gone

Something is gone relative to the boundaries of a place or area. We use this word quite frequently to describe someone who isn't present, despite the fact that they still exist somewhere. The connotation, however, is one of nonexistence, thanks largely to the use of the word to describe the deceased. Use of the word in this way is rather existential - the religious among us often respond to it by affirming that the person in question isn't really gone, but is simply no longer present on this plane. To such a degree is the implication of the word so final; it makes people uneasy to hear it applied to even the most permanently absent, thereby encouraging the mental creation of an area, a set of boundaries beyond all we can see and hear and know in this life, implying that there is more.

grateful

Today's word complements "thanks," as it denotes the mental state behind sincere thanks. To be grateful is an excellent feeling, but not without its vulnerability. The grateful are so because they are forced to contemplate an alternate reality, one in which some good deed went undone, or some undone vile deed took place. In cases of particularly deep or serious gratitude, this contemplation can often be daunting or unpleasant, as a person comprehends how easily things might have been different, and how near they came to being so. Not to tie in too many former posts, when we are grateful to no one in particular, the feeling can be thickly caught up in chance, and the consideration of luck in some form. We are often grateful to the universe, to whatever cosmic force has thrown things our way. Regardless of whether or not we even believe in such things, we are often grateful despite ourselves.

quick

With today's word we return to the commonplace. "Quick" refers most often to speed, with an almost frantic connotation not found in "fast" or "speedy." But the word has another meaning that is rather more poetic, namely that of a person's sensitive or vital areas. To be "cut to the quick" is to be critically wounded, either physically or emotionally. My personal favorite of its meanings, however, is its reference to the living; "quick with life" quite aptly draws a contrast between its referent and death's torpor and indifference. The phrase works as well on the emotional and metaphysical levels as it does on the physical; it draws attention to all the gifts the living have that the dead do not, to all kinds of activity, be it corporeal, mental, or perceptual.

chivalry

Here is a word with origins in the Middle Ages, referring to all manner of gallantry and knightly skill, including obedience to the rules of knighthood. Chivalry has been trivialized in the modern day as merely attention, consideration and politeness towards women. These are certainly laudable virtues, but hardly a match for the comprehensive lifestyle ideally practiced by English knights. The fortitude in battle, generosity and patriotism included in the code would certainly annoy some of the more rabid francophobes in their embodiment in a word of French origin. In any case, one wonders how often, if ever, chivalry in its original form was actually carried out consistently by any knight or man throughout his life in the Middle Ages. Perhaps this is the reason for the diminishment of the word's content; perhaps practice has led to lower expectations.

Last week's theme: Adherence to the form and content of this blog prevents me from being one of those open blogophiles, who links frequently to fellow blogs and raves about their content. Last week I wanted to recognize the blogs of some of my visitors, and I chose to do so at this point because the number of readers I have can only increase or decrease, and while the latter would leave me without much to work with, the former would make the number of visitors too great for anyone to have a shot at guessing the theme. Each word embodied a theme of a recent post of one of the few people who comment here:

sphinx: As noted by Morgen, the Sphinx at Giza was mentioned quite recently in his ongoing chronicle of his trip to Egypt in September of 2001 on his blog It's a Blog Eat Blog World. Aside from that entertaining tale, well-organized with "Extra Egypt" informative entries to keep the main ones from getting side-tracked, Morgen gets extra props for being my first, and for weeks only regular visitor, thereby preventing me from becoming despondent and committing blogocide.

distaste: This word was a reference to ThursdayNext's post about various disliked foods on her blog Eyre Affairs. I love this blog for its thickly literary feel, even when she describes every day events. Her posts are nearly always long and well thought-out, and reader response is major - the comments inevitably quickly fill with addendums from Amy herself and a number of readers. Also, she begins each post with a small excerpt from Jane Eyre. It really ties everything together and reminds us of the power of words. (Leave me alone, I'm obsessed with words.)

vendetta: This was a blatant reference to marty's review of V for Vendetta over at The Sensation Inside. I admit I haven't been reading this blog for very long, but it's steeped in her personality; in her case that's a good thing. For some reason she calls herself an aspiring author, despite the fact that she's already had two books published.

thanks: This word wasn't the main theme of a post, but the title of one of Julie's on Flip This Body. This blog is particularly addictive; between its focus on a goal, its attractive and individual appearance, and Julie's informative and entertaining posts on everything from cover girl touch-ups to a voiceover audition, I check in on this one every day.

