Have you ever wondered where some of those clichés and worn phrases come from? Let's check out a few.
Above board, in open sight. This comes from 1610-20, from having to keep your hands on the table (the board) to discourage cheating at cards.
A basket case, made powerless or inefficient by nerves etc. This originates from WWI. Back then it meant a soldier who was missing both his arms and legs, and had to be carried around in a basket, according to Wictionary.org.
The bee's knees. The term first emerged in the 18th century, and back then it meant something very small. The modern meaning is from 1920s American slang, meaning an outstanding person or thing. Other examples include the cat's whiskers, the canary's tusks, and my personal favourite, the flea's eyebrows.
Come on, everybody. Let's bring back "the flea's eyebrows." It's a perfectly good phrase, right?
A bone of contention, meaning something disputed. This comes from two dogs fighting over the same bone.
Blow smoke up someone's ass, to give someone insincere compliments. So, apparently in the 1700s doctors actually blew tobacco smoke up people's rectums. Why? To resuscitate people presumed dead, especially drowning victims. I guess it wasn't very successful, because they came up with a plethora of other ailments to treat with this, such as headaches, hernias, respiratory problems, and abdominal cramps. Check out the link: there's a hilarious picture of the equipment they used. http://www.todayifoundout.com/index.php/2014/05/origin-expression-blow-smoke-ass/
Sources:
http://dictionary.reference.com/
http://clichesite.com/alpha_list.asp?which=lett+1
https://en.wiktionary.org/
http://www.oxforddictionaries.com
http://www.todayifoundout.com/index.php/2014/05/origin-expression-blow-smoke-ass/
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 20, 2015
On Expressions and Clichés
When you're learning a foreign language, there's a point when something just clicks; suddenly, you start to understand what you're reading without having to translate every word, or maybe you're sitting in a coffee shop, and all of a sudden you realise you understand what the couple at the next table is arguing about. It's got to be one of the best feelings ever.
That's usually when you can think in that language. Forming sentences doesn't feel like pulling teeth from an angry ogre anymore.
You start to enjoy yourself.
When you have the basics down, you get hungry for more: all those delicious idioms and sayings, those quaint turns of phrase. It's not enough that you can communicate adequately; you want to show off. I know what this means, just like the natives! Hey, just watch me use it in a sentence!
This is as good as it gets. You give yourself a mental high five every time you make a joke or use that neat new phrase.
Idiomatic language is the dream; it's what we all want to learn.
Because that's how people talk, right?
Then you find out that none of this applies to writing.
No, with writing, you need to be original. You can't use those shiny little metaphors you've picked up.; you have to make up your own. You know, something new and different. Not cliché.
Now you're approaching that ogre again, clicking your pliers. Only now the ogre sees you coming and runs away, throwing boulders the size of houses at you. In a bog. In the middle of a snowstorm. And one of your legs is broken.
You see where I'm going with this, right?
But there is a way to use those phrases and clichés; just give them a little twist, and they seem fresh again.
Joss Whedon is a master at this. Here are some of my favourite quotes from Firefly that illustrate the point:
Go on, go watch Firefly or Buffy again. You know you want to. It's for educational purposes this time. (As if you need an excuse!)
Here's a challenge for you: whenever you come upon a cliché, try to think of a way to make it more interesting.
So do the twist.
It's fun and good for you.
That's usually when you can think in that language. Forming sentences doesn't feel like pulling teeth from an angry ogre anymore.
You start to enjoy yourself.
When you have the basics down, you get hungry for more: all those delicious idioms and sayings, those quaint turns of phrase. It's not enough that you can communicate adequately; you want to show off. I know what this means, just like the natives! Hey, just watch me use it in a sentence!
This is as good as it gets. You give yourself a mental high five every time you make a joke or use that neat new phrase.
Idiomatic language is the dream; it's what we all want to learn.
Because that's how people talk, right?
Then you find out that none of this applies to writing.
No, with writing, you need to be original. You can't use those shiny little metaphors you've picked up.; you have to make up your own. You know, something new and different. Not cliché.
