tsundoku
n. the practice of acquiring reading materials but letting them pile up in one’s home without reading them
Language
“Forgotten Words Are Mighty Hard to Rhyme”
Quoth I to me, “A chant royal I’ll dite,
With much ado of words long laid away,
And make windsuckers of the bards who cite
The sloomy phrases of the present day.
My song, though it encompass but a page,
Will man illume from April bud till snow —
A song all merry-sorry, con and pro.”
(I would have pulled it off, too, given time,
Except for one small catch that didn’t show:
Forgotten words are mighty hard to rhyme.)
Ah, hadavist, in younghede, when from night
There dawned abluscent some fair morn in May
(The word for dawning, ‘sparrowfart,’ won’t quite
Work in here) — hadavist, I say,
That I would ever by stoopgallant age
Be shabbed, adushed, pitchkettled, suggiled so,
I’d not have been so redmod! Could I know? —
One scantling piece of outwit’s all that I’m
Still sure of, after all this catch-and-throw:
Forgotten words are mighty hard to rhyme.
In younghede ne’er a thrip gave I for blight
Of cark or ribble; I was ycore, gay;
I matched boonfellows hum for hum, each wight
By eelpots aimcried, till we’d swerve and sway,
Turngiddy. Blashy ale could not assuage
My thirst, nor kill-priest, even. No Lothario
Could overpass me on Poplolly Row.
A fairhead who eyebit me in my prime
Soon shared my donge. (The meaning’s clear, although
Forgotten words are mighty hard to rhyme.)
Fair draggle-tails once spurred my appetite;
Then walking morts and drossels shared my play.
Bedswerver, smellsmock, housebreak was I hight —
Poop-noddy at poop-noddy. Now I pray
That other fonkins reach safe anchorage —
Find bellibone, straight-fingered, to bestow
True love, till truehead in their own hearts grow.
Still, umbecasting friends who scrowward climb,
I’m swerked by mubblefubbles. Wit grows slow;
Forgotten words are mighty hard to rhyme.
Dim on the wong at cockshut falls the light;
Birds’ sleepy croodles cease. Not long to stay …
Once nesh as open-tide, I now affright;
I’m lennow, spittle-ready — samdead clay,
One clutched bell-penny left of all my wage.
Acclumsied now, I dare no more the scrow,
But look downsteepy to the Pit below.
Ah, hadavist! … Yet silly is the chime;
Such squiddle is no longer apropos.
Forgotten words are mighty hard to rhyme.
— Willard R. Espy
Cutting It Fine
1/3rd of an inch is a BARLEYCORN.
1/12th of an inch is a LINE.
1/72nd of an inch is a POINT.
1/100th of an inch is a GRY.
1/144th of an inch is a SECOND.
1/1000th of an inch is a THOU.
1/1440th of an inch is a TWIP.
Via Haggard Hawks. Pleasingly, you can interconvert most of these here.
Coincidence
In the 1960s, linguist Robert M.W. Dixon met Albert Bennett, one of the last native speakers of Mbabaram, a vanishing Australian Aboriginal language of north Queensland. “You know what we call ‘dog’?” Bennett said to him. “We call it dog.”
“My heart sank,” Dixon wrote. “He’d pronounced it just like the English word, except that the final g was forcefully released.” He worried that Bennett’s decades of using English had tainted his understanding of Mbabaram.
But Bennett’s assertion was accurate: The Mbabaram word for dog is dúg, which is pronounced nearly identically to the English word, “a one in a million accidental similarity of form and meaning in two unrelated languages,” Dixon wrote.
“It was because this was such an interesting coincidence, that Albert Bennett had thought of it as the first word to give me.”
(Robert M.W. Dixon, Searching for Aboriginal Languages: Memoirs of a Field Worker, 1984.)
In a Word
astriferous
adj. bearing or containing stars; starry
stelliferous
adj. filled with stars; starry
In a Word
crepuscule
n. twilight
(Stanislaw Straszkiewicz, Zmierzch, 1910.)
Packing Numbers
Leonard Gordon noted this interesting pattern in the May 1995 issue of Word Ways. The English names of the first eight positive integers (ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE, SIX, SEVEN, EIGHT) contain altogether 32 letters. The smallest rectangular grid into which they can all be packed, word-search fashion, is 5×5. Because some of the cells serve double duty, the 32 letters “fit” into 25 cells; the ratio of these values is 1.28. This ratio remains remarkably consistent as the list of numbers is extended — here are grids for the first 8, 9, 10, 11, and 12 numbers:
E I G H T O N E E R H T E I G H T F E L E V E N S S E V E N O W T F O U R W S E V E N I N F X W O I F S O I E F I V E E R H T X I S O E I G H T W O N I N E O U G O I T N V O G X N E N I N S E V E N F O U R X I S S E V E N R H W U X V E E U H E V L E W T T H R E E T H R E E T H R E E E N R T N E V E L E 8 words 9 words 10 words 11 words 12 words 32 letters 36 letters 39 letters 45 letters 51 letters 25 cells 28 cells 30 cells 35 cells 40 cells (1.28) (1.29) (1.30) (1.29) (1.28)
Alas, the last one isn’t optimal, Gordon notes. The names ONE through TWELVE will fit into a more compact grid:
T W E L V E F N E X S L O F I V E E U S G N V V R T H R E E O W T E N N
… and that raises the ratio to 1.42 letters per cell.
(Leonard Gordon, “Packing the Cardinals,” Word Ways 28:2 [May 1995], 116.)
Misc
- Gordian I dyed 300 Mauretanian ostriches vermilion.
- BASIPARACHROMATIN is an anagram of MARSIPOBRANCHIATA.
- 268435179 = -268 + 4(3×5 – 17) – 9
- xanthodontous means “having yellow teeth.”
- “A weed is but an unloved flower!” — Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Problem Solved
In 1991, botanist John L. Strother was reviewing the classification of North American sunflowers when he identified a new genus. By this time his 100-page monograph was in the final stages of proofing, and adding a new entry in the middle would require troublesome changes in the layout.
The genera were listed alphabetically, and the last one was Zexmenia. So Strother named the new genus Zyzyxia. Since this placed the new entry near the end of the article, it minimized the necessary changes, and the editor accepted the addition.
In a Word
bibliobibuli
n. the sort of people who read too much