Archives for June 2019

As regular readers know, I am a staunch descriptivist; that is, I hold to a scientific, fact-based description of language: whatever native speakers of a language say is ipso facto correct (unless, of course, they make a slip of the tongue). It’s absurd, for example, to claim that the way the vast majority of English-speakers use “beg the question” is incorrect and the only acceptable usage is an obscure philosophical one that makes no sense in English (since it’s a literal translation of the Latin petitio principii; see this LH post). I deplore prescriptivism, the idea that there is some Platonic ideal of language that is eternally “correct” and that all deviations from it must be chastised and if possible forbidden, and I mock the peevery it inspires.

And yet I myself am human, all too human, and I have my inner peever who occasionally demands to be taken out for a walk. So just as back in 2003 I complained about contrary-to-fact past may have (“if he’d run faster he may have caught the ball”) — which still bothers the hell out of me — I now feel compelled to gripe in public about another bête noire, the use of the if … then construction in something other than a conditional statement (“If you get good grades then you will get into a good college”). This is prompted by having read a particularly grating example of what I cannot help but call misuse in Annette Gordon-Reed’s 2017 NYRB review of Geoffrey R. Stone’s Sex and the Constitution: Sex, Religion, and Law from America’s Origins to the Twenty-First Century, currently available online here; she writes:

For Luther it was celibacy that was devilish, while sex was as “necessary to the nature of man as eating and drinking.” If the early Christians had especially dire views on these matters, then Protestantism, which has been the dominant religious tradition in America from the beginning, rejected those views.

I couldn’t understand the second sentence until I went back and reread it, so alien is that usage to me. It’s bad enough to use “if” in a vague non-conditional way, as a sort of equivalent to “while,” but I’m more or less used to that; the problem is that people are thereby tempted to follow it with “then,” which to me directly and ineluctably implies a conditional statement. Stop it, all of you! Use English in a way that makes sense to me!

Whew. OK, having gotten that off my chest, I now return LH to its regular schedule of calm, scientific discussion of language and related matters.

Addendum. J.W. Brewer, in the comments, mentions Mark Liberman’s 2004 Log post on concessive (bleached? conditional?) “if,” with examples back to 1965; he adds:

Significantly, however, the examples given of that usage of “if” tend not to be followed by a “then,” which might mean that using the “then” with an other-than-truly-conditional “if” really is a more recent innovation calculated to aggravate those who weren’t acclimatized to it in their formative years. Indeed, Prof. says regarding the specific example that had prompted the post: “In fact Wilgoren & Justice don’t use ‘then’ — it would have been weird if they had.”

I actually posted Rick Aschmann’s dialect map back in 2011, but although it’s just as ugly there’s plenty of new information, and I figure a lot of people didn’t see it back then, so here it is again; besides the map in its various forms, there are a Guide to the Sounds of North American English and Special Interest and Historical Articles (e.g., The Cot-Caught Merger and The Father-Bother Distinction; scroll around the page and who knows what you’ll find. Thanks, Terry!

A Thing About Words, the M-W Unabridged blog, is reliably interesting, and I enjoyed the post The Wayward Cousins of ‘Irregardless’ so much I thought I’d quote it here:

Dictionaries, and the people who make them, depend not on the kindness of strangers, but rather on their continued interest in language. Because of this, we applaud a passion for words in all the ways this may manifest itself. That being said, even the doughtiest lexicographer feels a frisson of boredom when receiving yet another whinge about how irregardless is not, or shouldn’t be, a word.

However, if it is your life’s dream to inveigh against words that shouldn’t be, you should follow your bliss, even if you do so in peevish fashion. To help you in such endeavors we thought to provide a short list of other words which bear some passing resemblance to irregardless. Now even the most jaded complainant will have the necessary variety to make each day’s complaints feel fresh and new.

