Books in the waste room of “Araby”

The priest’s waste room is a symbol of—among other forces of convention—the style of fiction Joyce shows up as so much clichéd trash. For this reason it’s important to know not only what the texts therein are about but how they’re written.

Compare the opening paragraph of “Araby” to the opening paragraphs from the texts in the priest’s waste room—the waste room of nineteenth-century writing, in other words:

The opening paragraph of Sir Walter Scott's The Abbot (1820)

The opening lines of The Devout Communicant, Exemplified in His Behavior Before, At, and After the Sacrament of the Lord's Supper: Practically Suited to All the Parts of that Divide Ordinance (1869, edited from the sixth edition of 1683)

The opening paragraph of The Memoirs of Vidocq: Principal Agent of the French Police (1828, translated into English in 1834)

Gingerbread cocks and cherrybay drops

Athavi pointed me to two phrases the definitions of which are not immediately apparent, taken from Constance Garnett’s translation of Turgenev’s “Mumu.”

Gingerbread cock

A Google Books search for Gingerbread cock finds a parallel reference in an edition of Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment also translated by Garnett. This gives us the sense that gingerbread cocks were given as inexpensive gifts in nineteenth-century Russia, and the fact that a man could put one in his pocket suggests that we are talking about a gingerbread cookie in the shape of a rooster.

This same search also yields a passage from the remarkably convenient 1854 Complete Biscuit and Gingerbread Baker’s Assistant: Practical directions for making all kinds of plain and fancy biscuits, buns, cakes, drops, muffins, crumpets, gingerbread, spice nuts, etc., adapted for the trade or for private families by George Read. Read observes

[A]mong the middle and lower orders, especially in holiday time [ . . . ], the smiles which are bestowed on the gay lover are often the results of the gifts to his mistress in gingerbread nuts, or “fairings”; the children also run on these occasions to spend their last penny on a gingerbread horse, cock in breeches, or old man and woman. (83–4.)

Cherry bay drops

First, we can guess from the context that the “drops” in question are droplets of a liquid of some sort—a kind of ether that helps knock out Gerasim’s mistress.

The first thing you’ll notice in a Google Books search for “cherry bay” is that it’s typically spelled “cherry-bay,” the adjective for “bay cherry tree.” The bay cherry tree is apparently another name for the laurel tree:

Mountain laurel in bloom, by Weaselmcfee

Another Google Books search, this time for the bay cherry tree, gets us to Lippincott’s New Medical Dictionary (1910), by Henry Ware Cattell. Cattell identifies two possible products which Garnett translates as “cherry bay drops”:

A. laurocer’asi (B.P.), cherry-laurel water: made by distilling the leaves of the European cherry-laurel in water. Used as a substitute for dilute hydrocyanic acid as a sedative narcotic. Dose, 2 Cc. (30 mins.) (77-78.)

P. lau- rocer’asus, the cherry.tree laurel, or poison.laurel. It is a nervous sedative, and contains a small quantity of prussic acid. (782.)

Who are Balzac’s Maugrabins?

Daniel called my attention to a problem of definition for Monday’s quiz: although you are asked to know who the Maugrabins were—they feature in Balzac’s “Passion in the Desert”—neither the Webster’s New World Dictionary nor the authoritative Oxford English Dictionary nor Wikipedia nor even Google offer a definite definition.

Larry has said that he will be unlikely to use such hard-to-define words on the quizzes; however, you cannot be sure that Larry’s sense of a hard-to-define word will be exactly the same as your own.

Here, then, is the best recommendation I can give:

First, search Google Books. The Google Books results for “Maugrabins” offer several hundred illustrations of how the Maugrabins were written about in the past two centuries. From the snippets on view, you can get the sense that “Maugrabins” was a French name for a group of Arabs living in Upper Egypt at the time of French military incursions there. From the accounts in these books, the Maugrabins had a reputation for taking French military officers hostage.

