More than just 'words, words, words'
SASKATOON (CUP) — The
Oxford English Dictionary is one
of the best investments you will
ever make.
The English language incorporates a dizzying number of words. It is so terrifically vast that the ostensibly simple task of counting all of the words that have ever been used is impossible. Although this is attributable to the problems of definition and the amorphous nature of all languages, there is no question that English is a gargantuan language.
Even the magnificent Oxford English Dictionary, the finest authority on the English language, and one of humanity's great achievements, includes only a paltry 615,000 defined word forms. But given that the average person's vocabulary is estimated to be less than 20,000 words, the OED is commensurately massive.
Realistically, most of us will never need to employ more than about 20,000 words. Even people working in fields where jargon is a way of life — doctors, lawyers and literary critics — will never accumulate more than 30,000 words. That Shakespeare's written works contain this astonishing number is highly irregular, even when the Bard's proclivity for inventing words is taken into account.
Considering that merely typing the OED's second edition consumed 120 man-years, learning every word in the dictionary is a practical impossibility. Even reading it is a formidable challenge. Ammon Shea, a writer from New York, did just that. He read all 20 volumes — 21,730 pages, 59 million words — of the OED. Working six days a week, 10 hours a day, it took him a year.
It reminds me of Mount Everest climber George Leigh Mallory's response to an insipid reporter. The newspaperman asked why Mallory wanted to climb Everest. Mallory's notorious reply? "Because it's there." Just as climbing mountains serves no practical purpose, learning words is a completely useless endeavour.
There are, however, plenty of delightful words that remain in circulation. They need to be rehabilitated before they require resurrection.
One of my favourite such words is Brobdingnagian. It refers to Brobdingnag, a nation of giant people invented by Jonathan Swift for his 1726 novel Gulliver's Travels. It means nothing more exciting than "of huge dimensions." I like to use it when I can, much to the displeasure of my valiant editors, one of whom complained bitterly about my notorious verbosity. Yet Brobdingnagian remains a perfectly legitimate word. And that is reason enough to use it.
British novelist Martin Amis suggested that we ought to "look down on people who use the words everybody else uses ... herdwords." Given my exaggerated respect for the man, certain people might be surprised to learn that I disagree with this sentiment. There are certain places where using colossal words is acceptable. A friend of mine was recently chastised by his boss for using the word "perspicuous" in a letter to a customer. Evidently the business world ranks concise communication above flatulent, masturbatory prose. A column in a student-run publication with prospective academics as its primary audience, however, is just such a place.
Learning and using absurd words is a delightful way to avoid writing term papers. So please, get yourself a copy of the OED — it is for luxuries like the finest dictionary ever made that God invented credit cards — and get going on those term papers.
The English language incorporates a dizzying number of words. It is so terrifically vast that the ostensibly simple task of counting all of the words that have ever been used is impossible. Although this is attributable to the problems of definition and the amorphous nature of all languages, there is no question that English is a gargantuan language.
Even the magnificent Oxford English Dictionary, the finest authority on the English language, and one of humanity's great achievements, includes only a paltry 615,000 defined word forms. But given that the average person's vocabulary is estimated to be less than 20,000 words, the OED is commensurately massive.
Realistically, most of us will never need to employ more than about 20,000 words. Even people working in fields where jargon is a way of life — doctors, lawyers and literary critics — will never accumulate more than 30,000 words. That Shakespeare's written works contain this astonishing number is highly irregular, even when the Bard's proclivity for inventing words is taken into account.
Considering that merely typing the OED's second edition consumed 120 man-years, learning every word in the dictionary is a practical impossibility. Even reading it is a formidable challenge. Ammon Shea, a writer from New York, did just that. He read all 20 volumes — 21,730 pages, 59 million words — of the OED. Working six days a week, 10 hours a day, it took him a year.
It reminds me of Mount Everest climber George Leigh Mallory's response to an insipid reporter. The newspaperman asked why Mallory wanted to climb Everest. Mallory's notorious reply? "Because it's there." Just as climbing mountains serves no practical purpose, learning words is a completely useless endeavour.
There are, however, plenty of delightful words that remain in circulation. They need to be rehabilitated before they require resurrection.
One of my favourite such words is Brobdingnagian. It refers to Brobdingnag, a nation of giant people invented by Jonathan Swift for his 1726 novel Gulliver's Travels. It means nothing more exciting than "of huge dimensions." I like to use it when I can, much to the displeasure of my valiant editors, one of whom complained bitterly about my notorious verbosity. Yet Brobdingnagian remains a perfectly legitimate word. And that is reason enough to use it.
British novelist Martin Amis suggested that we ought to "look down on people who use the words everybody else uses ... herdwords." Given my exaggerated respect for the man, certain people might be surprised to learn that I disagree with this sentiment. There are certain places where using colossal words is acceptable. A friend of mine was recently chastised by his boss for using the word "perspicuous" in a letter to a customer. Evidently the business world ranks concise communication above flatulent, masturbatory prose. A column in a student-run publication with prospective academics as its primary audience, however, is just such a place.
Learning and using absurd words is a delightful way to avoid writing term papers. So please, get yourself a copy of the OED — it is for luxuries like the finest dictionary ever made that God invented credit cards — and get going on those term papers.
