Librari[d]an

L’amour de l’étymologie is a feature exploring the etymology of English words. Today’s definition is mesmerism. You may occasionally find this noun capitalized, for reasons that will be made evident presently.

Mesmerism, unlike most words, is derived from a rather modern proper noun. Mesmer was the surname of an 18th Century Austrian physician, Friedrich Anton Mesmer. The -ism at the end was probably borrowed from the French word mesmérisme, which first appeared in print in 1973.

So what, exactly does this word mean? People often use it as a synonym for hypnosis, but they’d be wrong. (For derivative terms, like mesmerize, the conflation is often considered acceptable.) The Oxford English Dictionary defines Mesmerism as a chiefly historical word, which refers to “A therapeutic doctrine or system, first popularized by Mesmer, according to which a trained practitioner can induce a hypnotic state in a patient by the exercise of a force (called by Mesmer animal magnetism)”. It could also mean “[1] the process or practice of inducing such a state; [2] the state so induced, or [3] the force supposed to operate in inducing it.” (Brackets are mine.)

The adherent of Mesmerism, a mesmerizer, can use mesmerism (1) on a mesmerizee, using mesmerism (3) to induce a state of mesmerism (2). Nyuck!

In 1778 Mesmer relocated to Paris after other physicians in his homeland accused him of being a sham. Six years later, in 1784, Louis XVI of France commissioned a group of scientists to evaluate Mesmer’s claims. (One of which, if memory serves, included sitting in a bathtub full of metal filings.) Some of the top minds of the time participated in the evaluation, including Benjamin Franklin and Antoine-Laurent Lavoisier. Franklin is the first recorded English speaker to use the word in writing. In 1784 he wrote that “Some think it will put an End to Mesmerism.” I’d like to know what that  something was. But I guess it’s irrelevant: Despite there being no scientific grounds for Mesmer’s practices, they remained wildly popular into the late 18th and early 19th centuries. For example, Edward FitzGerald exclaimed in an 1889 letter than “Miss Martineau has been cured of an illness of five years by Mesmerism!”

However, it is true that one of the most hilariously insane and unspeakably dense humans was an anti-mesmerism crusader. Mary Baker Eddy, founder of the cult religion Christian Science, believed that mesmerism was real, but kinda evil. Go figure.

:: Bibliography ::

“Mesmerism.” Oxford English Dictionary. 2008. 11 Jan. 2008 <http://dictionary.oed.com/cgi/findword?query_type=word&queryword=mesmerism&find.x=0&find.y=0&find=Find+word>

L’amour de l’étymologie is a feature exploring the etymology of English words. Today’s entry: the noun vertigo! You may rarely find this word spelled (vertego, verteego, virtigo) and pronounced (although this is the standard pronunciation) in any number of ways. If you’re feeling adventuresome, branch out and use related words such as the adjective “vertiginous”!

Let’s get one thing out of the way: Vertigo should not be confused with acrophobia, the fear of heights.

I have been consistently fascinated by the word vertigo since childhood, having seen Hitchcock’s classic of the same name at a tender age. Hypnotized by the film’s salient imagery, captivating score, and general pathos, I found myself returning to the term time and again. Only about a year ago I discovered that the title - Hitchcock’s personal favorite for the film - barely survived the journey to the marquee. (There were around fifty suggested titles ready and waiting to oust Vertigo.) In late October of 1957 the studio asserted that “No execs like Vertigo and believe it handicap to selling and advertising picture whether potential customers know what word vertigo means or not”. (Auiler 113)

This quote most likely explains why the original trailer for Vertigo opens with a shot of a dictionary. The book opens and the camera zooms in on a page as a quick dissolve takes viewers to a detail shot of the entry for “vertigo”. A voice-over informs the audience that the word means “a feeling of dizziness … a swimming in the head … figuratively a state in which all things seem to be engulfed in a whirlpool of terror.” As the book spins and dissolves into one of Saul Bass and John Whitney’s iconic spiral motifs - known properly by the name “Lissajous spirals” - it seems reasonable to ask just how much of this definition is fact and how much is hyperbole.

In truth, the clever mind that thought up this educational prelude got the meaning pretty much right.

