Dictionaries
The Oxford English Dictionary is my go to guide for all things etymological. It’s the most loved book in my collection, and I often fantasise about having the full twenty-six volumes at my disposal, any time of the day or night. (I find the dictionary soothing during my occasional bouts of insomnia.)
But, as I connect with other writers-American writers, moreover-I’m meeting with mixed reactions. Some think I’m wrong. Some think I’m just plain Jane Strange. And others think I’m a snob.
A bit hurt, I asked my other half, Joe, what he thought: “Absolutely. Of course you are.” He didn’t even pause to think about it.
Thing is, I’ve come to realise he and above-mentioned writers are correct. I am a dictionary snob. I won’t tolerate a Merriam-Webster in my house; even the homey Macquarie I used at school is relegated to a back cupboard in another country. So what makes the OED so special?
English.
Really. Presently, the OED is the most English of all English dictionaries. It maintains older spellings, specially typesetting the ae with pride, using s instead of z, flaunting the beautiful hard Greek k. Why does this matter? Isn’t it easier to learn the language if we stick to certain phonetic rules a la American English?
Maybe. But it’s not half so interesting.
A couple of years ago, I watched part of a spelling bee on ESPN (I have no idea what it was doing there, either). Fidgeting at the microphone, kids stalled for time. “Origin?” they asked. “Derivation?” An obliging judge would read out the requested information, while the child ignored it, intent only on visualising the list they’d left out the back.
Now, if I’m using an American dictionary and I want to know the origin of a word, I have to skim to the relevant part of the entry, and then only if it’s a desk edition. If I’m using English or Australian English, it’s possible for me to simply consider the word. For instance, anaesthesia. Even with my limited knowledge of Greek and Latin, the ae suggests this is modern Latin. Digging a little deeper, I can also see that this ae mostly likely comes from the Greek ai, as in anaisthesia. I can then parse this into an (without) and aesthesis (sensation). True, this doesn’t necessarily tell me the exact origins of the word if I’m not up on my Greek, but even at a glance, I can form a pretty good idea.
So, back to our spelling bee. In an American contest, with an American dictionary, the stalling-for-time kid learns nothing. The origin of the word is meaningless. But taking the word from the OED, the kid can infer at least part of the word’s structure-she knows that a modern Latin word with a certain sound will have an ae (anaesthesia, in contrast to the American form, anesthesia).
I know this holds little interest for most people. It’s another boring old fact. But to me, it’s a beautiful, wonderful fact, yet another joy of the English language. Words give us power over the world around us. Words give us understanding, share understanding. One word can change a life, for good or ill. If we standardise our spellings, we lose our history. Words tell us who we are.
But, as I connect with other writers-American writers, moreover-I’m meeting with mixed reactions. Some think I’m wrong. Some think I’m just plain Jane Strange. And others think I’m a snob.
A bit hurt, I asked my other half, Joe, what he thought: “Absolutely. Of course you are.” He didn’t even pause to think about it.
Thing is, I’ve come to realise he and above-mentioned writers are correct. I am a dictionary snob. I won’t tolerate a Merriam-Webster in my house; even the homey Macquarie I used at school is relegated to a back cupboard in another country. So what makes the OED so special?
English.
Really. Presently, the OED is the most English of all English dictionaries. It maintains older spellings, specially typesetting the ae with pride, using s instead of z, flaunting the beautiful hard Greek k. Why does this matter? Isn’t it easier to learn the language if we stick to certain phonetic rules a la American English?
Maybe. But it’s not half so interesting.
A couple of years ago, I watched part of a spelling bee on ESPN (I have no idea what it was doing there, either). Fidgeting at the microphone, kids stalled for time. “Origin?” they asked. “Derivation?” An obliging judge would read out the requested information, while the child ignored it, intent only on visualising the list they’d left out the back.
Now, if I’m using an American dictionary and I want to know the origin of a word, I have to skim to the relevant part of the entry, and then only if it’s a desk edition. If I’m using English or Australian English, it’s possible for me to simply consider the word. For instance, anaesthesia. Even with my limited knowledge of Greek and Latin, the ae suggests this is modern Latin. Digging a little deeper, I can also see that this ae mostly likely comes from the Greek ai, as in anaisthesia. I can then parse this into an (without) and aesthesis (sensation). True, this doesn’t necessarily tell me the exact origins of the word if I’m not up on my Greek, but even at a glance, I can form a pretty good idea.
So, back to our spelling bee. In an American contest, with an American dictionary, the stalling-for-time kid learns nothing. The origin of the word is meaningless. But taking the word from the OED, the kid can infer at least part of the word’s structure-she knows that a modern Latin word with a certain sound will have an ae (anaesthesia, in contrast to the American form, anesthesia).
I know this holds little interest for most people. It’s another boring old fact. But to me, it’s a beautiful, wonderful fact, yet another joy of the English language. Words give us power over the world around us. Words give us understanding, share understanding. One word can change a life, for good or ill. If we standardise our spellings, we lose our history. Words tell us who we are.