Now you're approaching that ogre again, clicking your pliers. Only now the ogre sees you coming and runs away, throwing boulders the size of houses at you. In a bog. In the middle of a snowstorm. And one of your legs is broken.
You see where I'm going with this, right?
But there is a way to use those phrases and clichés; just give them a little twist, and they seem fresh again.
Joss Whedon is a master at this. Here are some of my favourite quotes from Firefly that illustrate the point:
Mal to Jayne: "Well, my time of not taking you seriously is coming to a middle."
Mal: "Ah, the pitter-patter of tiny feet in huge combat boots..."
Mal: "Looks like business ain't runnin' so much as crawlin' away."
Go on, go watch Firefly or Buffy again. You know you want to. It's for educational purposes this time. (As if you need an excuse!)
Here's a challenge for you: whenever you come upon a cliché, try to think of a way to make it more interesting.
So do the twist.
It's fun and good for you.
Jul 18, 2015
Terribleminds Chalenge: Random Phrase
Chuck's back, and so's his weekly flash fiction challenge, yay! This week we got a random phrase to build into our story. I got "illusory needlework." Here's what I came up with:
Family Obligations
I sneaked another glance at the
general, and, seeing he was still wide awake, got back to my illusory
needlework. Cornelia dozed in the armchair next to me. Good. It had taken me
two years to make her acquaintance, then another ten months to become a close
friend of the family. I liked Cornelia; she had been nothing but kind, inviting
me to her uncle’s box at the opera and to carriage rides with her aunt, never
commenting on the color of my skin like the others. She had shared all her darkest
secrets with me. I believe she considered me her best friend.
Poor thing.
She shouldn’t
be so trusting.
The general coughed, sending ripples
pulsating across his voluminous belly, and lit another cigar. “Isobel, my dear,
would you mind?” He held out his empty glass to me.
“Not at all,
Sir Elbert.”
I set the glass
on the side table that housed the general’s supply of whiskey and brandy, both
in cut-crystal decanters, and slipped another dollop of sleeping draught in the
glass before pouring a generous measure of brandy into it. I had dosed the tea
liberally with the tincture, but perhaps it was the general’s respectable girth
that kept him from feeling the effects.
I handed him
his drink and decided to grab the bull elephant by the tusks.
“I wonder, Sir,
if you might show me your cabinet of curiosities again? I should like to examine
those artifacts so I can describe them when I write to Mother?”
“Certainly, my
dear.” The general heaved himself up. “Oh, darling Cornelia seems to have dozed
off. Perhaps I should ring for Hilda?”
“She looks so
peaceful. Let us leave her be.” I forced my jaw to relax and my tone to stay
light. The old fool would wake half the household staff if he rang, and that
didn’t fit into my plans. I laid a hand on his arm and he relented.
“I believe
you’re right, my dear.”
We shuffled through the dining room
and the library into his study, a masculine room of dark wood and plush
burgundy velvet, and stopped in front of a large cabinet, its front a
delightful enamel study of oriental harvest scenes. The general, still huffing
from the exertion of walking, pulled out a delicate, black iron key and
unlocked it. He stood back, undoubtedly examining my features for awe and
delight. I gasped, right on cue.
“Oh, Sir
Elbert, how wonderful! May I?”
He nodded his
permission, beaming like a proud parent, and I picked up this knick-knack or
that, asking inane questions or prattling on about the fine craftsmanship of
the Peruvian statuette, or the delicate pink hue of the conch shell he had
brought back from the West Indies. I was beginning to wonder about the
effectiveness of my potion when, finally, the general’s eyelids drooped and he
swayed.
“I’m afraid I
feel a bit unwell, my dear. I believe I shall take a short rest.”
He got halfway
to the armchair before he succumbed, landing on the lush Persian carpet. When
his loud, snorting snores grew regular, I placed the little ushabti figure I
had been examining back into the drawer I had found it, and reached for my true
objective, a withered human skull with gilded teeth.
“Hello, Grandmother,”
I said.