Some people just have interesting things to say about their lives and interesting ways to say them, and all of the above are lucky enough have that kind of blog. I'm mildly jealous; there's a reason I only talk about words.

defenestrate & avuncular

I couldn't decide between these words today so I decided to do both, despite my fears that continuing to do paired-word posts on the weekends might in some way encourage me to slip to four words during the week again. I've decided that I have the will power to avoid this. In any case, today's words don't have much in common except for the fact that I find it strange that they exist - they're the kind of word that makes me appreciate the English language.

To defenestrate is to throw out of a window, as most of us know. The fact, however, that the act of throwing something or someone out of a window occurs often enough that we have developed such a serious-sounding word to refer to it, is perhaps why so many of us find it funny. I know of no window intended for projectiles; with the exception of drive-through windows at fast food establishments, through which items are only very seldom thrown, the window's purpose, as I see it, is the entrance of light and the accessibility of an outside view. One exception, I suppose, is the thin vertical window found in medieval castles and other strongholds, which was designed largely with the arrow in mind, both exiting and entering, though only the former is technically defenestrated.

"Avuncular," meanwhile, describes something or someone as being of or like an uncle. "Avuncular advice," for instance, denotes advice that either comes from one's uncle or is the type one would expect from an uncle. I can see the use of the word when it refers to something "of" an uncle; in the interest of brevity it is simply a handy word. But to describe something or someone as avuncular seems to me to say very little - is not the uncle a familial figure noted for variance? "Avuncular" seems to me to be a word that does not very finely categorize the content of any message or person. The word properly used probably fits well with some archetypal uncle, I suppose: some vague figure whose affection and responsibility, both "sub-father" to some degree, tempers his wisdom with the benefit of an outside perspective without any large investment in the outcome or emotional involvement that may cloud the judgement.

eleemosynary

Herein lies a problem with this blog; I like to post about the general connotations and implications of words beyond the dictionary definitions, but I also hope to expand my vocabulary with new words. So when I encounter such a new word, like today's, I find myself unable to include much connotation because I haven't heard or used the word ever in my life. But I won't let that stop me; it's such a cool word. I've been saying it all day. (el-uh-mos-uh-ner-ee, says dictionary.com) The general definition is "of charity," be it applied to some facet of charity itself, the lifestyle of those who depend upon it, or institutions that count on its support. Though I do like the sound of the word, it's a bit stuffy for the subject matter, I think. It bears the tone of a high-minded attempt to distance one's self from the distressing problem of widespread mendicancy.

thanks

Here we have a broad term for recognition and appreciation of some beneficent deed, favor, or otherwise fruitful act. The word is its referent, in many ways; to say "thanks" is to give thanks. The utterance of the word constitutes the act itself, but despite this apparent triviality of existence, thanks are widely expected, anticipated, often even obligatory. To give thanks is to acknowledge that you are not blind to the kindness of others, even in its most trivial forms. The wave from one driver to another who has made some motorway concession is perhaps one of the best examples of this; the driver who allows another to merge ahead, or pull out of a parking lot into a busy street, has not acted in any way on his/her own behalf. The manual acknowledgement - one hand vaguely shaken as the other struggles quickly with the steering wheel to make the best of the gift - what does it communicate? Clearly it could only be that the waver is aware that the window of opportunity would not exist without the philanthropic gesture of a perfect stranger. This is the essence of thanks - "You sir, are a good guy. I salute you."

