that I learned about from McPhee's book. After reading Oranges I think that I will read other books by McPhee. Looking to read "Literary" nonfiction? McPhee would be a good choice.
As much as I love New York, I was more than ready to spend some time on a different type of island:
When I logged into Blogger this morning, I was surprised to realize just how long it had been since I posted to this blog. I composed dozens of vignettes this summer, mentally thought of writing about different scenes, sights, sounds and smells in NYC, but few have made it to paper and none have been posted here. Perhaps they will be posted in the future.
For now, I'm enjoying my time at the beach, listening to the surf pound, the birds squawk, and the occasional squeal with delight as the waves break around a child's ankles; feeling the warmth of the sun absorbed by the sand as I walk at the shoreline, watching the coral and pink skies at sunset, eating fresh seafood, drinking fresh squeezed orange juice, and -- what else? -- reading!
On impulse the other day, I picked up a copy of John McPhee's Oranges. How many books can you think of that are categorized as both 'Food' and 'Literature', as this one is?
Oranges is a thoroughly delightful work of non-fiction that seemingly describes all there is to know about the luscious orange (at least at the time it was published in 1967): where they came from and how the introduction around the globe of this succulent, sweet fruit has followed the courses of history; how oranges have inspired poetry and wars and been used as religious symbols in art and influenced architecture (think orangeries); how they have have been coveted as objects of beauty; how crop failures due to insects and freezing weather have wrecked havoc on the economy of towns; how the engineering inventions to make concentrated orange juice almost destroyed the market for the fresh fruit, and how an adequate mechanical means for harvesting had yet to be invented. After finishing the book this afternoon, I read a bit on the web on oranges. Consumption of oranges has decreased in the last few years. The acreage of orange groves has decreased since McPhee wrote his book 40 years ago although the number of trees and yields per acre have increased. Brazil -- the originating place of the navel orange -- is now the leader in orange exports, exporting almost twice as many as the US. But, apparently, oranges are still hand-picked in the field, a difficult task described by McPhee when he profiled the 'Orange Men' of the Florida groves.
One curiosity spawned by this book is the origin of the word orange. McPhee writes about the origin of the English word, evolving from the Sanskrit, then likely, after many linguistic transformations, being confused with the Provencal place name for the town that eventually became known as 'Orange'. In many parts of the world, there are two words for oranges, differentiating between sour oranges (like the blood oranges of Seville that are so delicious in marmalade) and sweet oranges. Sweet oranges in many languages are known as "portugals" because they were developed in that country. But -- and this is my curiosity -- what about the derivations of the word for the color orange? The fruit can be a range of colors. The word orange to represent the color wasn't used until the mid-1500's. In Thailand, oranges are as green as limes. Yet, the Thai word sohm is used for both the fruit and the color.
Did Western Europeans have a word for the color orange before oranges were brought to Spain by the Arabs in the 12th century? Or did they need to invent a word for the color of the fruit that grew in the luxurious gardens of the Alhambra? Apricot, bittersweet, coral, peach, red-yellow, salmon, tangerine, titian are all listed as synonyms for the color orange. Three of them, interestingly, are names for other types of fruit. In some languages (e.g., Dutch, German, Russian) the word for orange has a similar origin to the word for apple, as oranges were once called 'Chinese apples' by the Romans. As different as apples and oranges: whether fruit or hue, they are very different things on my mental map.
I started to read McPhee's In Suspect Terrain about 15 or 20 years ago. I never finished the book, although sometimes, when I travel through northern Indiana and southern Michigan, I think about the theoretical existence of undiscovered deposits of diamond pipes under the Great Lakes that I learned about from McPhee's book. After reading Oranges I think that I will read other books by McPhee. Looking to read "Literary" nonfiction? McPhee would be a good choice.
25 September 2006
Odds and Ends; Bits and Pieces; Rats and Mice
Verse Libromancy
Go to Bud Bloom Poetry blog to get the Verse Libromancy button. Clicking on it will direct you randomly to one of over 500 literary sites on the web. Fiction, non-fiction and cultural commentary sites are included as well as poetry sites. The VL button code at Bud's site contains the listing if you're not willing to rely on serendipity. Link courtesy of Frank Wilson at Books, Inq. I've added the Verse Libromancy button to my sidebar on the right. Pretty cool.