About time! the skull answered.
I hurried back towards my room,
trying to ignore the running diatribe of admonishments Grandmother kept up.
What on earth are you wearing, child? And
what have you done to your hair? Oh, how you stride, my dear, you were such a
graceful child, like a dancer, what happened? Who will want to marry such an
unfeminine figure, I’m sure I don’t know . . .
On and on it
went, to the point I almost regretted freeing her. Indeed, she drew my attention from the task at
hand so thoroughly that I almost ran straight into Hilda’s arms. As it was, I
only had time to shove the skull under my dress (Where are your bloomers, my dear? These smallclothes are simply
scandalous!) before she rounded the corner.
Hilda curtsied.
“Good evenin’, miss.”
“Good evening.”
She looked at
me curiously.
“You’re looking
a bit flushed, miss, if you pardon me for sayin’. Are you feelin’ quite well?”
“Oh, yes. It
must be the brandy. I’d best go lie down, I think.” I was having a hard time
keeping the skull from slipping out from between my sweaty knees.
“Good night,
then, miss.”
“Good night,
Hilda.”
With a sigh of relief, I slipped
into my room and pulled on the clothes of a young gentleman, pinning my hair up
under the hat, and then stuffed Grandma into the large doctor’s bag I had
purloined from the surgeon next door. What
are you doing, child? Just wait till I tell your father!
There wasn’t much
time. Hilda could discover Cornelia at any moment, and I’d need to make my
escape before that. I sneaked down the servants’ staircase on the north side of
the house, not encountering anyone, to my relief. When I slipped into the hallway
leading outside, I surprised the housekeeper and the chauffer in the middle of
an amorous encounter. (Well! said
Grandma in a scandalized tone.) We stared at one other for a long moment, and
then the woman screamed. I ran, toppling an army of buckets and brooms as I
went. I heard the chauffer trip and curse behind me as I slammed the door shut.
I didn’t stop
running before we were in the cover of the woods, where I slumped down on a
fallen tree trunk, panting, and watched the house light up as if for a dance
party behind me. Come, child, we have a
ship to catch. You’ll like the old country, I’m certain of it, Grandma said
conversationally.
I would like the old country.
I got up and we melted into the night.
Jul 17, 2015
Going Nautical
After I visited the Pommern, I started writing a short story about The Flying Dutchman. It ended up being sci-fi, but fun nonetheless. Now I'm plotting a horror story set on an 1800s sailing ship. I'm thinking something . . . Lovecraftian.
To set the mood, here's an excerpt from Samuel Taylor Coleridge's The Rime of the Ancient Mariner courtesy of the Poetry foundation:
The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out;
At one stride comes the dark;
With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea,
Off shot the spectre-bark.
We listened and looked sideways up!
Fear at my heart, as at a cup,
My life-blood seemed to sip!
The stars were dim, and thick the night,
The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white;
From the sails the dew did drip—
Till clomb above the eastern bar
The hornèd Moon, with one bright star
Within the nether tip.
Fear at my heart, as at a cup,
My life-blood seemed to sip!
The stars were dim, and thick the night,
The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white;
From the sails the dew did drip—
Till clomb above the eastern bar
The hornèd Moon, with one bright star
Within the nether tip.
One after one, by the star-dogged Moon,
Too quick for groan or sigh,
Each turned his face with a ghastly pang,
And cursed me with his eye.
I'm off to have a nice and creepy weekend.
Source: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173253
Too quick for groan or sigh,
Each turned his face with a ghastly pang,
And cursed me with his eye.
I'm off to have a nice and creepy weekend.
Source: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173253
Jul 15, 2015
Etymology Expeditions: Dark and Stormy
I'm feeling nautical this week, so let's explore words related to the four winds and storms:
Tempest, from Old French tempeste (French: tempête), from Latin tempestas (“storm”), from tempus (“time, weather”), is apparently a storm with severe winds.
