I finally did it. Ordered the Oxford English Dictionary. 20 volumes, 21,730 pages - the holy grail of reference books on the English language. My overcrowded bookshelves have felt barren without one ever since I read The Professor and the Madman, an account of how the behemoth was compiled.
I love words. More precisely, I love hearing the exact right word used in the right situation to communicate an image or sensation or idea. And when the wrong word is used? It reminds me of the sound a cat makes when you step on its tail.
A friend of mine came to work one day talking about a "great monogram" he'd read. I joked that unless he'd read it on a towel, he probably meant monograph. The blood drained from his face and he plopped down in a chair. He said he had attended a gathering of humanities professors at a University the previous night and, to impress them with his intellect, he'd talked at great length about the amazing monogram he'd perused.
On another occasion, a co-worker told me a story about a friend of his who had run up some gambling debts and had been visited by a couple of "pug uglies." He refused to believe me when I told him the correct phrase was Plug Ugly. "It comes from the word pugilist," he said. And he insisted that I admit my error or put some spondulics into play.
He stopped by my house the next day and handed over a ten dollar bill. When he started to sit down for a conciliatory coffee, he froze and stared at the center of the table. "You mean I bet on a word against a guy who has a freaking unabridged dictionary on his kitchen table?" he said. (On a swivel stand. Hand-rubbed oak.)
I didn't tell him we also kept two pocket dictionaries in the glove compartment of our car.
Poorly chosen words can be ugly - and expensive, but a well-turned phrase is a thing of beauty.
Though, as a word, onomatopoeia sounds like how a Scilian would announce that he plans to relieve himself, onomatopoetic words are a joy. An automobile trunk actually thunks when you shut it, thunder does rumble in the distance, a fat raindrop splashes on your cheek and splatters on your windshield. Thin ice crackles under your boots while the wind whistles through the trees.
And I love words that sound like what they mean, even if they are trivial. The first time I heard someone ask for a "scrunchie," I knew exactly what they wanted (an elasticized fabric tie for a ponytail). You don't have to ask what a mournful howl sounds like, or what goes on in the club named Jiggles in Portland.
Word phrases with the right sound and rhythm can produce physical sensations. They can even make your sphincter twitch.
It did, didn't it.
On a more intellectual plane, it is a pleasure to encounter unlikely combinations of words that evoke precise meanings. I appreciated the Washington Post television critic who crafted the phrase "startlingly banal" to describe one of my documentaries more than the New York Times reviewer who called it, "responsible." If you are going to gut someone, please take the time to sharpen your knife.
But even the most precise words, used in the wrong context, can sound as out of tune as the Hallelujah Chorus, performed by an all duck choir.
You just don't say a petulant third grader needs a kick in the ass. A swift kick in the pants should do the job.
On the other hand, you wouldn't talk about a drunken lout getting a kick in the pants. Calling it a good, old fashioned ass-kicking would be more appropriate.
So what reprisal might someone who incessantly passes judgment on other people's word usage deserve?
A good, solid boot to the fundament may have a salutary effect.
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