AWAD Live Chat
Anu Garg at A Word A Day (AWAD) is hosting a live chat (9/26 6PM Pacific) with Paul Dickson, whose recent book is Labels for Locals: What to call people from Abilene to Zimbabwe?. Dixson has published several books. I'm particularly fond of Toasts; Words; and There Are Aligators in the Sewers. If you don't know AWAD, check it out. Anu's email will send you a new word every day with definition,pronunciation, and origins. Past chats with wordy people (ranging from cognitive psychologists to authors to dictionary editors) are archived on the site.
Dorothy at Of Books and Bicycles mentioned this explication of Marmaduke today. It may be my new Daily Zen.
Lastly, with regards to this post's title. The astute reader will notice that I have not mentioned anything to do with rodents today (I don't think I ever have). Several years ago, a co-worker told me that New Zealanders use the expression "Rats and Mice" to mean Odds & Ends or Bits & Pieces. Apparently some of our NZ co-workers told her that, but I never heard any of them use it. She was a bit gullable. Maybe they really were talking about rats and mice? Is anyone out there familiar with this expression? It doesn't seem at all the same as bits & pieces, rodents being nasty things that you want to be rid of, where as odds and ends fill up the junk drawers in our brains, precisely because we don't want to be rid of them!
Go to Bud Bloom Poetry blog to get the Verse Libromancy button. Clicking on it will direct you randomly to one of over 500 literary sites on the web. Fiction, non-fiction and cultural commentary sites are included as well as poetry sites. The VL button code at Bud's site contains the listing if you're not willing to rely on serendipity. Link courtesy of Frank Wilson at Books, Inq. I've added the Verse Libromancy button to my sidebar on the right. Pretty cool.
AWAD Live Chat
Anu Garg at A Word A Day (AWAD) is hosting a live chat (9/26 6PM Pacific) with Paul Dickson, whose recent book is Labels for Locals: What to call people from Abilene to Zimbabwe?. Dixson has published several books. I'm particularly fond of Toasts; Words; and There Are Aligators in the Sewers. If you don't know AWAD, check it out. Anu's email will send you a new word every day with definition,pronunciation, and origins. Past chats with wordy people (ranging from cognitive psychologists to authors to dictionary editors) are archived on the site.
Dorothy at Of Books and Bicycles mentioned this explication of Marmaduke today. It may be my new Daily Zen.
Lastly, with regards to this post's title. The astute reader will notice that I have not mentioned anything to do with rodents today (I don't think I ever have). Several years ago, a co-worker told me that New Zealanders use the expression "Rats and Mice" to mean Odds & Ends or Bits & Pieces. Apparently some of our NZ co-workers told her that, but I never heard any of them use it. She was a bit gullable. Maybe they really were talking about rats and mice? Is anyone out there familiar with this expression? It doesn't seem at all the same as bits & pieces, rodents being nasty things that you want to be rid of, where as odds and ends fill up the junk drawers in our brains, precisely because we don't want to be rid of them!
18 September 2006
Playing Pirates
Litlove recently wrote an interesting post regarding the idea of "play" in our lives. I've been thinking about this for the last week or so, considering how 'play' and reading intersect, particularly when one is reading a book that is a so-called easy read. But, I'll have to postpone that post about the concept of play in the interest of the real thing. I feel I must inform those of you who may not be in the know that tomorrow is an international holiday of sorts, dedicated to this very idea. It exists for one reason: to have fun.
Ayyyy. It's the annual Talk Like A Pirate Day.
Here are some links for you land-lubbers:
First, if you are unaware of Talk Like A Pirate Day (hereafter refered to as TLAPD), read about it here.
You can catch up on your pirate lingo on the site above. Or, check out A Word A Day, where Ol' Chumbucket (aka John Baur, TLAPD co-creator along with Mark Summers) is guest wordsmith this week. Today's word: Buccaneer. More piraty words to follow.
It doesn't take anything to play along other than a sense of humor, but won't it be much more fun if you had a pirate name? Your blogging pseudonym could work, but come on! You already have one 'goes by' name. Why not another? A legal system acquaintance introduced me to the goes-by term. So much more fun than an alias, isn't it? A pirate must have a pirated goes-by name!