In the original Latin, vertigo meant “a turning around, giddiness”. The Romantic languages inherited this term, and it can be assumed that Anglophones adopted the word from either French or Spanish. The first known use of vertigo in English has been dated to 1528 in Paynell’s Salerne’s Regim, which describes “The heed ache called vertigo: whiche maketh a man to wene that the world turneth”. The main gist of vertigo has followed this pathological assessment. The Oxford English Dictionary’s primary entry: “A disordered condition in which the person affected has a sensation of whirling, either of external objects or of himself, and tends to lose equilibrium and consciousness; swimming in the head; giddiness, dizziness”. The term can also be applied to animals such as horses, sheep, and hawks–although any link between dizziness and these animals’ diseases seems tenuous.

All that jazz is without adding an article. You can slap an “a” or “the” before vertigo if you don’t mind sounding a bit backward. Similarly, using plural forms (vertigos, vertigoes, verteegoes, vertigines) may sound awkward to contemporary ears.

Figurative uses of the word came along later, with the first recorded use in 1634. Vertigo in this case means “A disordered state of mind, or of things, comparable to giddiness.” The OED quotes people who wrote that art, power, and intellectualism may induce this state.

The final use of vertigo is as a noun which encapsulates the “act of whirling round and round.” Although loaded with poetic potential, this usage seems relatively rare; the only historical quote the OED cites is 19th Century writer Thomas de Quincey’s use of the word to describe a top in his Autobiographical Sketches.

That’s all she wrote. Stay tuned for more etymologies and musings on Hitchcock’s Vertigo!

:: Bibliography ::

Auiler, Dan. Vertigo: The Making of a Hitchcock Classic. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1998. ISBN: 0312169159.

“Vertigo.” Oxford English Dictionary. 2008. 2 Jan. 2008 <http://dictionary.oed.com/cgi/findword?query_type=word&queryword=vertigo&find.x=0&find.y=0&find=Find+word>.

L’amour de l’étymologie is a feature exploring the etymology of English words. Today’s entry is carom, also sometimes spelled carrom. Visit this link to hear the folks at Merriam-Webster pronounce it. Lord knows why the OED only uses the international phonetic alphabet. Some people are auditory learners. (…or lazy types like me who haven’t bothered to learn the IPA.)

The first recorded use of the word was by Charles Jones in 1775 in the book Hoyle’s Games improved. An abbreviation of carambole, a noun meaning the red ball used in a game of billiards, it has since developed a distinct meaning. Carom can act as a noun, and refers to a shot in billiards when the cue ball hits two balls in succession. (Need to visualize? Check out this video of Semih Sayginer showing off his caroming skills/knowledge of trajectory angles.)

Carom also has a more generalized meaning when used as an intransitive verb. To carom is to “strike or glance and rebound”. So, flat stones can carom across the surface of a pond when thrown properly. It can also be employed figuratively: Bernard Wolfe wrote in Limbo ‘90 that a “phrase caromed through his mind.” Carom is used figuratively chiefly in the good old US of A.

:: Bibliography ::

“Carom.” Oxford English Dictionary. 2007. 21 Dec. 2007 <http://dictionary.oed.com/cgi/findword?query_type=word&queryword=carom&find.x=0&find.y=0&find=Find+word>.

Many Christmas carols are maligned. This may occur for any number of reasons: songs may be instrumental, depressing, non-nostalgic, contemporary, or too religious/too secular in nature. I think the most likely reason of all, however, is that these orphaned songs aren’t drilled into the collective unconscious by television ads, chain store playlists, radio, and film. Let’s revisit them, moving from awesome to slightly less awesome to “not exactly awesome but he needed ten.”

1. “Christmas is Coming” by the Vince Guaraldi Trio.

“Christmas is Coming”, from Guaraldi’s soundtrack to A Charlie Brown Christmas, is consistently overshadowed by “Linus and Lucy” and “Skating”. However, this infectious, jazzy little number perfectly personifies the anticipation leading up to everyone’s favorite birthing. Whether it’s the pert little rest at 0:37 or the meandering interlude at 1:05, “Christmas is Coming” is more vivacious and musically interesting than anything else on the album.

2. The entirety of Nat King Cole’s Christmas-themed works.

Yes, his Christmas album is wildly popular. Yes, he butchers the German language in “O Tannenbaum”. But it’s the best ever, so people aren’t listening to it enough. (Epicure friend Lisa says there is a Nat King Cole children’s Christmas album. Must acquire!)