For instance, we enter the word irremediless, with a definition that manages to be both succinct and seemingly nonsensical: “remediless.” Irremediless and remediless (“lacking hope of assistance or relief; being beyond help”) are obscure, or obsolete, and so you are unlikely to encounter either in current writing. […]

Less often found are irresistless (“resistless”) and irrelentlessly (“relentlessly). These are antiquated and rare enough that we do not enter them, but may be found in the works of such 17th century illiterates as John Dryden and Richard Montagu. […]

Moving on from the ir– prefix, there are a number of un– words which appear to contradict themselves. Earlier editions of Merriam-Webster dictionaries had entries for both unremorseless and unmerciless. These words were defined in 1913 as “utterly remorseless” and “utterly merciless,” shortened to “remorseless” and “merciless” in 1934, and removed in 1961. […]

The words listed above are a good way from being in common use, which is why no one is yet complaining about them. If you truly love to hear the phrase “that’s not a word” you will do your part to popularize them, in order that more people may have the pleasure of exclaiming this in the [sic; etwa “future.”]

I looked up irremediless in the OED and found an entry unchanged from 1900:

Obsolete.

Used erroneously for remediless adj. and adv.

1602 W. Watson Decacordon Ten Quodlibeticall Questions 230 The most dangerous, infectious, and..irremedilesse poyson.
c1630 Strafford in Browning Life (1891) 70 It is irremediless, and therefore must be yielden unto.
1665 J. Evelyn Mem. (1857) III. 150 Upon these irremediless assaults.
1675 T. Brooks Golden Key 147 This despair is..an effect occasioned by the sinners view, of his irremediless woful condition.

When they get around to updating it, they will of course remove the misguided “erroneously”; if you search Google Books you will find a lot more uses, many of them 19th-century (“a multitude of condemned mortals consigned to irremediless woe,” “a road which ends in wo so irremediless,” “and then he falls into the depth of endless and irremediless torment,” “but it is irremediless, and therefore must be yielden unto”), and it was clearly a word, just like irregardless.

Irregardless of irrelevancy, I have to mention that the Log has a guest post by John V. Day that is so silly I feel vicarious embarrassment for them for treating it seriously: An Indo-European approach to the alphabet. According to the good Mr. Day, the alphabet was not created by non-Indo-European Phoenicians but by Indo-Europeans. If you need any convincing that this is an untenable hypothesis, see the comments there.

I’m reading Steiner’s After Babel: Aspects of Language and Translation — I haven’t quite figured out what he’s up to, but then I’m not very far into it — and I wanted to quote part of his combined exegesis and demolition of Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s “Angelica Rescued from the Sea-monster” (available, along with a small image of the Ingres painting it describes, here — scroll down to 5), which I enjoyed:

What is going on in Rossetti’s reproduction? What, except a search for rhyme, informs ‘The evil length of body chafes at fault’? In what way does Ingres’s nude, so firmly rounded in pictorial treatment, so neo-classically modelled, ‘trail’ her limbs? Hell-spurge is odd. Applied to a common genus of plants, the word may, figuratively, stand for any kind of ‘shoot’ or ‘sprout’. One suspects that the present instance resulted from a tonal-visual over­lap with surge. In the 1870 edition of the Poems, the phrase becomes Hell-birth. Geomaunt and teraphim make a bizarre pair. The O.E.D. gives Rossetti’s sonnet as reference for ‘geomant’ or ‘geomaunt’, one skilled in ‘geomancy’, the art of divining the future by observing terrestrial shapes or the ciphers drawn when handfuls of earth are scattered (geomancy occurs in Büchner’s Woyzeck when the tor­mented Woyzeck sees a hideous future writ in the shapes of moss and fungi). Rossetti’s source for this occult term may well have been its appearance in Dante:

quando i geomanti lor maggior fortuna
  veggiono in oriente, innanzi all’ alba,
  surger per via che poco le sta bruna. . .
          (Purgatorio, XIX. 4-6)

The occurrence of surger so close to geomanti makes it likely that a remembrance of Dante in fact underlies this part of Rossetti’s sonnet and may be more immediate to it than Ingres’s painting. Teraphim is, of course, Hebrew and figures as such in the Authorized Version. It signifies both ‘small idols’ and such idols used as means of divi­nation. It has a markedly heathen ring and Milton used the word with solemn reprobation in his Prelatical Episcopacy of 1641. What does either noun have to do with a sea-monster, especially with the rather pathetic marine beast at the bottom right of Ingres’s compo­sition? If anything, these sonorous rarities are ‘of the earth, earthy’. … The impertinent grandeur of ‘Hell-spurge of geomaunt and teraphim’ only aggravates the offence of nullity. ‘Vexed at its base’, with the exact, Latinate control of the verb, is the one redeeming item.