I played around with potential pirate names. I even used the name generator on TLAPD website. Some choices:
Captain Dread (based on my blogger name)
Or these based on various combinations of first/middle/last names:
Neck-snapper Nancy
The Lone Drinker
Count Plunder
Captain Mary Bonney
But my favorite one is this one, based on what I call my pizza name*.
Gorgeous Jen Smythe
So I guess that makes this my pizza pirate name!
(*A pizza name being a name that is easily understood and/or spelled when placing orders/making reservations. Isn't used solely for pizza delivery; comes in handy in swanky places too. Those of you who are Smiths or Joneses, might not understand. I had used Simpson as my pizza name for years but it became unusable during the OJ trial years. So I changed it. Years later, when I first met my spouse, I told him that his surname was my pizza name. Some people are very confused when I tell them that X--- is not my married name, but my pizza name and there was no need to change it when I married. Maybe I'll change my pizza name to Smythe....)
Your pirate ship needs a name too. My ship's name? The Shameful Strumpet. You can find your ship's name on the same pirate site.
Pirates used to frighten me. The first poem I ever memorized, at the wise age of 5, was all about a pirate: Ogden Nash's "The Tale of Custard the Dragon". I wanted to be Belinda, but was so much like Custard. I also wanted that pirate's "cutlass bright". Didn't have a clue what it was, but I knew it had to be something wonderful and scary! You can read Nash's poem here.
Though I think those guys at TLAP are cool and all, I think they may have missed the pirate boat when it comes to books. Secretly I think every pirate, once he finds his buried treasure would spend all of those pieces-of-eight on books and retire to a nice Caribbean island to read them all. I think maybe I'll go read Treasure Island. I ended up with two copies last December due to a mis-shipment and the online store would not take one copy back. So, not quite pirate booty, (does a pirate offer to return goods not purchased?), but close enough for this 364-day-a-year land-lubber. Even though they claim pirates don't read, those pirate guys provide a link to an online version of Treasure Island. What's your favorite pirate book?
Lastly, here is a link to San Francisco's only independent Pirate Store, which is online too. Sponsored by 826 Valencia. They be good mates helping sprogs. Go. Support them. Support literacy.
Ahoy, matey!
You Are A Pirate!
What Type Of Swashbuckler Are You?
brought to you by Maddog Varuka & Dawg Brown
Ayyyy. It's the annual Talk Like A Pirate Day.
Here are some links for you land-lubbers:
First, if you are unaware of Talk Like A Pirate Day (hereafter refered to as TLAPD), read about it here.
You can catch up on your pirate lingo on the site above. Or, check out A Word A Day, where Ol' Chumbucket (aka John Baur, TLAPD co-creator along with Mark Summers) is guest wordsmith this week. Today's word: Buccaneer. More piraty words to follow.
It doesn't take anything to play along other than a sense of humor, but won't it be much more fun if you had a pirate name? Your blogging pseudonym could work, but come on! You already have one 'goes by' name. Why not another? A legal system acquaintance introduced me to the goes-by term. So much more fun than an alias, isn't it? A pirate must have a pirated goes-by name!
I played around with potential pirate names. I even used the name generator on TLAPD website. Some choices:
Captain Dread (based on my blogger name)
Or these based on various combinations of first/middle/last names:
Neck-snapper Nancy
The Lone Drinker
Count Plunder
Captain Mary Bonney
But my favorite one is this one, based on what I call my pizza name*.
Gorgeous Jen Smythe
So I guess that makes this my pizza pirate name!
(*A pizza name being a name that is easily understood and/or spelled when placing orders/making reservations. Isn't used solely for pizza delivery; comes in handy in swanky places too. Those of you who are Smiths or Joneses, might not understand. I had used Simpson as my pizza name for years but it became unusable during the OJ trial years. So I changed it. Years later, when I first met my spouse, I told him that his surname was my pizza name. Some people are very confused when I tell them that X--- is not my married name, but my pizza name and there was no need to change it when I married. Maybe I'll change my pizza name to Smythe....)
Your pirate ship needs a name too. My ship's name? The Shameful Strumpet. You can find your ship's name on the same pirate site.