3. “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel” translated from the Latin by John Mason Neale.

More poetry than carol, this magnificent Advent song is of unknown pedigree and seems to be rarely used even in Church services by Roman Catholics. Sober and solemn, I have seen people moved to tears by it. Not exactly holly jolly fare, but I’m sorta down with that. (Interestingly, the version I learned of “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel” has variant stanzas. For example: “O come thou wisdom from on high / Who ordered all thing mightly / To us the path of knowledge show / And teach us in her way to go” etc. Check out more variants here.)

4. “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” by Judy Garland.

Sweet Jesus Christ, the melancholy! Old blue eyes’ cover of this song - the one you know and love - is nothing like Hugh Martin’s original and can be safely called a bastardization. The carol, already once revised because of its brooding nature, first appeared in the 1944 film Meet Me in St. Louis and was marked by its bittersweet tone and Garland’s pained vocal delivery. Haunting, perhaps the very embodiment of sehnsucht, this song is a staple for those of us who’d like a taste of our soul being crushed by profound emotion. For a bit more history, check out this article.

5. “Final Waltz and Apotheosis” from Tchaikovsky’s The Nutcracker.

While the average Christmas enthusiast will immediately recognize the Valse des fleurs or any of the Divertissements from Tchaikovsky’s 71st opus, it is much less likely that they will be able to identify the Final Waltz and Apotheosis. Sweepingly Romantic and alive with a sense of triumph and accord, it perfectly exemplifies the elegance with which the work as a whole has come to be associated. I am particularly fond of Peter Wohlert and the Berlin Symphony Orchestra’s rendition of the Valse finale et apothéose; it is slightly faster and more expertly conducted than most other recordings.

6. “Here We Come A-Wassailing”.

A traditional New Years drinking song that has become associated with yuletide, this little number is a blast to belt out on a snowy doorstep. Nowadays you’ll usually hear a version with drastically sanitized lyrics, about caroling and Christmas rather than drink and cash. Wassailing, according to the Oxford English Dictionary (Oh no, L’amour de l’étymologie!?!), means to toast to one’s health, and has connotations of “carousing”–their word, not mine! I strongly encourage people everywhere to reclaim the original version of this song by acting out the lyrics as frequently as possible.

7. “I’m Gonna Lasso Santa Claus” by Brenda Lee.

Miss Lee is best known for “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree”. In “Lasso” she employs an even more bizarre-cutsey voice to relate a child’s conviction to truss, shoot (with a water pistol), torture (tickle…), and finally steal the presents of Saint Nick. The reason for this glut of deviancy? To supply poor kids with presents, Communist style! This isn’t the only socially conscious, underrated Christmas carol; check out James Brown’s “Santa Claus Go Straight to the Ghetto” for a more saccharine song about impoverished, gift-hungry brats.

8. “Christmas Wrapping” by The Waitresses.

A Christmas carol that begins with “Bah! Humbug!”? Yes please! These deadpan ’80s ladies explore the delight an isolated cynic finds in rediscovering the pleasure that is the Christmas season. “Christmas Wrapping” is consistently recognized as a new classic by music-savvy hipsters, but is relatively unknown to the Christmas-celebrating population at large. It has been covered quite a great deal, on and off retail albums; however, alternate versions are odious and should be avoided like the plague.

9. “Once Upon a December” by Deana Carter.

Yeah, I’m man enough to admit that I like it. For the uninitiated, “Once Upon…” is a song from the animated film Anastasia. It occupies a precarious place in this list, as it is popular in the mainstream - with little girls and big fat women that never stopped being little girls - and not really a Christmas song. The in, of course, is the fact that it’s generally despised by anyone whose musical sensibilities command respect. Now all you smack-talkers take notice: Hear those sinister chimes in the intro? The rather interesting (for a children’s movie) imagery in the lyrics? The shamelessly hilarious backup singer that starts bellowing at 1:03? All pretty damn good reasons to give it another shot, to my mind.

10. “Good King Wenceslas” by John Mason Neale.