Second, search Google Scholar. The Google Scholar results for “Maugrabins” yield the clue we need: according to an article in the The European Journal of Sport Science, “people from Maghreb are called ‘North Africans,’ since this expression is more
frequently used in English than ‘Maugrabins.’”*

This gives us two competing definitions of the word. More recent usage—the article from The European Journal of Sport Science was published this year—defines “Maugrabins” as “inhabitants of the Maghreb,” which is a name for the countries on the northwestern coast of Africa.

However, Balzac and his nineteenth-century contemporaries would have understood Maugrabins differently, as an ethnic rather than a regional group, and one located in Upper (that is southern) Egypt rather than modern-day Morocco, Algeria, and Tunisia.

In the case of these two competing meanings, study the meaning intended by the author of the story from which the word was taken. The goal of this vocabulary work is to master our authors’ intended meanings, after all.

* Karen Bretin-Maffiuletti and Carine Erard. “An over-represented minority! Non-mainland French athletes in L’Équipe (1946–1968).” European Journal of Sport Science 9:4 (2009) 245–256.

Vocabulary list online!

Updated 6/30

You can grab a spreadsheet of the vocab words for Quiz 1 here—in order to edit the list you will have to choose File → Create a copy…, which should allow you to type in definitions and the like. If you choose File → Export you can save the spreadsheet as, say, a Microsoft Excel file.

Update (new): Now includes the words for quiz #2!

Update (old): Or you can grab an Excel copy of the spreadsheet by clicking here.

How to memorize 142 words in 5 days

The research on vocabulary memorization is deep enough to drown a whale. Google Scholar finds 13,000+ articles, but it looks like the most recent studies agree in arguing for a multi-pronged context-centered approach:

1. Write the word and its definition on homemade flashcards (kinesthetic learning)
2. Quiz yourself with the flashcards several times a day and over four or five days (visual learning and extended, repeated contact with word)
3. Listen for and use the word in conversation (auditory learning, contextual assimilation)

#3 is the big one, and it’s tricky. Here’s one thought: if you’re having trouble mastering a word after a day or two, search for it via news.google.com; write one or two phrases that use the word on your flash card and read them aloud as you quiz yourself.

For example, if you’re having trouble with the word apocryphal (I always confuse it with apocalyptic), you might grab these sentences from Google News:

• Their growth in the suburbs remains apocryphal…
• Whether that is hyperbole or an apocryphal tale…

As you can tell from my post below, I find it easier to understand words if I know their roots. If I know that apocryphal comes from the Greek apo (away) + kryptein (to hide) = something hidden away, then it’s easier to remember that it means “of uncertain authorship or authenticity.”

I’ve taken 4 years of Greek and 2 of Latin, so I’m perhaps unusually partial to the etymological method. I’m not the only one, though: etymology is the way most spelling bee champions master so much language. (Though you needn’t know word meanings to win a bee.)

A last note: Jessica asked today how to get the meanings of words that aren’t in the Webster’s New World. The answer, I think, is Google. If you find multiple viable meanings on Google, use the one that comes closest to the meaning in the story from which Larry has taken the word. (Or just email me or Larry for advice.) I’ll try to keep a record of correct meanings on the blog.

The Webster’s New World Dictionary online, plus a merry screed about etymologies

Following Larry’s remark in lecture today that you might affix wheels to your dictionaries the better to take them down the hill to College Library in the evenings, I’ve managed to track down an online version of The Webster’s New World Dictionary at YourDictionary.com.

In the past, stodgy aged instructors like me (and Larry) have objected to the impossibility of using an online dictionary serendipitously: you have no chance of just stumbling on exactly the right word when you aren’t flipping pages. I was delighted to note that YourDictionary corrects this problem by giving a list of definitions near the word you’re looking up.

The WNW is generally famous for its careful etymologies, which is something I see carried through in the online version. Etymologies are word histories: they’re the odd little codes that come after every definition explaining where the word comes from.

Let’s take as an example the word “sullen,” which we’ll probably talk about when we discuss Sonnet 29 tomorrow. Here’s what the WNW etymology of the word:

ME solein, alone, solitary < VL *solanus, alone < L solus, alone, sole

Looks like code, right? At the front of your dictionary is a short explanation of all these abbreviations. Here’s what that one means:

Our modern English word sullen comes most directly from the Middle English word solein, which means alone or solitary; solein comes from the Vulgar Latin word solanus, which means alone; solanus comes from the Latin word solus, which means alone or sole.