Pirates used to frighten me. The first poem I ever memorized, at the wise age of 5, was all about a pirate: Ogden Nash's "The Tale of Custard the Dragon". I wanted to be Belinda, but was so much like Custard. I also wanted that pirate's "cutlass bright". Didn't have a clue what it was, but I knew it had to be something wonderful and scary! You can read Nash's poem here.
Though I think those guys at TLAP are cool and all, I think they may have missed the pirate boat when it comes to books. Secretly I think every pirate, once he finds his buried treasure would spend all of those pieces-of-eight on books and retire to a nice Caribbean island to read them all. I think maybe I'll go read Treasure Island. I ended up with two copies last December due to a mis-shipment and the online store would not take one copy back. So, not quite pirate booty, (does a pirate offer to return goods not purchased?), but close enough for this 364-day-a-year land-lubber. Even though they claim pirates don't read, those pirate guys provide a link to an online version of Treasure Island. What's your favorite pirate book?
Lastly, here is a link to San Francisco's only independent Pirate Store, which is online too. Sponsored by 826 Valencia. They be good mates helping sprogs. Go. Support them. Support literacy.
Ahoy, matey!
You Are A Pirate!
What Type Of Swashbuckler Are You?
brought to you by Maddog Varuka & Dawg Brown
07 September 2006
A little surprise, a bit about reading, words, and poetry
Lots of different ideas scurrying around my brain today.
First:
I don't like Tennyson. I loathed reading him in high school. I hated having to memorize "The Charge of the Light Brigade". Although I understood what the teacher meant by admonishing us to not read the poem "sing song", I couldn't understand how that was possible with this poem. Blah to the left of them! Blah! to the right of them! Blah! Blah! Droned the six hundred! Or at least it seemed as if we endured 600 students slogging through reciting this, although even in my big city high school I doubt my English class had more than 30 - 35 students.
I thought "The Lady of Shallot" was a bit better, but only because I loved Arthurian legends. I re-read it in college after seeing Waterhouse's gorgeous painting in the Tate. The painting set me on a brief course of discovering everything I could about the Pre-Raphelite Brotherhood, an interest that both amuses and puzzles me now and will never serve any useful purpose unless it's a category on Jeopardy! while I was an contestant. Still, I didn't care much for the poem.
So, imagine my surprise recently when I stumbled across this, from a wax cylinder recording of Tennyson reading "The Charge of the Light Brigade". Knocked me off my feet.
Wasn't Light Brigade written during the Crimean War? When was sound recording invented? Tennyson was still alive then?
Actually, the poem is about an event in the Crimean War, published in 1855; Edison invented the first sound recording device in 1877 and the Graphophone was patented in 1885; Tennyson died in 1892. This recording was done around 1890. Although the recording is very scratchy, and the softly spoken parts are almost inaudible, I don't think I'll ever read this poem and hear it read in that 'sing-song' teenage voice again. The Poetry Archive has other historical readings by poets. Fascinating!
Onto a different topic:
In my bookclub this evening someone asked whether one could say he had read a book if they had listened to the audio version? I would say 'yes', and pointed out that we "read" books with our kids even if we are the ones reading and they listen. It is a reading experience regardless of whether you are the reader or the one being read to. We talk about poets 'reading' their work, which is very different than when we read of poem. What about Braille books? The blind would say that they 'read' a book, wouldn't they? What do you think? If you were counting the number of books read in a year, would you include a book on tape? Are we splitting hairs to say that one should only claim to have listened to a book if he or she was not actually engaged in the physical act of making sense out of the ink shapes on the page?
Topic 3:
I found the WordNerd Podcast today. I only listened briefly to a few snippets from old casts (they'll air new shows beginning this Saturday following a summer hiatus). Based on what I heard and scrolling through the related blog, I think this seems really neat! The site has a forum feature as well, with discussions about all things wordy, not necessarily just the ideas on the weekly cast. Anything called WordNerds must be great for people like me who are, well, you know, Nerds about Words. I think I'll download their podcast -- once I get my ipod reconfigured after loosing the hard drive earlier this summer. Alas! I'm a bigger nerd with words than with some technologies!
Postscript: How funny! Blogger's spellchecker wants to change "WordNerd" to "ordinary". I've never met an ordinary Word Nerd in my life!