Sidenote: Once again, a day has passed without a new word. I cannot apologize enough; the lack may seem trivial to you, but a main purpose of this blog in my life is to keep me in a routine and in that I have failed. If you'll allow me, and I promise this will not be a request often made, I think I'll let these four words stand for this week's theme. I don't believe any fifth would fit quite so well anyway. As usual, feel free to make a guess, educated or otherwise.

vendetta

Today's word is applicable to all kinds of bloody feuds, political conflicts and acts of vengeance, but it somehow manages to bestow some kind of class wherever it is applied. "Vendetta" has an upscale ring to it, a never-say-die recklessness that is almost elegantly jaunty, though the conflict in question may be to the death. That recklessness is brought out somewhat in the double "t," but the word's pronunciation is otherwise sharp, precise like the mindset of its referent's executor. The word is pronounced more or less the same in all accents - vendettas are beyond boundaries like these, the matters with which they are concerned cutting to the chase. It is no more an action or campaign than it is a mindset, a hard decision, a deadened focus.

Sidenote: Speaking of class, dictionary.com and thesaurus.com have a classy new look. I'm glad; they used to look like someone in an introductory web class made them. This is not to say that I could do any better. In any case, I'm probably the only loser who cares.

distaste

Today's word quite simply refers to a personal disinclination towards something. The fact that it does so by referring to taste endows the word with a sense of how visceral and inexplicable such aversions tend to be. We shrink from foods we dislike, they cause us to make faces, but we are often unable to articulate exactly why. We can generally put our finger on why certain tactile, visual or audial sensations are unpleasant, but taste is more elusive. I hate peanut butter, but love peanuts. Use of the word "distaste" to describe one's entire array of aversion amplifies the sense of arbitrariness that governs our preferences. It also serves to excuse revulsion when it would otherwise be rude. "There's no accounting for taste," is the common phrase, I believe, that forgives such reactions by placing them out of one's hands.

sphinx

The sphinx is a mythological figure with the body of a lion and the head of either a human, a ram, or a bird. Most people associate the word with the Great Sphinx of Giza in Egypt, but my personal favorite meaning is its use to describe an uncommonly cryptic or secretive person. The notion that there are those among us with as many secrets or as impenetrable a veneer as the ancient fabled creature is as appealing as it is sinister. In addition, the word itself seems quite the unlikely jumble of letters, but is so pleasing to pronounce, evoking similarly reticent words like "cipher." The mouth barely needs to open to let the word out; indeed the "S" sound at either end encourages a furtive and hurried pronunciation.

Last week's theme: All five of last week's words are found on the Monopoly board. The relevant spaces are Chance, Pacific Avenue, Electric Company, Water Works, and Community Chest. I really thought someone would guess it, I'm not sure why. I guess it's just too much easier when you already know the answer.

ethereal

Like "serene," today's word has a connotation of weightless tranquility. They also both have textual forms that match this connotation. "Ethereal" leaves the mouth softly, without disturbing it; the lips barely need to move throughout the pronunciation, the tongue stealing past the teeth for but a moment. It is well-stocked with the long "e" sound, which keeps the consonants, all of which sound delicate and fluid, afloat but distant in a word that has a curiously symmetrical vowel/consonant arrangement. (VCCVCVVC) This alternating sound makes the word seem to delve in and out of some higher place. One thing "serene" lacks that "ethereal" possesses is a definition that includes otherworldliness. "Serene" is generally applicable wherever there is peace, but "ethereal" cannot be used so freely; it suggests the existence of some inscrutable realm, and bestows an almost magical quality to the described. The root word "ether" of course explains this, as one of its meanings is the heavens.

Postscript: The image of a kind of subtle movement between this world and another is facilitated by the fact that the word consists of the words "ether" and "real" slightly overlapping. (8/22/6)

Sidenote: Oh, what the hell, I did another word. In fact, I made it a marty weekend altogether - she suggested "ethereal" as well. This weekend's words balance neatly, I think, the dreamlike quality of today's neatly compensating for the abrupt pronunciation and unfriendly meanings of yesterday's.

bilk & shirk

Here's a pair of suggested words that are not inappropriately paired. Both denoted acts are irresponsible and misanthropic. Neither will make one many friends, as both are inconsiderate and self-serving. Depending on one's outlook on life, however, most would distinctly prefer to have one or the other act attributed to them. To bilk, after all, is to quite intentionally cheat someone out of what is rightfully theirs. It is the more hostile act; surely most of us would rather have the more harmless "shirk" applied to our activities? Perhaps not - to shirk is to allow one's duties to go undone, or to leave them for another to do. It is to be lazy, and is not a strong work ethic often a more widely lauded virtue than the more abstract notion of rightful possession? It depends, I suppose, on where one's priorities lie. To bilk or to shirk? That is the question. Although I suppose the unmentioned "neither" would be the optimal answer.