Hurricane, from Spanish huracán, ultimately from the name of the Taino storm god Juracán whom the Taínos believed dwelled on El Yunque mountain and, when he was upset, sent the strong winds and rain upon them. This one is pretty cool!
Cyclone, from Ancient Greek, from either κύκλος (kúklos, “circle, wheel”) or κυκλόω (kuklóō, “go around in a circle, form a circle, encircle”). This means a system off winds rotating around a low pressure system.
Typhoon probably ultimately of Sinitic origin, Mandarin 大风 (dàfēng, “big wind”), Cantonese 大風 (daai6 fung1, “big wind”), via Arabic طوفان (ṭūfān), Hindi तूफ़ान (tūfān), and Persian توفان (tufân). Ancient Greek Τυφῶν (Tuphôn, “Typhon, father of the winds”) is unrelated but has secondarily contaminated the word.
Ha, "big wind"! I love it! But seriously, I'd have sworn this was Greek in origin. Fascinating.
What about the four winds, then? They apparently go back to ancient Greece mythology and the Anemoi (greek for winds). The four main ones were:
Boreas (Septentrio from septum triones=seven oxen, the stars in Ursa Major in Latin) was the north wind and bringer of cold winter air. His name meant "North Wind" or "devouring one," and he was often depicted as a winged old man with shaggy hair, holding a conch shell and wearing a billowing cloak. The Greeks believed that his home was in Thrace, and Herodotus and Pliny both describe a northern land known as Hyperborea "Beyond the North Wind" where people lived to an old age in complete happiness.
According to Wikipedia, the etymology of Boreas in uncertain: theories include "boros", an old variant of "oros" (Greek for "mountains", which were to the north geographically), or "boros" meaning "voracious". There's also a phrase ἀπὸ τῆς βoῆς ("from the roar"), that could refer to its violent and loud noise
Zephyrus meaning from the west (zóphos, “darkness, west”)(Favonius, "favourable" in Latin) was the west wind, the messenger of spring, and the gentlest of the winds.He wa said to be the husband of Iris, the goddess of the rainbow. He apparently also had a love triangle with Boreas and a goddess called Chloris, and also a good-looking, athletic Spartan prince named Hyacinth and the god Apollo. When Apollo won, Zephyrus caused the boy's seat by a falling discus, and Apollo created the hyacinth flower from his blood. Gotta love those Greeks, right?
Notos "notios" "moist", a reference to the warm rains and storms brought from the south (Auster, from Proto-Indo-European *h₂ews- (“east”)) was the south wind and bringer of late summer storms.
Eurus from brightness Eos was the goddess of dawn, perhaps the same root (Subsolanus in Latin, something about under the sun, maybe? I couldn't find an exact etymology for this.), the east wind, was thought to bring warmth and rain, and his symbol was an inverted vase, spilling water.
Sources:
https://en.wiktionary.org
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anemoi
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Classical_compass_winds
Tempest, from Old French tempeste (French: tempête), from Latin tempestas (“storm”), from tempus (“time, weather”), is apparently a storm with severe winds.
Hurricane, from Spanish huracán, ultimately from the name of the Taino storm god Juracán whom the Taínos believed dwelled on El Yunque mountain and, when he was upset, sent the strong winds and rain upon them. This one is pretty cool!
Cyclone, from Ancient Greek, from either κύκλος (kúklos, “circle, wheel”) or κυκλόω (kuklóō, “go around in a circle, form a circle, encircle”). This means a system off winds rotating around a low pressure system.
Typhoon probably ultimately of Sinitic origin, Mandarin 大风 (dàfēng, “big wind”), Cantonese 大風 (daai6 fung1, “big wind”), via Arabic طوفان (ṭūfān), Hindi तूफ़ान (tūfān), and Persian توفان (tufân). Ancient Greek Τυφῶν (Tuphôn, “Typhon, father of the winds”) is unrelated but has secondarily contaminated the word.
Ha, "big wind"! I love it! But seriously, I'd have sworn this was Greek in origin. Fascinating.
