pedestrian saga

Today, it takes a pick-up-your-sad-ass-and-prevail, funk-decimating sort of montage.

Rather than relinquishing this book to the library right away, I felt compelled to reread the fourth chapter on the history of English dictionaries (which transports us back to Shakespeare’s time, when it was impossible to look a word up—the horror!—and highlights some amusing entries in Dr. Johnson’s mid-18th-century dictionary) and also to append a few more notes to my review.

Best echo of recently enjoyed English fiction about crotchety German philologists (amidst a marvelous digression on the controversy surrounding the plural form of protagonist, which prompts a close examination of the OED entry and oldest citation of the word’s written use):

This, from a lexicographical point of view, seems to be the English word’s mother lode, a fair clue that the word may well have been introduced into the written language in that year, and possibly not before. (But the OED offers no guarantee. German scholars in particular are constantly deriving much pleasure from winning an informal lexicographic contest that aims at finding quotations that antedate those in the OED: At last count the Germans alone had found thirty-five thousand instances in which the OED quotation was not the first; others, less stridently, chalk up their own small triumphs of lexical sleuthing, all of which Oxford’s editors accept with disdainful equanimity, professing neither infallibility nor monopoly.)

Best stirring reminiscence of the first feature film I captioned (at the scene in Westminster of the seminal November 5, 1857, meeting of the London Philological Society):

The gas lamps fizzed and sputtered, and on the corners of Piccadilly and Jermyn Street small boys were still collecting last-minute pennies for fireworks, their ragged models of Guy Fawkes—soon to be burned on bonfires—propped up before them.

Mapped, in my mind, just around the corner from the murder and insanity of Hangover Square!

Moving ahead, The Professor and Madman inspires me to:

• read more Simon Winchester, including even his second book on the OED, The Meaning of Everything (because I’m that dorky).
• collect a personal copy of Hangover Square, now finally available on DVD!
• spend some time with The Devil’s Dictionary by Ambrose Bierce.

These classic western spoofs—the one a hammy, hokey romp; the latter a vulgar, racy burlesque—weren’t quite as fun this time around. Probably best enjoyed among the gregarious company and contagious chuckling of Dennis or certain former in-laws.

1/2 star for the dizzying web of references that stoke my fascination with pop western mythology; for the catchy, make-your-family-crazy-humming-it-for-days-on-end “Ballad of Cat Ballou”; and for Lee Marvin and Slim Pickens.

***1/2

Spurs me on to:

• everything Lee Marvin; for starters I’ve thrown Paint Your Wagon, The Professionals, Emperor of the North Pole, and Hell in the Pacific in the Netflix queue
• Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid

Well, now I’ve seen that.

***

This ten-year-old best seller is a layered biography with a brief history of lexicography at its heart—the lives of two sorts of doctor entwined around the epic making of the Oxford English Dictionary. James Murray, a self-taught scholarly Scot who would be hired to edit the “big dictionary” by the Oxford University Press dons, is the professor of the title. William Minor, a Connecticut Yankee and doctor of the surgical kind who served briefly in the Civil War and later shot an innocent stranger in the mean streets of Victorian London, is the madman. Most likely suffering paranoid schizophrenia, Minor would ultimately contribute thousands of citations to the OED from his personal library within the confines of the Broadmoor Asylum for the Criminally Insane.

With precise and breezy British prose, Winchester deftly navigates the scene of Minor’s crime, the circumstances of his youth as well as Murray’s, his traumatizing service at the Battle of the Wilderness, the OED’s conception and development, the popular myth of the two men’s first face-to-face encounter, their twenty-year-long relationship, and the sad decline of Minor’s post-dictionary life. All in just over 240 pages. It’s a fascinating multifaceted story with something for everyone—or at least for fans of true crime in Victorian London, Civil War buffs, mental health care history enthusiasts, and lexicography nerds! It’s especially not to be missed by the lexicography nerds: Woven so compellingly by a gleeful wordsmith and self-professed dictionary hugger, with nuggets of raw dictionary entries prefacing each chapter and the deliciousness of the author’s prose itself, it often approaches word porn.

Random awesome sentence (on the protagonists’ beards):

But both were magnificently fecund arrangements.

Random favorite moment of linguistic humor and British wit (on the changing of the guard at Broadmoor):

He was replaced by Doctor Brayn, a man selected (for more than his name alone, one trusts) by a Home Office that felt a stricter regime needed to be employed at the asylum.

Most shocking new vocabulary:

autopeotomy

Random, intriguing aside I might like to follow:

The great librarian—for Justin Winsor [of Harvard College] remains one of the grandest figures in all of nineteenth-century American librarianship, and a formidable historian to boot—then told the story, which Murray then retold to his friend in Boston.

All I really want to know right now I wish I’d learned in kindergarten:

• foreign languages
• dog handling
• dancing
• networking; schmoozing
• public speaking
• critical thinking
• forgiveness
• patience

Hi. I’ve struggled to write anything lately (blog entries, e-mails, Facebook comments, job letters, grocery lists alike)—either feeling oppressively lethargic and listless or getting my panties in a bunch over something or other. Anyway, this report on finding my Zen of housekeeping may or may not be a significant comeback, but it’s a start. Read the rest of this entry »

I recently rented March of the Penguins, that big cuddly sleeper of 2005, to understand what all the fuss was about, but I still don’t understand what all the fuss was about. It was good, but it didn’t move me like Winged Migration, which was exceptional. (Man, those French have totally cornered the market on quality bird flicks!) Perhaps it’s unfair to pit the waddlers against the flyers. Perhaps it was more beautiful on the big screen. Perhaps if it had emerged when I was ten and in the mental throes of a penguin obsession…

Anyhoo, to drum up some penguin mania in advance of this documentary screening (since we’re almost three years behind the curve here), we staged a stuffed penguin death match with the dogs, or as Scott has dubbed it, Munch of the Penguin. Enjoy!

It’s early afternoon, a Monday. I haven’t showered in over two days (and haven’t removed the jeans I’m wearing since that last shower). I’m sitting in the observation lounge car of an Amtrak train winding through the Cascades into the southern Willamette Valley, and I’m listening to World Without Tears and Real Gone, idly circling items of interest in Amoeba’s Music We Like booklet…

Bliss!

Oh, I could keep riding the rails, play hooky a little longer…

But I detrained at Albany Station, caught a pair of buses home, to spring the pups from their kennel digs and to get back to work. Let’s see. Uh, where was I?

Friday I crawled home tense and broken and, feeling more Gollum than Merry, opted to stay in while Scott went out. In a few human moments I managed to savor up a pot of black beans and put them on to cook. Then a sip of red wine, the opening strains of Sousa’s “Liberty Bell” from the TV, and next thing I knew, it was four hours later, Scott was waking me out of a black sleep, and the house was soaked in the foul smell of burnt beans.

Sunday I returned to the stove and lived down the black beans incident with a pot of damn fine pasta alla puttanesca (”ho sauce” is my working translation), finally making a dent in the mountain of tomatoes gathered on the counter. It was spicy and sassy and good enough to jar and sell at market, I say!

I’d promised Mum a photo of my crazy new flamenco apron, which I donned on this occasion. Mum’s Bretonne-Sevillana sister Christine sent one each to me and my sister over the summer. Merci beaucoup, Christine! Grosses bises de Oregon!

Ten years ago I visited Christine during Semana Santa and fell totally in love with Sevilla. I’ve vowed one day to return for both Fiestas de Primavera and dance flamenco in full costume…