If you cross-check this etymology, you’ll notice that the WNW lexicographers are acting a bit brazenly here. Etymonline, a conservative but respectable source of etymologies, takes the word only as far as Old French.

The Oxford English Dictionary is the behemoth of English lexicography: it is slow to catch up to recent trends in language, but when it catches up it generally does it right. You get the OED free as students at the University of Wisconsin–Madison (follow the link from the sidebar). The OED is less certain than the WNW about the etymology of sullen, claiming only grudgingly that “In later use probably to some extent directly from Latin.”

How to cite a dictionary definition à la MLA

Hat tip to Mariana for the question!

Again the caveat: do not spend time formatting your essay according to MLA arcana when you could spend that time working over your analysis and argument. Analysis and argument are 90% of your essay grade; MLA formatting is 0%.

Parenthetical citation:

Jane’s image of Georgiana as “the cynosure of a ball-room” has a mocking undertone (Brontë 280). Brontë compares Georgiana’s intent to marry into money to the meaning of “cynosure” introduced into English in 1596 by Sir Francis Drake: the Pole-star and, figuratively, “Something that serves for guidance or direction” (“Cynosure,” defs. 1 and 2a).

Entry under Works Cited:

“Cynosure.” Defs. 1 and 2a. OED Online. Oxford University Press. 6 July 2008 <http://dictionary.oed.com>.

(That, by the way, is the simplified format; perfectionists may turn to this PDF from SUNY to learn more rigorous formatting rules.)

Three quick usage rules:

1. Incorporate a definition into your essay only when that definition is unusual and interesting—as a general rule, give definitions only for meanings that are uncommon (example: the theological sense of disgrace) or that have gone out of use since Shakespeare’s time.
2. Use the definition to further your argument. If you take the space to spell out an unusual meaning of disgrace but don’t explain how that unusual definition betters our understanding of the sonnet, that space will be wasted.
3. Don’t begin an essay with a definition. Although this might give you a way to break the blank page, your reader is more interested in the argument of your essay than in the OED definition of “love.”

Dead words

There is a short list of words you will almost never need to write in a collegiate essay. These are words that convey meaning in spoken English because we can tone them in a way that allows us to communicate a more nuanced meaning; in writing, however, they convey little meaning at all:

• Aspects: this is another word for things. Bury this word in the same grave as your cell phone.
• Basically: why write about something that is basic? Focus on the nuanced, on the thoughtful, on the advanced.
• Clearly, obviously: if it is clear or obvious, why do you need to explain it?
• Very: the meaning of “very” depends almost entirely on intonation; in written English, “very” just kills space. When it’s written out, “a very interesting thought” sounds rather more dull than “an interesting thought.”

How to access the Oxford English Dictionary Online

The Oxford English Dictionary Online is a subscription service that the University pays for. If you are in one of the computer labs on campus, you can access the dictionary just by going to oed.com.

No matter where you are, you can log in via this link, which goes through the UW–Madison library proxy server; you will need your UserID and password to sign in. (I’ve added this link to the Resources on the sidebar to the right.)

Remember that the OED won’t really help you with word definitions for the vocabulary quizzes; it will be more useful to you if you want to do in-depth word analysis for—for example—your essay comparing two of Shakespeare’s sonnets.

Learning to love vocab

Larry has already told you the best way to learn the 500+ words you need to know if you want to ace those vocab quizzes: develop a seriously close relationship with your dictionary and with your flash cards.

But learning the words themselves won’t necessarily tell you how words work—even the finest quiz won’t reveal the secrets of that bizarre alchemy that transforms strange syllables into the awkward majesty of our strange language.

If you’re an iPod addict (as I am), one of the most satisfying ways to study the history of the English language is to listen to Podictionary (iTunes link), a daily podcast that tries to puzzle how where words are born and how they grow into the meanings by which we know them today. Podictionary is a great way to learn to love language, and to become more familiar with the subtleties of our vocabulary.