Lots of delightful reading the past few weeks, and some interesting turns of phrase therein.
The Uncommon Reader (2007), an entertaining novel by Alan Bennett, is veddy, veddy English, concerning, as it does, the Queen herself. An expression struck me (so to speak), and, sure enough, it’s thoroughly British, deriving from the game of cricket.
The story’s partially fictionalized Queen takes up reading late in life, and her new obsession throws her courtiers and family off balance. Bennett, who starred with Jonathan Miller, Dudley Moore, and Peter Cook in the comedy ensemble Beyond the Fringe, and who wrote The Madness of King George and The History Boys, gets off lots of droll commentary on Brit lit and current events. His language is waggishly clever.
Because of her job, the Queen has always been adept at small talk. Meeting so many strangers, she’s developed the social skill of saying nothing but putting people at ease. Reading evokes a more curious side in her: she begins asking her subjects what they’re reading.
What? Is the Queen going to judge me if I’m reading the latest Sophie Kinsella? What if I’m not reading at all?’ Her interlocutors are tongue-tied. In their embarrassment, they resentfully suspect that the Queen has bowled them a wobbly.
“Bowling,” as it turns out, is what our baseball pitchers do, i.e., throwing. A “wobbly” is a pitch that wobbles as it approaches the batsman. Like baseball’s curveball or screwball, the wobbly confounds the batsman. The pitch’s physics is quite a science and quite a hot topic. See here to learn more.
I’m way behind the wicket, of course. Cricket is big everywhere, even in America, as this PBS Newshour story makes clear. At first, as I was reading, I bobbled Bennett’s wobbly and resorted to Google, but have now volubly cobbled some twaddle here to toggle your noggins.
My friend Leanne sent me an article about frisson as the word applies to musical enjoyment. In French, it means “shiver,” and its Latin root, frigere, means “to become cold,” as in the food in your Frigidaire.
Every now and then, English has to borrow a word in order to communicate a concept. Ennui, for example, is not exactly boredom and not exactly dissatisfaction. It conveys instead a world-weariness, or what the poet Charles Lloyd termed “pale unrest.” It’s a feeling of jadedness, like, you know, French people. Instead of using all those words to describe the experience, we borrowed ennui from France, and it does the trick.
Frisson is almost the opposite of ennui. It describes the feeling of surprised delight–chills or goosebumps–we can feel upon hearing a piece of music or having some other aesthetic experience. Back in the day, we could move the needle on a record (over and over again) to repeat “the good parts,” as my husband used to call them. Now we have to ask Alexa to play the whole song again.
Before now, I knew the word to mean a little thrill but had never heard it used in the context of music. The article links to a Spotify list (you can find many of the pieces on YouTube instead) of 715 pieces of music that give many people a frisson. The list’s diversity is cool, from Metallica to Mozart to Johnny Cash to a bunch of people I never heard of.
This afternoon as I baked cookies I was frisson-ing over several pieces of music I associate with the Christmas season, even though they’re not technically Christmas music. I first heard Respighi’s Ancient Airs and Dances at a December concert years ago with the late lamented Red, An Orchestra and have associated it with the holiday ever since. I love it so much that I sometimes have to sit down during my cookie baking to regain my composure. The Bergamasca movement in Suite No. 2 is one of many good parts. Turn it up loud.
I also listened to soprano Kathleen Battle’s version of Pie Iesu on one of our Christmas cds. It’s from Gabriel Faure’s Requiem, so it’s not specifically a Christmas piece, but it’s about Jesus, so there you go. I’m sure other singers’ renditions are just fine, but I’m partial to this one. I don’t use the word sublime very often, but it applies here. I wonder how often a frisson occurs not only because of the music but because of the performance. I note for instance that some commenters on the article cite not Simon and Garfunkel’s version of “The Sound of Silence,” but the band Disturbed’s performance, which is indeed awesome. Watch it to the end.
Finally, I connect Tchaikovsky’s Serenade for Strings to Christmas, because my husband played it at Christmas time in our first apartment on Fulton Road in Canton. Because he associated it with Christmas, I do too. It brings back our first Christmases together in that top floor place with our little Christmas trees and our old furniture and meager decorations. Also cookies. A nostalgic frisson.
I didn’t write about books over the weekend, because I’m still reading the Mozart biography and don’t have much to add to what I’ve said. Only about 200 pages to go.
The best thing about the experience is pausing now and then to watch and listen to a performance of a piece Mr. Swafford so beautifully describes. Yesterday I watched The Marriage of Figaro, which I had never seen, with the book alongside to untangle the twisty plot. What a treat that was.
So as we enter the gift-giving season, I bestow upon you one of the gems I’ve experienced, the Piano Concerto in D Minor, K. 466, performed by Mitsuko Uchida in Salzburg (Mozart’s hometown), no less. Curl up with a hot cup of tea or cocoa, snuggle under a blanket with your kitty cat, and watch her fingers fly.