By doing a combined post this weekend, I've shirked my post-a-day responsibilities and bilked you and your post-a-day expectancies. The words discussed in this inconsiderate and self-serving post were recommended by marty from The Sensation Inside.

chest

Chests are containers, generally used in the home, to hold things that are considered precious, or while travelling, to hold necessities, all the traveler has or needs. They are large and sturdy; they have dignity; and despite existing for what is within them, they often have their own considerable value, both monetary and sentimental. Much of this is also true for the word's anatomical referent, though most of that truth lies in the heart's metaphorical contents. A body's chest is sturdy, strong; it is a prominent body part in discourse of dignity; whether its purpose is its physical or figurative contents is often debated, but those contents are precious, and all we have or need.

We speak of "getting something off one's chest" because of the importance of these contents; when they are tainted by difficult or unhealthy feelings we are burdened by the presence, as such contents are not worthy of such an eminent receptacle.

water

This is a word that benefits from the ubiquity of its referent. Just as (and of course because) water itself can give, save or take life, can have a warming or a cooling effect, can cleanse or taint, is found at both great depths and great heights, and transforms as casually into a solid block as it does into vapor, "water" is a constant symbol of all of this and more. There is very little that water in fiction hasn't been; it has been time, both ever-changing (as in countless river tales such as The River Why) and never-changing (as in the closing lines of The Great Gatsby), mercy (I fail to come up with an example but refuse to sacrifice this one. Help me out here.), wrath (as in the Bible), or simply the extreme power of inexplicable occurrence (as in The Mill on the Floss, though you may have some more refined interpretation). Often it is as hazardous as it is vital, as in Hatchet, which I still recall reading in elementary school. Perhaps the fact that it composes so much of our body is part of what encourages us to communicate such varied things with it. Moby-Dick is another work in which water fills many roles, and I highly recommend it along with The River Why. But my absolute favorite occurrence of water in fiction is found in the 17th chapter of James Joyce's Ulysses. The chapter is written entirely in the question-and-answer format of a catechism. With no knowledge of, or regard for, any applicable copyright law, I reproduce the relevant passage here.

What in water did Bloom, waterlover, drawer of water, watercarrier returning to the range, admire?