I’m posting it mainly for the wonderful words geomaunt and teraphim, as well as Steiner’s phrase “The impertinent grandeur of ‘Hell-spurge of geomaunt and teraphim'”; the OED has both geomant (“< Italian geomante (a1319 in Dante) < post-classical Latin geomantis (5th cent.) < ancient Greek γεω- geo- comb. form + μάντις prophet, diviner (see mantic adj.). Compare German Geomant,” first citation 1802 H. Boyd tr. Dante Purgatorio xix, in Divina Commedia II. 239 Now draws the Geomant his magic ring On the dark ground) and teraphim (“< ecclesiastical Latin theraphim (Vulgate), Greek θεραϕίν (Septuagint), < Hebrew th’rāphīm, or Aramaic –īn,” going back to the 14th century). There are two spurge entries, “One or other of several species of plants belonging to the extensive genus Euphorbia, many of which are characterized by an acrid milky juice possessing purgative or medicinal properties” and “A shoot or sprout”; the latter has only one citation (630 R. Brathwait Eng. Gentleman 138 Cabbages of such huge proportion, as the very leaves thereof (so largely extended were the spurges) might..give shadow to five hundred men), but it makes more sense here than the vegetable meaning. Unless, of course, Steiner is right that it’s just an echo of Dante with no particular definable sense.

Alexandra N. M. Darmon, Marya Bazzi, Sam D. Howison, and Mason Porter have written a paper on “textual analysis via punctuation sequences”:

Punctuation is a largely overlooked stylistic feature in “stylometry”, the quantitative analysis of written text. In this paper, we examine punctuation sequences in a corpus of literary documents and ask the following questions: Are the properties of such sequences a distinctive feature of different authors? Is it possible to distinguish literary genres based on their punctuation sequences? Do the punctuation styles of authors evolve over time? Are we on to something interesting in trying to do stylometry without words, or are we full of sound and fury (signifying nothing)?

I confess the cutesy style of that last sentence irritates me, but so do the giggly styles of today’s newscasters and interviewers — I’m an old fossil used to solemnity in public utterances. But never mind that; they’ve created a web app that will compare the punctuation style of any writing sample to the authors in its database, and of course it’s fun to put in samples and get results. The problem is that the results are essentially meaningless. To quote verstegan at MetaFilter (where I got the link):

It doesn’t inspire confidence in the authors’ methodology that they analyse Shakespeare’s punctuation without, apparently, being aware that this varies enormously from edition to edition. Ever since the time of Samuel Johnson, editors have freely repunctuated the text of Shakespeare. The claim that (to take one example) ‘Shakespeare appears to use more exclamation marks and question marks than H.G. Wells’ is thus completely meaningless.

The same goes for most of the earlier texts in their sample, as they are using public domain texts from Project Gutenberg, many of which will have been repunctuated. In other words, their text corpus is totally contaminated and their claims about ‘the evolution of punctuation marks over time’ are completely untenable. (And that’s even before we get into the question of whether the punctuation of nineteenth- and twentieth-century books reflects authors’ preferences or printers’ house styles ..) I’m afraid this is what happens when four mathematicians write a paper without bothering to consult any literary scholars, textual editors or bibliographers.

Sigh. But enjoy the game, as long as you realize it doesn’t mean anything!