First:
I don't like Tennyson. I loathed reading him in high school. I hated having to memorize "The Charge of the Light Brigade". Although I understood what the teacher meant by admonishing us to not read the poem "sing song", I couldn't understand how that was possible with this poem. Blah to the left of them! Blah! to the right of them! Blah! Blah! Droned the six hundred! Or at least it seemed as if we endured 600 students slogging through reciting this, although even in my big city high school I doubt my English class had more than 30 - 35 students.
I thought "The Lady of Shallot" was a bit better, but only because I loved Arthurian legends. I re-read it in college after seeing Waterhouse's gorgeous painting in the Tate. The painting set me on a brief course of discovering everything I could about the Pre-Raphelite Brotherhood, an interest that both amuses and puzzles me now and will never serve any useful purpose unless it's a category on Jeopardy! while I was an contestant. Still, I didn't care much for the poem.
So, imagine my surprise recently when I stumbled across this, from a wax cylinder recording of Tennyson reading "The Charge of the Light Brigade". Knocked me off my feet.
Wasn't Light Brigade written during the Crimean War? When was sound recording invented? Tennyson was still alive then?
Actually, the poem is about an event in the Crimean War, published in 1855; Edison invented the first sound recording device in 1877 and the Graphophone was patented in 1885; Tennyson died in 1892. This recording was done around 1890. Although the recording is very scratchy, and the softly spoken parts are almost inaudible, I don't think I'll ever read this poem and hear it read in that 'sing-song' teenage voice again. The Poetry Archive has other historical readings by poets. Fascinating!
Onto a different topic:
In my bookclub this evening someone asked whether one could say he had read a book if they had listened to the audio version? I would say 'yes', and pointed out that we "read" books with our kids even if we are the ones reading and they listen. It is a reading experience regardless of whether you are the reader or the one being read to. We talk about poets 'reading' their work, which is very different than when we read of poem. What about Braille books? The blind would say that they 'read' a book, wouldn't they? What do you think? If you were counting the number of books read in a year, would you include a book on tape? Are we splitting hairs to say that one should only claim to have listened to a book if he or she was not actually engaged in the physical act of making sense out of the ink shapes on the page?
Topic 3:
I found the WordNerd Podcast today. I only listened briefly to a few snippets from old casts (they'll air new shows beginning this Saturday following a summer hiatus). Based on what I heard and scrolling through the related blog, I think this seems really neat! The site has a forum feature as well, with discussions about all things wordy, not necessarily just the ideas on the weekly cast. Anything called WordNerds must be great for people like me who are, well, you know, Nerds about Words. I think I'll download their podcast -- once I get my ipod reconfigured after loosing the hard drive earlier this summer. Alas! I'm a bigger nerd with words than with some technologies!
Postscript: How funny! Blogger's spellchecker wants to change "WordNerd" to "ordinary". I've never met an ordinary Word Nerd in my life!
17 August 2006
Old Sol's Planets are not fixed marks?
All you clever wordsmiths: check out this contest: create a new planetary mnemonic for our expanding universe -- well, uh, solar system. The prize, apparently, is galactic recognition.
Check out the comments section for link above for already submitted suggestions.
This article, explains the sequence (MVEMCJSUNPCX). If you're too lazy or pressed for time to follow the link, 'C', 'X', and 'C' stand for Ceres, the largest asteroid, the body dubbed Xena, Charon (once considered Pluto's moon). I am surprised that as of this morning, nobody has suggested an alternate spelling for xenophile, xenophobia, etc. Wouldn't Xenaphile be more appropriate, because, yes, Xena is named after the goddess with her own television program. Why stick with those old myths?
Check out the comments section for link above for already submitted suggestions.
This article, explains the sequence (MVEMCJSUNPCX). If you're too lazy or pressed for time to follow the link, 'C', 'X', and 'C' stand for Ceres, the largest asteroid, the body dubbed Xena, Charon (once considered Pluto's moon). I am surprised that as of this morning, nobody has suggested an alternate spelling for xenophile, xenophobia, etc. Wouldn't Xenaphile be more appropriate, because, yes, Xena is named after the goddess with her own television program. Why stick with those old myths?