Its universality: its democratic equality and constancy to its nature in seeking its own level: its vastness in the ocean of Mercator's projection: its umplumbed profundity in the Sundam trench of the Pacific exceeding 8,000 fathoms: the restlessness of its waves and surface particles visiting in turn all points of its seaboard: the independence of its units: the variability of states of sea: its hydrostatic quiescence in calm: its hydrokinetic turgidity in neap and spring tides: its subsidence after devastation: its sterility in the circumpolar icecaps, arctic and antarctic: its climatic and commercial significance: its preponderance of 3 to 1 over the dry land of the globe: its indisputable hegemony extending in square leagues over all the region below the subequatorial tropic of Capricorn: the multisecular stability of its primeval basin: its luteofulvous bed: Its capacity to dissolve and hold in solution all soluble substances including billions of tons of the most precious metals: its slow erosions of peninsulas and downwardtending promontories: its alluvial deposits: its weight and volume and density: its imperturbability in lagoons and highland tarns: its gradation of colours in the torrid and temperate and frigid zones: its vehicular ramifications in continental lakecontained streams and confluent oceanflowing rivers with their tributaries and transoceanic currents: gulfstream, north and south equatorial courses: its violence in seaquakes, waterspouts, artesian wells, eruptions, torrents, eddies, freshets, spates, groundswells, watersheds, waterpartings, geysers, cataracts, whirlpools, maelstroms, inundations, deluges, cloudbursts: its vast circumterrestrial ahorizontal curve: its secrecy in springs, and latent humidity, revealed by rhabdomantic or hygrometric instruments and exemplified by the hole in the wall at Ashtown gate, saturation of air, distillation of dew: the simplicity of its composition, two constituent parts of hydrogen with one constituent part of oxygen: its healing virtues: its buoyancy in the waters of the Dead Sea: its persevering penetrativeness in runnels, gullies, inadequate dams, leaks on shipboard: its properties for cleansing, quenching thirst and fire, nourishing vegetation: its infallibility as paradigm and paragon: its metamorphoses as vapour, mist, cloud, rain, sleet, snow, hail: its strength in rigid hydrants: its variety of forms in loughs and bays and gulfs and bights and guts and lagoons and atolls and archipelagos and sounds and fjords and minches and tidal estuaries and arms of sea: its solidity in glaciers, icebergs, icefloes: its docility in working hydraulic millwheels, turbines, dynamos, electric power stations, bleachworks, tanneries, scutchmills: its utility in canals, rivers, if navigable, floating and graving docks: its potentiality derivable from harnessed tides or watercourses falling from level to level: its submarine fauna and flora (anacoustic, photophobe) numerically, if not literally, the inhabitants of the globe: its ubiquity as constituting 90% of the human body: the noxiousness of its effluvia in lacustrine marshes, pestilential fens, faded flowerwater, stagnant pools in the waning moon.

electric

While "pacific" became a geographic designation as a result of its abstract meaning, today's word has grown an abstract one from the literal. Once again, I prefer the less literal meaning, perhaps because of the flexibility. But there is a certain something in the definition itself that I find appealing. Anything can be endowed with some dynamic inner life or energy when described as electric. Such a prevalent notion is this that one wonders what word might have been the equivalent before the advent of the word "electricity" in the early 1600s.

Sidenote: Apologies for the brief entry. It's been a difficult day. I promise not to let this happen often.

pacific

Yes, it's an ocean, of course. As most of us know, the word also means peaceful and tranquil. Those who, like me, find the latter meaning more pleasing for its lack of a tether to anything corporeal, may feel the word suffers from the former. To tie a concept to an object, after all, may be to impose unfair boundaries upon it. But "pacific" seems to overcome this, as the object to which it has become tied hardly imposes boundaries at all. It endows the abstract meaning with a sense of grandeur and majesty that fits the original definition, amplifying and expanding it, giving it a sense of permanence, which in turn deepens the very connotation of tranquility with a sense of certainty.

chance

The existence of fate, God, luck, and a whole host of more sketchy phenomena that would presumably help us know what the future holds will always be debated. Today's word denotes the one truly accessible aspect of the future. Chance is something we can calculate: the odds, the likelihood - there are numbers to back it up, and numbers are always more comforting than a large question mark. But the word also denotes the uncertain. To "chance" something is to take a risk, to count on luck or God or fate to deliver one from evil or otherwise ill consequences. This is perhaps overstating things - we are chancing something when we fail to put money in a parking meter, after all, and could a parking ticket really be considered evil? We leave things up to chance every single day; it is impossible to conquer, try as one might. The phrase "chance occurrence" is used to describe unlikely events, such as running into one's next door neighbor while travelling abroad, but isn't every trivial happening also a chance occurrence? We only take note of ones that strike us, and we act as though chance goes out of its way to serve up serendipity or doom on a platter, but every tiny facet of our reality that has not been prearranged by man (and the bounds of this category are extremely debatable) is thanks in some degree to chance. Or nothing is.

Last week's theme: The connection between "scarlet," "fear," "sign," "hound," and "detective" is Sherlock Holmes. More specifically, each of the first four words represents the Holmes novel whose title contains it. They are, in order of publication, A Study in Scarlet, The Sign of Four, The Hound of the Baskervilles, and The Valley of Fear. There were only four Holmes novels written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, so I was at a bit of a loss to choose a fifth word that would stand out among over 50 short stories. "Detective" was an excellent compromise, I decided, as it serves to none-too-subtly suggest the theme while also being part of the title "The Adventure of the Dying Detective."