I’m on part 3 of Anna Karenina, and I’ve just gotten to the part where Anna has gone to visit Princess Betsy in the hopes of finding Vronsky there, only to have Betsy open a note from him in her presence: “Алексей сделал нам ложный прыжок, — сказала она по-французски, — он пишет, что не может быть.” [“Alexei has made us a false jump,” she said in French — “he writes that he can’t come.”] At first I was trying to figure out if there was an idiom “ложный прыжок” in Russian (there isn’t), but then I paid attention to the “in French” part and quickly discovered there’s a colloquial phrase faire faux bond which Wiktionary defines as “To let someone down, to leave in the lurch, stand someone up.” What struck me about this is that Tolstoy assumes his readers will know enough French to recognize it; as I said last month with reference to Dostoevsky, I’m surprised that French was still so prevalent among (educated) Russians in the 1870s.

In general, there’s a surprising amount of not only French but English in the novel. Tolstoy uses phrases like grande dame and les sept merveilles du monde in narrative passages, and he’s constantly referring to people’s use of the languages: when Lyovin visited the Shcherbatskys as a young man he was befuddled and enchanted by the girls’ habit of speaking French and English on alternate days (I:6), Ivan Ivanovich’s French is amusing (I:23), Karenin is reading the Duc de Lille’s Poésie des enfers (I:33; author and book are invented), Betsy can’t stand a “sneering” tone (II:7), Petritsky sings “Il était un roi de Thulé” (II:20: “Он вышел в дверь перегородки, поднял руки и запел по-французски: «Был король в Ту-у-ле»”; the French is, of course, a translation of Goethe’s “Der König in Thule”), Karenin suggests to his wife in French that they leave together (II:29), little Lily says to a priest while taking communion “Please, some more” (III:8), later in that chapter Dolly asks her daughter Tanya in French why she’s come in (and when she answers in Russian tells her she should respond in French — Lyovin, who’s come to visit, wonders irritatedly why she’s always speaking French to the children, which in his irritation he finds unnatural and false), and Betsy says to Anna “we’ll have a cosy chat” (III:17). Then there are these parallel passages, in which first Vronsky and then her husband address Anna in French for the same reason:
II:22:

“Forgive me for coming here, but I couldn’t spend the day without seeing you,” he [Vronsky] continued in French, as he always did in speaking, to avoid the Russian vy, impossibly cold between them, and the dangerous ty.

– Простите меня, что я приехал, но я не мог провести дня, не видав вас, – продолжал он по-французски, как он всегда говорил, избегая невозможно-холодного между ними вы и опасного ты по-русски.

III:14:

He [Karenin] wrote to her without a salutation and in French, using the pronoun vous, which doesn’t have the cold character that vy has in Russian.

Он писал без обращения к ней и по-французски, употребляя местоимение “вы”, не имеющее того характера холодности, который оно имеет на русском языке.

Nothing to do with French or English, but in III:17 Anna notices that Vronsky’s manservant (who brings the note I referred to at the start of the post) not only looks like a Kammerjunker but pronounces the letter r like a Kammerjunker; I guess in 1870s Russia people would know how a Kammerjunker pronounced r. Also, I noticed that in III:12 Lyovin looks up at the clouds in the night sky and thinks “И когда успела образоваться эта раковина?” [And when did that shell appear?] I was amused by this perfectly ordinary use of the perfectly ordinary verb образоваться ‘arise, appear, come into being,’ which caused so much turmoil by its unnatural translation as “shapify” in a different context.

Rosemarie Ostler has a piece at HistoryNet about the effect of the western frontier on American English:

The English language started to become American as soon as the first English-speaking colonists landed. Unfamiliar landscapes, plants, and animals and ways of living called for new terms, and Americans soon were amassing a fresh vocabulary. Colonists borrowed from natives—raccoon, barbecue—inventively combined existing words—backcountry, pine barrens—and coined terms—demoralize, belittle. However, American speech was about more than words. Early Americans distilled vivid metaphors from everyday life. They blazed trails. They played possum. They found themselves sitting on the fence. They barked up the wrong tree. They improvised outlandish fabrications like scrumptious and blusteration.