29 June 2006
Reconsidering an 'abandoned' author
A few weeks ago, I was reading comments on a post of Susan Hill's regarding books one can't finish. Like Susan, I have such a list; sometimes it seems longer than the list of books I've read. And despite making silly New Years' Resolutions like 'I'll read everything I start this year', usually there is still snow on the ground before I start appending 'except this one...or this one' to my resolution. Before the first daffodils bloom, my unkeepable promise is long forgotten.
The problem with abandoned books, at least for me, is that I typically abandon the author as well. So, when I read The Magic Mountain on Susan's list I thought, 'Me too!' Mann makes me shudder. But, wait, she liked Death in Venice? In fact, she followed up to my comment telling me to not to be kept away from a 'clean and clear' masterpiece.
So, in one of those book serendipity moments, while trying to avoid an unruly, whinny child dripping cola from a sippy cup, I detoured through the bargin bin tables at B&N recently. My intent to only buy the book I had come for quickly faded as I spied a lone copy of Death in Venice. Short. Novella. $4.95. Why not? A few minutes later, it was mine!
And I couldn't stay away from it. If I had 5 minutes, I read a page or two, lingering over each page, savoring every word. For a week or so, I would grab it out of my bag at traffic lights to re-read passages. I can't remember reading anything that captures so perfectly the elation and foolishness of an infatuation than Mann does in this slim book. And that is not all: the descriptions of Venice and the sea, the spell of wanderlust Aschenbach falls under in the first few pages, the portrayal of the bureaucratic officials denying the presence of disease, the suspicions of the Aschenbach, his inability to leave even as he fears the epidemic because it will remove him from the presence of the unattainable object of his affection, the lingering doom of death and disease ... and unrequited love. It's all in this thin book. A clean & clear masterpiece, indeed!
How sad it would have been if I had always left Mann on my untouchables list. I may never reconsider The Magic Mountain again, but I may read Buddenbrooks.
The edition I read, published in 2004, is a new translation by Michael Henry Heim, with an introduction by Michael Cunningham. Cunningham has some interesting things to say about translations. I'll post at another time on his comments.
The problem with abandoned books, at least for me, is that I typically abandon the author as well. So, when I read The Magic Mountain on Susan's list I thought, 'Me too!' Mann makes me shudder. But, wait, she liked Death in Venice? In fact, she followed up to my comment telling me to not to be kept away from a 'clean and clear' masterpiece.
So, in one of those book serendipity moments, while trying to avoid an unruly, whinny child dripping cola from a sippy cup, I detoured through the bargin bin tables at B&N recently. My intent to only buy the book I had come for quickly faded as I spied a lone copy of Death in Venice. Short. Novella. $4.95. Why not? A few minutes later, it was mine!
And I couldn't stay away from it. If I had 5 minutes, I read a page or two, lingering over each page, savoring every word. For a week or so, I would grab it out of my bag at traffic lights to re-read passages. I can't remember reading anything that captures so perfectly the elation and foolishness of an infatuation than Mann does in this slim book. And that is not all: the descriptions of Venice and the sea, the spell of wanderlust Aschenbach falls under in the first few pages, the portrayal of the bureaucratic officials denying the presence of disease, the suspicions of the Aschenbach, his inability to leave even as he fears the epidemic because it will remove him from the presence of the unattainable object of his affection, the lingering doom of death and disease ... and unrequited love. It's all in this thin book. A clean & clear masterpiece, indeed!
How sad it would have been if I had always left Mann on my untouchables list. I may never reconsider The Magic Mountain again, but I may read Buddenbrooks.
The edition I read, published in 2004, is a new translation by Michael Henry Heim, with an introduction by Michael Cunningham. Cunningham has some interesting things to say about translations. I'll post at another time on his comments.
26 March 2006
I'll Eat My Words!
Go read Blake Eskin's Essay in today's NYT Book Review, Books to chew on, about The International Edible Book Festival, which takes Frances Bacon's words to heart (and digestive tract):
Here's the link to the festival. Check out the appetizing "books" in the photo gallery. Got to love any festival whose website states in the FAQ: "April fools day is also the perfect day to eat your words and play with them."
Getting hungry; better go try to finish a book before bedtime.
Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested.
Here's the link to the festival. Check out the appetizing "books" in the photo gallery. Got to love any festival whose website states in the FAQ: "April fools day is also the perfect day to eat your words and play with them."
Getting hungry; better go try to finish a book before bedtime.
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