I cannot recommend these tales highly enough. A Study in Scarlet is an excellent place to start as it was the first Holmes publication, introducing him to both Watson and the world.

formulaic

To describe a movie or book or any art as formulaic is obviously not to compliment. It essentially accuses the artists involved of executing some story or message, however ostensibly novel, in a manner that has been used repeatedly in the past. I'm not talking the familiar arc - having a beginning, middle and end - I'm talking about that sinking feeling you get about a half-hour into a movie or forty pages into a book when you can trace the arc in your mind. You recognize the foreshadowing as if you've read the book before, you can tell why you are given certain information or why certain words are used, because you know that they will resonate particularly strongly if a certain something takes place. "Formulaic" is a shameful word to have applied to your art, despite how easy a trap it is to fall into when creating. It means you have failed at originality, and originality was exactly what you thought you had when you started, wasn't it?

Sidenote: I was in a movie tonight and, realizing that I hadn't done today's word yet, decided to listen for one in the movie that stuck with me. I quickly forgot to do so, but as I shuffled out of the theater at the end, this word was in my head, so here it is.

habiliments

There are so many words for clothing - apparel, garb, garments, raiment, etc. - that it may seem strange to single one out for notice. "Habiliments," however, has such a nice old-timey charm to it that it tends to be the one I opt for in a pinch. It gives even the shoddiest of clothes some semblance of dignity, by implying a niche into which the clothing falls. To say of a homeless man who is shabbily dressed that he is attired "in the habiliments one would expect" seems (to me, at least) to imply that the expectation arises not because the man has so little, but because there is a long history of homeless men who have all been dressed similarly, and that each mendicant has a place in that history. Were one to merely to say that he was dressed "in the expected apparel" it would isolate him, "apparel" belonging to a shallower discourse.

Sidenote: As you may have noticed, the weekend is still a boring time here at The Weight of the Word. Still trying to think up some weekend theme.

detective

The literary and otherwise artistic connotations of today's word inevitably overwhelm the commonplace. The fact is, there are thousands of detectives that are hopelessly mixed in with the seemingly homogeneous mass known as "police." "Detective" is to many of us a symbol of that prototypical figure in fiction who stands alone, often the only one with both the capability and willingness to swim against the oppressive current of deception and ignorance to uncover the truth. Despite the fact that many of the detectives we encounter in fiction are as flawed as any other character, they are usually the ones we align ourselves with; both they and we are trying to unravel the mystery, and the detective is the reader's (or viewer's) best chance of doing so. After all, he (or she) is a professional, a stoic crusader who will hopefully stop at nothing. When so many of our lives are filled with mystery and uncertainty that will never be uncovered, it is something of a relief to accompany an endeavor that will almost certainly be successful, and to know that even if the detective falls in his efforts, the reader will still be standing when it is all over, and will learn the truth.

hound

Similar to "beast," but rather than being a broad term for perpetrators of all kinds of uncivilized behavior, today's word is applied to those whose tenacity borders on the instinctual. Though this particular notion is rather strongly tied to centuries of human use of dogs for hunting, it has a definite dignity. This relentless pursuit on behalf of a human owner is a kind of immense loyalty and honor. That the pursuit is made possible by faculties of olfaction that no human will ever approach turns the tables on "beast," putting the animal on the pedestal and mankind in the dark. The use of the word as an insult is weaker, in that it is less descriptive, less tied down to any actual features of a hound, and presupposes that the listener accepts the role of dogs as inferior. "Beast," on the other hand, makes no such supposition, and savagely shoves the canine and all animals into one pejorative division with no regard for the opinions of the listener.