From the beginning, certain facets of American life especially encouraged fresh, colorful language. Among these were the boisterous world of politics, source of caucus and gerrymander; the striking landscape, with its buttes, prairies, and swamps; the press, so fond of slang like fizzle out; and especially the Western frontier.

In 1775, Daniel Boone, a hunter and trapper born in western Pennsylvania, led a party of about 30 men across the Appalachian Mountains through the Cumberland Gap into the Kentucky Territory, blazing what became known as the Wilderness Road. After the Revolutionary War, England ceded to the United States of America all territory running west to the Mississippi River. The first rush of words from that region came courtesy of explorers Meriwether Lewis and William Clark, whose Corps of Discovery was to map the Louisiana Territory, which Napoleon had just sold to the United States for $15 million, or 3 cents an acre, and of which Americans knew little. […] Their journals brimmed with careful descriptions. Even as they were crossing the northern plains, portaging around falls, struggling through mountains, and canoeing western rivers, Clark and Lewis each wrote his journal nearly every day, meticulously recording every notable feature. As necessary, the explorers created language to do justice to what they were seeing. Many terms they repurposed, invented, or borrowed entered the American lexicon […] Crossing the plains of what is now South Dakota on September 17, 1804, Clark records in his journal that one of the men has killed “a curious kind of deer (Mule Deer).” He makes clear why he’s giving the animal that name—“the ears large & long.” The tail’s tip is “a tuft of black hair,” so Clark sometimes refers to “black-tailed deer” before concluding that the creature’s long ears make mule deer much more appropriate. […]

Lewis and Clark borrowed from native languages, though the difficulty of fitting these terms into English kept most from being adopted. There were exceptions: the Nez Percé camas referred to a plant with an edible bulb, the Ojibwe kinnikinnick identified a tobacco substitute, and the Cree pemmican, meaning a cake of dried meat, fat, and crushed berries.

I just recently learned the word camas, in the form of its genus name Camassia, when my wife asked the good people at the Hadley Garden Center to identify a beautiful flower we’d found growing near our house; the word is variable in spelling, AHD giving camas, camass, and quamash (and informing us that it’s from Nez Perce qém’es, qém’eš) and the OED adding camash to the mix. Here are some of its citations:
[Read more…]

If I had been aware of the phrase “the meeting of the waters,” it was only very vaguely; I’d probably seen it but couldn’t have told you its history or what it referred to. Now that I’ve read John Barrell’s 7,576-word essay about it in the LRB (27 July 2017, pp. 23-28), I know much more about it than I ever expected to; by next year — hell, by next month — I will probably have forgotten it all, but it was an enjoyable ride, from the Vale of Avoca (about which Thomas Moore wrote the poem so titled, first published in 1808 and destined to become fantastically popular as a song) to the Erie Canal (into which two bottles of water were poured, “the one taken from the depths of the Indian ocean, and the other from the Atlantic,” to symbolize the meeting of all the waters of the world with the Great Lakes”: “The whole occasion was known as ‘The Meeting of the Waters’, and at the dinner that evening Moore’s song was played by the band of the Academy at West Point”). I will quote one paragraph for the sake of its Joycean conclusion:

Following the song’s publication, its title phrase develops a rich history, as a general term for the confluence of two rivers, as an informal place name applied to such confluences, and as a metaphor for comings together of almost every imaginable kind. It can be difficult to tell whether the phrase is being used simply to mean ‘confluence’, rather than as a place name, and in collecting my examples I have tried to distinguish between these uses by regarding the phrase as a place name only when it is marked by initial capitals, italics, or inverted commas, or when it appears as the title of a picture of a specific place. Thus, in Ireland, the phrase seems to have functioned as a place name in the Vale of Avoca, of course, and at Killarney, and elsewhere as an adjunct to a previously established place name: at Macroom between Cork and Killarney; at Navan in County Meath; at Glenariff, County Antrim; at Glengariff, County Cork; and at places in Counties Mayo, Sligo, Louth, Down, Tyrone, two more in Wicklow, three in Waterford. My criteria do not allow me to include the statue of Moore placed over Dublin’s largest public urinal and described in 1900 as ‘a vile misshapen monstrous pewter image erected in memory of the National poet’. They did right, Joyce tells us in Ulysses, ‘to put him up over a urinal: meeting of the waters’.