What about the four winds, then? They apparently go back to ancient Greece mythology and the Anemoi (greek for winds). The four main ones were:
Boreas (Septentrio from septum triones=seven oxen, the stars in Ursa Major in Latin) was the north wind and bringer of cold winter air. His name meant "North Wind" or "devouring one," and he was often depicted as a winged old man with shaggy hair, holding a conch shell and wearing a billowing cloak. The Greeks believed that his home was in Thrace, and Herodotus and Pliny both describe a northern land known as Hyperborea "Beyond the North Wind" where people lived to an old age in complete happiness.
According to Wikipedia, the etymology of Boreas in uncertain: theories include "boros", an old variant of "oros" (Greek for "mountains", which were to the north geographically), or "boros" meaning "voracious". There's also a phrase ἀπὸ τῆς βoῆς ("from the roar"), that could refer to its violent and loud noise
Zephyrus meaning from the west (zóphos, “darkness, west”)(Favonius, "favourable" in Latin) was the west wind, the messenger of spring, and the gentlest of the winds.He wa said to be the husband of Iris, the goddess of the rainbow. He apparently also had a love triangle with Boreas and a goddess called Chloris, and also a good-looking, athletic Spartan prince named Hyacinth and the god Apollo. When Apollo won, Zephyrus caused the boy's seat by a falling discus, and Apollo created the hyacinth flower from his blood. Gotta love those Greeks, right?
Notos "notios" "moist", a reference to the warm rains and storms brought from the south (Auster, from Proto-Indo-European *h₂ews- (“east”)) was the south wind and bringer of late summer storms.
Eurus from brightness Eos was the goddess of dawn, perhaps the same root (Subsolanus in Latin, something about under the sun, maybe? I couldn't find an exact etymology for this.), the east wind, was thought to bring warmth and rain, and his symbol was an inverted vase, spilling water.
Sources:
https://en.wiktionary.org
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anemoi
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Classical_compass_winds
Jul 13, 2015
Archipelacon: Part 2
This post is less about Archipelacon and more about Mariehamn. It's a beautiful city with lots to see.
Here's a peacock from Lilla Holmen, a small island where you can go see bunnies, parrots, and chickens, in addition to the peacocks. (Did you know peacocks can fly, btw? I didn't, and then three of these did.)
Peacock posing.
I liked this sign. Mariehamn is a seaport, so that explains why it's in nautical miles.
This is the Pommern, a four-masted barque that was built in 1903 in Glasgow. She used to carry grain (among other things) from Australia to England until the second world war. After that she was donated to the town of Mariehamn as a museum ship. (You can read more here)
Did you know that when a storm hit the sailors would climb up the rigging every time a wave washed over the deck, and then make their way forward between waves? Pretty scary!
I wouldn't mind having dinner with the captain in here.
Here's a few newspapers I picked up at the con. They make cool props for photographs.
A final cosplay pic:) Here I am, steampunked up.
Jul 11, 2015
Losing Time
Ye gods.
I'm starting The Guermantes Way, the third volume of Marcel Proust's In Search of Lost Time. I've been able tosuffer through read one volume of this per year. Thing is, I kind of hate it. So far, nothing happens. Okay, the language is beautiful and the metaphors are inventive, I do like that part, but I just don't get this book. I don't find any of the characters very relatable, and some of them are so annoying that I just want to throw the book at the wall. There are some thoughts on the nature of time and memory that are interesting, but that's about it.
Why am I reading it then?
To learn something, I guess? Classics are classics for a reason, mostly. And this is one of my husband's favourite books. He's read the whole thing two or three times and is now starting to read it in the original French. (Quite a tall order on four years of night classes on the language.)
819 pages.
Guess I'd better get started.
I'm starting The Guermantes Way, the third volume of Marcel Proust's In Search of Lost Time. I've been able to
Why am I reading it then?
To learn something, I guess? Classics are classics for a reason, mostly. And this is one of my husband's favourite books. He's read the whole thing two or three times and is now starting to read it in the original French. (Quite a tall order on four years of night classes on the language.)
819 pages.
Guess I'd better get started.
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