sign

This word itself is an example of what it represents, and a rather superlative one, since it refers in some way to every representation. This also makes it a difficult one to pin down; it has too many uses for any discussion here to approach comprehensive. But here are a couple of examples to perhaps tie the whole idea together. As a verb, it refers most often to scrawling one's name. The symbol-to-referent ratio here is rather extreme. A small scribble, to which I give no more thought than I do the shapes of my keys, represents me, my presence at a transaction, my consent. It reflects my will at a certain moment, and can therefore have serious legal and financial repercussions. This sign is quite serious, worth far more than the attention most of us pay it. In the most mundane sense, a sign is a flat metallic representation of some rule of the road, or perhaps the shape of that road, or to what establishments and locales it may carry us. Here are signs that we do indeed pay attention to, despite how insignificant the content may be in relation to ourselves, or how trivial the reason for our presence on the road. These are the signs we curse, study, memorize, and ultimately are convinced that we need throughout our daily lives. And yet simply think how simple and straightforward each of these signs is. There is a restaurant at the next exit, and so a sign bears the word "restaurant;" the road curves to the left ahead, and so a sign has a line that curves similarly; the law requires us to stop at an intersection, and a sign passes this information along with an abrupt one-word command; Newton is 23 miles away, hence "Newton 23." These signs don't require any thought to create or to mentally process, and yet they (or their absence) frequently inspire rage or a feeling of helplessness in the more passionate travelers. And yet most everyone, those travelers included, are in their every day lives perfectly willing to inscribe their name on countless pieces of paper that represent something far more abstract, pieces of paper that can be used as evidence in a courtroom, and they do so without a pause, let alone a thought.

fear

This word lingers after it has been uttered or written. It has a presence, despite its simplicity. It has simple spelling, simple pronunciation, and a meaning that, despite its complexity, is universal. The weight of the emotion overwhelms the word, making it impossible to dissect the latter without dealing with the former. Such is the psychological power of the word that it means something quite different to everyone, and not in that vague everyone-interprets-everything-differently kind of way, but in a genuinely diverse way. Fear is a tangible presence for everyone, and the utterance of the word in a crowd may conjure up a completely different batch of memories for each person present. For each of us, the word is linked not merely to its meaning, but to a very personal web of anxiety and uncertainty. For fear is always uncertain: even when we know what we fear, the emotion would not be itself without some unanswered questions. When will it strike? How will it harm? Who will be responsible? Without these variables, the feeling would be mere dread.

scarlet

Capturing the essence of a color is one of the most difficult tasks a word can have, but here's one that does it with both the grim imagery of an old wound - "scar" - and the idle fragility of a delicate suffix - "-let." This is quite appropriate for a color that bears the burdens of both seduction and tragedy, one found in the fevered blush of abrupt emotion and the bloodied remnants of equally passionate crimes. That objects as cold as words - and words without weight are themselves indeed quite cold and clinical, despite their potency - can carry these heaviest of passions is a considerable testament to their power. Or is the power our own?

kiosk

Another word we all know, "kiosk" is strictly a noun, which puts it in quite a minority in our list of words thus far. It's long been a favorite of mine, though; I'm not sure why, I guess I just like the way it sounds. It denotes a small open structure, usually used for trifling commercial purposes, and this incidental quality of the services they usually provide is well-matched with the word, which reads like something a Scrabble player comes up with in a moment of desperation.

Allow me to cut myself short right there to declare that my weekend words are boring as hell, and I know it. I need to come up with some sort of weekend motif. Hmm...
[This train of thought to be continued next weekend.]

disabuse

Here's a great word for being condescending to a friend or anyone you think is misinformed, misguided or otherwise just plain wrong. To tell someone that you will enlighten them, or explain where they've been mixed up is one thing, but to use the word "disabuse" is almost to suggest that they are a child who doesn't know any better. It is seldom used by someone who sees their illusioned acquaintance as an equal. It's excessively patronizing. As in, "Give Mommy that misconception before you hurt yourself with it!" I don't know quite how "disabuse" came to mean what it does, given the standard definitions of the root word. Perhaps there is some link to the apparently obsolete "To deceive or trick" definition of "abuse." (Found on dictionary.com)

reserved

To reserve is to hold onto something, and today's word signifies the manner of one who holds back. It can be emotions, opinions, or information with which the reserved man or woman is reticent, but when unaccompanied by any such qualifications the word generally describes one who is simply quiet. This quietness is not emptiness, however; "reserved" implies that there is something that they are not sharing. To have reservations about a particular circumstance or event is a temporary uncertainty; imagine feeling that way all the time? To be of a perpetually reserved temperament? We all have secrets, but theirs tend to remain buried for longer; to be confided in by one who is reserved always feels like something of an honor, regardless of how trivial the content.

