language – From Under the Fig Tree

Lingo

joselitAugust 2, 2015November 16, 2017Leave a comment

Every field has its own distinctive protocols, rituals and even language. In mine, words such as ‘interdisciplinarity’ and ‘historicity’ are tossed about with abandon, much to everyone else’s confusion. Household words, they ain’t. These terms and dozens of others just like them are comprehensible only to the cognoscenti.

As I recently discovered, the language of medicine is something else again. When dealing with patients, it draws on familiar words, but endows them with a highly specific, often euphemistic, meaning that not only baffles rather than clarifies, but also undermines one’s confidence.

Here are a couple of examples. One young physician, in an attempt to indicate that she wasn’t unduly concerned with the medical situation at hand, allowed how she was “not impressed.” Meanwhile, her more seasoned colleagues took a different tack -- and deployed a different word: They characterized a potentially troublesome medical situation as “concerning.”

That adjective and its cousin, the noun (‘concern’), seems to be the medical word du jour, a substitute for the over-used and tired “issues.” Time and again, I was asked whether I had any “concerns.” Really?!

And this: When nurses get together to discuss a patient’s lot, they don’t gather or confer so much as “huddle.” And, my all-time favorite: an unusually configured body part -- a foot, for example, represents a form of “deranged architecture.” Imagine being told that by a physician!

I suppose I shouldn’t fret about this ‘deranged’ use of language just as long as those who wield it practice good and sound medicine. But its widespread use did give me pause -- and, now and then, cause for laughing aloud, which, come to think of it, was of therapeutic value.

The big chill

joselitFebruary 23, 2015November 16, 2017Leave a comment

Everyone’s talking about the weather. Our daily speech is studded with allusions to snow, wind chill, clipper effects and vortexes. Wreaking havoc with our plans, much less our wardrobes, meteorology has taken hold of our lives.

I can’t wait for the day when I no longer have to pull on my warm clunky boots. Or is it my warm, clunky boots? Having just read “Holy Writ,” Mary Norris’ wry and vivid piece in The New Yorker about her experiences as a copyeditor, I’m no longer sure about my commas. Norris’s cautionary tale about when to deploy them and when not has got my knickers -- okay, my long johns -- in a twist.

Norris acknowledges that grammar can be intimidating, but then, throwing caution to the wind, she gleefully intimidates the rest of us with her knowing references to coordinate adjectives, serial commas, Oxford commas, and other tools of the trade.

For those who don’t spend the better part of their days fretting about such matters, “Holy Writ” makes for great reading. It provides a behind-the-scenes look at one of the most critical, but little known and even less understood, aspects of the writerly life.

For those who, like me, do spend the better part of our days fretting about commas and clauses, “Holy Writ” has had a chilling effect. It was all I could do to write this post. I’m frozen in more ways than one.

Oddments

joselitJanuary 19, 2015November 16, 2017Leave a comment

This week’s New York Times Magazine featured a fascinating article by Neal Gabler, “Call It What It Is,” that details the process by which products make a name for themselves. Literally. I learned that it takes a facility for language, a keen ear for sound and a lively imagination to come up with the likes of Viagra (a combination of “vigorous” and “Niagara”) and Accenture (a combination of “accent” and “future.”) English majors, take note!

Much as I enjoy reading about the coinage of new words, I’m drawn more to antiquated, dated turns of phrase and, most especially, to words that have dropped from sight and out of current usage. The equivalent of a secret language, their discovery is one of the perks of my trade. Had I not been an historian, making my way through the sermonic literature of the interwar years, I would never have known the pleasure of the word “desuetude,” a particular favorite of the American rabbinate of that era. And now, one of mine.

The same goes for “oddment.” I had never, ever, come across this word until it appeared, a couple of years ago, in a review of one of my books. From the context, I couldn’t immediately make out whether it was used complimentarily or critically, which prompted me to make a bee-line for the dictionary.

“Odd-ment: (noun) 1. An old article, bit, remnant or the like. 2. An article belonging to a broken or an incomplete set.”

Ouch.

Still, I fancy the word. Or, more to the point, I fancy the impetus behind it, which is that of a curiosity, or what we today, much less elegantly, might term an “outlier.” Better yet, let’s think of it as a tidbit.

You can find lots of oddments in obituaries. Just the other day, an obituary for Samuel Goldwyn Jr., the producer of such celebrated films as The Madness of King George and Mississippi Masala, mentioned that, as a young boy learning the rewards of financial independence, he delivered newspapers. But his was no ordinary paper route. As befitting his status as the scion of a movie mogul, young Goldwyn didn’t make his way by foot or on a bike. He dispensed his duties while travelling in a chauffeured car.

Now that’s what I call an oddment!

Cherry on top

joselitNovember 9, 2013November 16, 2017Leave a comment

It’s been years since I last thought about, let alone tasted, a charlotte russe, an exuberent concoction of sponge cake and whipped cream with a ruby cherry perched happily on top. A passing reference in the New York Times the other day brought the treat back into my sights.

As messy to eat as it was high in calories, a charlotte russe was housed in a paper container with a moveable lid at the bottom. It required a fair amount of coordination, perhaps even a keen sense of engineering, to be fully savored. While making your way downward, through the swirls of whipped cream, you’d also push the lid upwards, freeing the sponge cake in the process. Dessert in motion: what fun!

The only time I ever ate a charlotte russe was when my siblings and I visited my grandparents in their Brooklyn apartment on Sunday afternoons. At some point in the proceedings, probably when we became a little too rambunctious, we would be taken to the bakery around the corner and treated to a charlotte russe, whose consumption kept us temporarily busy and blessedly quiet.

A good eater, I loved polishing off an entire charlotte russe all by myself. I loved the pastry’s name even more. I knew enough to know that ‘charlotte russe’ was not an English phrase, but not enough to know whether it was Yiddish or French. No matter. Its foreign-ness beguiled me, hinting at the prospect of a big, big world outside the twin poles of my grandparents’ home and my own.

I’ve now come to understand that by the time I was enthusiastically gobbling down my charlotte russe, the treat was on its last legs, an “endangered series,” a victim of both high labor costs and a changing palate. I’ve also come to understand that it probably wasn’t much good, either.

All the same, I treasure those Sundays with a charlotte russe in hand and a smudge of whipped cream on my nose. An artful fusion of duty and pleasure, of memory and possibility, what better treat could there be?!