Completely irrelevant but equally irresistible, from the Wikipedia article on Fath-Ali Shah Qajar (who ruled Persia when Griboyedov was killed, as detailed in the Tynyanov novel I reviewed here):

In 1797, Fath Ali was given a complete set of the Britannica‘s 3rd edition, which he read completely; after this feat, he extended his royal title to include “Most Formidable Lord and Master of the Encyclopædia Britannica.”

For someone who’s never been much of a Latinist, I’ve posted a lot about the language, from 2004 (“Latin Today”) and 2008 (Nicholas Ostler’s Ad Infinitum) to 2016 (a passing poke at a dumb video that somehow got 244 comments) and 2017 (on the best way to learn the language), inter alia. Herewith two more links:

1) A.Z. Foreman’s Argumentum ad Ignorantiam: The Real Issue With Mary Beard’s Latin. It starts off thus:

Not long ago, Mary Beard graced us with a bit of honorable honesty in the Times Literary Supplement, in which she confessed to what is a bit of an open secret among most classicists. She can’t sight-read a complex Latin text all that well. Most classicists can’t. This admission — from someone like Beard — is good to have out there.

What irritates me is that — again like most classicists — she treats this as a self-evident fact to be just accepted rather than a problem to be dealt with, as if nobody could hope to actually read Cicero with ease. It always strikes me as bizarre and a bit embarrassing to see classicists insisting that it is impossible to acquire fluid or fluent command of Latin or Greek, that “we” can never do this. It’s not just that this assumption would be news to people like Galileo, Kepler or Descartes. It’s that people do actually acquire this kind of competence. Today. Anyone who pokes around at, say, the Paideia Institute, will find proficient Latin-speakers as readily as Zeus finds incestuous booty-calls.

What follows is a detailed and convincing analysis of why “nobody could hope to actually read Cicero with ease” is a dumb idea, and I’m surprised Beard (who I deeply respect, as does Foreman) would subscribe to it. Of course, it’s partly a matter of specialization; as he points out:

People whose scholarly work depends on dealing with medieval or Renaissance Latin texts have to have a better command of Latin than the kind Mary Beard describes. I don’t just mean reading the pared down language of the Res Gesta Francorum or even Jerome’s Bible. I mean reading Cicero’s letters, alongside Petrarch’s ciceronian response to them. I mean reading Virgil alongside Walter of Châtillon. I am talking about the kind of reading proficiency that allows one to skim hundreds of pages of text in order to find material relevant to one’s research. If Peter Godman couldn’t read new, unfamiliar and often abstruse Latin texts, he could not do the research he does. Medievalists and Renaissance scholars — even those taught by painfully ineffective traditional methods — get practice dealing with texts on their own in a way that classicists almost never do.

Anyway, read the whole thing, and I hope Beard takes it to heart.

2) The Local (an Italian site) informs the world New Italian TV show to tell story of Rome’s birth… in Latin:

Work has begun on Romulus, a new TV drama that will tell the story of Rome’s legendary founder – in an early form of Latin. The series, which is being produced by the same studio responsible for modern-day Italian hits Gomorrah and Suburra, will air on Sky Italia with an international release likely to follow. It will be directed by Matteo Rovere, an Italian film director who has already told the Romulus story once before in his movie epic The First King, which was also scripted in archaic Latin.

I am impressed, amused, and mind-boggled; I have no idea how he thinks a script can be written in archaic Latin, or why anybody is willing to fund such a project, but I’d be mildly curious to see at least some of the result. (There’s a minute-long video clip, but it includes no Latin.) Thanks, Trevor!