This week's theme: Hmm, I can't decide whether I should reveal the theme during the week if someone gets it. But since I think Morgen is probably the only person that actually reads this blog, I might as well do it this once at least. In any case, he's guessed the theme: the first recorded instance of each of this week's words is in Shakespeare:

afoot:
"Julius Caesar" III.ii.239-40
"Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot/Take thou what course thou wilt!"

swagger:
"A Midsummer-Night's Dream" III.i.28-9
"What hempen home-spuns have we swaggering here,/So near the cradle of the fairy queen?"

gnarled:
"Measure for Measure" II.ii.142-3
"Thou rather with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt/Split’st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak"

misquote:
"I Hen. IV" V.ii.15-6
"Look how we can, or sad or merrily,/Interpretation will misquote our looks"

reserved:
"All's Well That Ends Well" V.iii.46-7
"To have her name repeated: all her deserving/Is a reserved honesty"

Excellent! I'm glad someone guessed a theme so early. Nice going, Morgen.

misquote

I haven't much to say about this word. In fact, I freely admit that I only use it because it fits into this week's theme. Let's face it, the word is awfully straightforward, almost clinical. We all know what it means, and it can be explained far more easily than even very common words, such as "light" or "burn." These words have all kinds of complicated connotations; "misquote" simply doesn't. However, being the extreme nitpicker that I am, I will take this opportunity to make a distinction. We all know that many quotations, particularly those with historical significance, are in the common consciousness assigned to the wrong men and women. "In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes," many of us have been told originated with Mark Twain. Apparently the quotation actually comes from Benjamin Franklin, in a November 1789 letter to Jean-Baptiste Leroy. To say the quotation comes from Mark Twain, however, is not to misquote, but to misattribute. (The use of "misquote" for "misattribute," of course, is another instance of misattribution, in that one incorrectly attributes a meaning to a word.) To misquote, of course, is simply to incorrectly reproduce the contents of a quotation.

I promise I am not always this anal. But if one will snobbishly correct another on the origin of a quote, I would consider it no small recovery for the accused to come back with, "Actually, I didn't misquote. I misattributed."

gnarled

Denoting the wretchedly twisted and/or brutishly hardened, this word evokes "snarl," a word with a similarly contorted referent. Hellish trees or branches are frequently described with this word; not quite as frequently it is applied to a man or his soul, but this latter usage paints a more vivid picture. A gnarled man has been through his share of hard times, and they have left their mark, either on hardened hands or a bent back or any of countless other debilitating afflictions. A gnarled soul denotes a loss or crippling of morality or judgment via misuse (self-inflicted or otherwise). In any case, to be gnarled is nearly always to have been unnaturally affected, and is seldom a process from which one can recover. The vitriolic old crone and her knotted walking stick are both gnarled, and neither will see softening before they return to the earth.

swagger

Here we have a gait, cocky and self-assured, legs thrown forward with reckless abandon, the body catching up reluctantly, as if embarrassed to be transported so ridiculously. For a walk to be correctly dubbed a "swagger," it helps that it be accompanied by an appropriately confident (perhaps even smug) facial expression; the swagger and the pout, for instance, are mutually exclusive. A single raised eyebrow helps. Cowboys, when they are not moseying, often swagger, as knights once did, when they were not strutting. The word is appropriate for its meaning: it sounds as if someone made it up on the spot, putting a couple of sounds together that stuck merely because they were pronounced so authoritatively by that first brave soul.

Sidenote: Apologies for the two days without words. I assure you the delay was not from any idleness on my part, but rather a result of an internet outage. Today I will catch up.