Another traditional carol to round out the top ten; I really just love this song because I can shout “Bring me meat and bring me wine, bring me pine logs hither!” at the top of my voice with impunity. Eighteenth Century British scholar John Mason Neale, translator of “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel”, composed the lyrics to accompany the 13th Century spring carol “It is Time for Flowering” (”Tempus Adest Floridum” in Latin). Methinks I’m going to have to look into this bloke for a future post; seems he has a monopoly on carols from antiquity.

And we’re done! Go out into the world and get these songs from your local library, illegally from the internet, or make them yourself by playing your nose and singing aloud. (If that last one really occurs, please post to YouTube for reasons that need not be verbalized.) Also, look forward to my next Christmas post, which will be about the “Top ten Christmas horror films of ultimate depravity”!

L’amour de l’étymologie is a feature exploring the etymology of English words. Today’s entry: Estivate, from the original æstivate, is a word I came across and wrote down, only to forget about and find years later on a scrap of paper. As you can imagine from the ash (”æ”) in the alternate spelling, estivate is rooted in Latin and came to anglophones by way of French.

The first recorded usage occurred in 1626 in Henry Cockeram’s The English dictionarie, or an interpreter of hard English words. (Strange subtitle, that.) The meaning has remained surprisingly unchanged over the centuries: It’s a verb that means “To spend the summer.” So the next time your parents are going to summer estivate in Cape May, use this more interesting and precise word instead!

Estivate also has a zoological meaning: “To pass the summer in a state of torpor or suspended animation.” So it’s basically the summer equivalent of hibernation, and occurs when reptiles, small mammals, and other organisms go into a state of dormancy to avoid the harshness of - what should more accurately be described as - the dry season. One super neat example is the lungfish, a fish that burrows deep into mud to survive summer droughts.

:: Bibliography ::

“Æstivate.” Oxford English Dictionary. 2007. 16 Dec. 2007 <http://dictionary.oed.com/cgi/findword?query_type=word&queryword=aestivate&find.x=0&find.y=0&find=Find+word>.

I’ve been thinking about cartography quite a bit too much lately, thanks to two buddies who have been encouraging my interest in maps with their enthusiasm and creative writing. So today, I thought to myself, I would begin a feature seductively (gahaha!) entitled “L’amour de l’étymologie”. Silly I know, but shit like this sounds pleasantly oceanic in French, so get off my back. Justifications aside, I chose the word legend because of maps.

Legend can be used as a noun in any number of ways. (Next time, for the sake of my sanity, I will choose a word that cannot be used in any number of ways.) Most of the archaic ones deal with the lives of saints, collections of the lives of saints, instructional booklets which conatin educational information on the lives of saints(!), etc. Some other obsolete meanings include: a history/account and a roll/list/record. It can be used to refer to writing(s) in general, but this is a rare usage.

Legend can also mean an inscription impressed on a coin/medal or the “written explanatory matter accompanying an illustration, map, etc. Also attrib., as legend-line.” I like the alliteration of that last one. (Hey, check out that rockin’ font they used on the legend-line. Death to Helvetica!)

Contemporary meanings that include variants of what we sorta-kinda thought we knew what legend meant: “An unauthentic or non-historical story, esp. one handed down by tradition from early times and popularly regarded as historical.” For an individual: “A person of such fame or distinction as to become the subject of popularly repeated (true or fictitious) stories”. The person may be “famous or notorious only for a short period of time, within a limited social circle, or in one’s own estimation”. Often, the person may be described as a legend in one’s own time.

The word has a nautical meaning: “Applied to the estimated or planned displacement, speed, etc., of a ship before construction or testing.” I don’t have a firm grip on this definition (rhetorical lie), so here’s an example from that old blatherer, Sir Winston Churchill: “If you ask your people [the Admiralty] to give you a legend for a 16-inch-gun ship, I am persuaded they would show you decidedly better proportions than could be achieved at 14-inch.”

As a transitive verb, to legend means “To tell as a legend”; to “legend out” means “to tell stories of; to tell of in legend”. This usage was first recorded in 1597, but is now considered obsolete. (Example: I’m totally glad George W. DaSent legended the burning of Bergthorsknoll in English. Totally.)

At this time, I refuse to define urban legend, urban myth, and legend’s many attributive uses.

:: Bibliography ::

“Legend.” Oxford English Dictionary. 2007. 12 Dec. 2007 <http://dictionary.oed.com/cgi/findword?query_type=word&queryword=legend&find.x=0&find.y=0&find=Find+word>.