Addendum. In the comments, Bathrobe linked to Tom Keeline’s Is “Reading” Latin Impossible? at Latinitium, which is very relevant to the Foreman/Beard controversy; here is the conclusion:

You wouldn’t try to read Dante today without first learning modern Italian, or Shakespeare without first learning contemporary English. Latin literature is our equivalent of Dante and Shakespeare, and Active Latin is the closest thing we’ve got to “learning Italian” or “learning English.” But the ancient Latin texts that we read are not, by and large, “level appropriate”; we’ve got nothing except the ancient equivalents of Dante and Shakespeare. We’ve got texts that were written at the highest level of sophistication for an elite audience of supremely well-educated contemporary native speakers. They weren’t written for us. Do I think these texts are eminently worth reading? Of course—I’m a classicist! But we shouldn’t delude ourselves or our students: the gap between us and those ancient native speakers is never going to be fully bridgeable by waving any magic wand, whether it’s labeled “Active Latin” or anything else.

If the final destination of this journey is to “read” ancient Latin the way we read our native language, we may never get there. I’m certainly nowhere close. Should we just give up then? Well, I don’t think so. As with geometry, there is no royal road to Latin, but I think I’ve made a lot more progress by embracing Active Latin than I would have otherwise. I’ve definitely had a lot more fun. If reading ancient Latin the way I read English remains an elusive goal for me, getting meaning from Latin texts with ever-increasing ease and pleasure is a completely reasonable goal that I make progress towards every day—well, let’s say “most days”! If we begin with such a goal in mind, then we can constantly strive for a perhaps unattainable perfection while still enjoying every step of the journey. And this, I think, is the realistic promise of Active Latin.

Makes sense to me.

I don’t normally cover the Scripps National Spelling Bee, even though I participated in spelling bees as a wee lad (I still remember the humiliation of misspelling Christmas — I knew it, I swear, it was just a brain glitch!), but occasionally it brings up a word of particular interest which leads to a LH post. In 2016, for instance, one of the words was chremslach, the plural of chremsel, which led to a lively discussion (we never did decide on the etymology). This year there has been a lot of excited coverage of the remarkable eight-way tie, with much use of the term “octochamps”; here, for example, is the Atlantic piece by LH fave Ben Zimmer, which begins:

The sight of eight co-champions hoisting the ceramic trophy at the Scripps National Spelling Bee last night was a remarkable ending to a competition that the ESPN announcers kept referring to as “historic” and “unprecedented.” This year’s Bee was certainly one for the history books: There had never been more than two spellers sharing the top honor before this. Those elite eight—quickly dubbed the “Octochamps”—will be remembered for irrevocably altering the competition. A recent documentary on competitive spelling (particularly focusing on the dominance of Indian American kids in recent years) is titled Breaking the Bee. The Octochamps actually broke it this time.

Zimmer commendably gives all eight winning words, with definitions:

Rishik Gandhasri of San Jose, California, spelled auslaut (the final sound in a word or syllable). Erin Howard of Huntsville, Alabama, spelled erysipelas (an acute skin infection). Saketh Sundar of Clarksville, Maryland, spelled bougainvillea (a tropical woody vine with brilliant flowers). Shruthika Padhy of Cherry Hill, New Jersey, spelled aiguillette (a military shoulder cord). Sohum Sukhatankar of Dallas spelled pendeloque (a pear-shaped glass pendant). Abhijay Kodali of Flower Mound, Texas, spelled palama (webbing on the feet of aquatic birds). Christopher Serrao of Whitehouse Station, New Jersey, spelled cernuous (drooping, as a flower). And Rohan Raja of Irving, Texas, spelled odylic (relating to a hypothetical life force conceived in the 19th century). Cue the confetti.

I’m a little surprised that erysipelas and bougainvillea are considered difficult and/or obscure enough to be final tie-breakers — I think of them as fairly ordinary words — but palama (initial stress, from Greek palamē ‘palm’) certainly is (it’s not in the OED, though of course it’s in M-W, the official dictionary of the bee), as is odylic, which is the reason I’m posting today: you won’t find it in many places, but you know if it you were reading LH in 2002!