I mentioned last week that I’m reading Mozart: The Reign of Love by Jan Swafford. I hope you didn’t expect me to have finished reading its 750+ pages by now. But I’m almost halfway! Time to share a few things I’ve learned so far.
One. Wolfgang’s father Leopold, a musician and composer, wrote and published a successful handbook for teachers and students in 1756, called Treatise on the Fundamental Principles of Violin Playing.
Two.Leopold, as many people know, was a hard taskmaster. He pinned his hopes on his brilliant son’s supporting him and the family, but Wolfgang as he matured had some bad luck with patrons and was not always practical or diplomatic. Despite his hectoring, Leopold in fact had saved up a nice nest egg from his travels with Wolfgang and his precocious sister Nannerl, a sizeable fund he kept secret from the children who had earned it for him.
Three. Wolfgang’s prodigious talents are well known, but the actual facts are always startling. In 1761, at the age of four, he began playing the clavier, his family’s keyboard instrument, mimicking the pieces he was hearing Nannerl play. Later that year, he began playing a piece his sister had never played; he began composing. He never stopped creating new music to the end of his life.
Four. In 1781, Wolfgang created a violin concerto (G Major, K. 379) between 11:00 pm and midnight the night before he performed it for the first time. He wrote out the violin part for a soloist and accompanied on keyboard from memory.
Five. Before Mozart, an opera’s libretto (the story and lyrics) was considered the salient aspect of an opera. The music was secondary. Wolfgang revised and collaborated on libretti more than previous composers, but after him–that is, after Ideomeneo, The Abduction from the Seraglio, Don Giovanni, The Magic Flute, and the rest–music, partnered gracefully with the libretto, superseded the story in importance.
I’ll close by quoting a chapter’s ending I particularly liked. It ushers in the massive changes in Mozart’s life as he moved to Vienna from Salzburg in 1781 at the age of 25.
[Mozart’s new friends] came to know an inexplicable force of nature who could rise from a luminous improvisation at the clavier for a round of meowing like a cat and leaping over the furniture. They would remember the myriad fancies and gaieties of the little man with an overlarge heard and a pale pockmarked face who was forever drumming on things, tapping his feet, jabbering away, but who might also grasp your hand and look at you with something profound, searching, and melancholy in his eyes. Even in company there was often an air about Mozart of being in his mind not quite there. At table he might sit silently and unseeing in the hubbub, clutching a napkin to his face and grimacing. In Vienna it was as if he lived onstage and off at the same time, a character in life’s tragicomedy but also outside it, watching, studying, gathering material from the world around him for the fabric of his art.
Some mysterious algorithm recently offered me a post about inosculation (in-ahs-cue-lay-shun), a naturally occurring grafting of trees. One tree seeming reaches out to another, and they grow into each other. They become conjoined organisms sharing nutrients and circulation.
All very interesting natural science, of course, but what you, as a reader of this blog, are no doubt wondering is, “Where does that word come from?” Inosculation derives from osculum, the Latin noun meaning “kiss.”
This history leads, as happens so often, to other interesting facts. Previous posts have explored linguistic diminutives, that is, words modified to express smallness or endearment. For example, a drum major struts in front of the band authoritatively, while a majorette, though skilled and athletic, is usually pretty and feminine. The –ette makes her so. We may dislike a cat, but a kitty? Not so much. Certain suffixes serve to make the ordinary noun small, unthreatening, and even charming.
So it is for osculum. It builds on the Roman word for “mouth,” that is, os. The -culum suffix makes the mouth small and cute and pursed. A kiss, in other words, is a “little mouth.” (Analogously, a homunculus is a “little man.”) In addition, I learned that sponges breathe through their oscula, their little mouths.
This article from the University of New Hampshire shows lovely images of tree osculation. It explains that when branches rub against each other, the bark wears away and then grows scar tissue, which can form a bond between the trees. This connection can even occur between trees of different species.
To my delight, this source also recounts the mythological story of Baucis and Philemon, one of my favorites told by Ovid in his Metamorphoses. The devoted elderly couple shared their meager resources with the gods Jupiter and Mercury, visiting in disguise. As a reward, the gods granted them the gift of dying together and spending eternity as two connected trees. Reading this beautiful tale, I have always imagined two trees with their trunks intertwined, but now I love imagining a deeper dependent connection. Inosculated trees share resources and support one another, as Baucis and Philemon would lovingly do throughout time.
The article also cites Rembrandt’s painting of the couple hosting the gods, which resides in the National Gallery in Washington, and works by the artist Arthur Rackham and the poet Thom Gunn, who calls the couple’s embrace a “wooden hug.” Wrong etymology, but lovely image nonetheless.
I recently realized that my current reading is a very weird mix. I’ll describe the books I’m reading in order–from the sublime to the ridiculous, literally.
The most ponderous is a 700+ page biography called Mozart: The Reign of Love by Jan Swafford, a musician and composer who’s also written biographies of Beethoven and Brahms. A few weeks ago we saw Milos Forman’s 1984 film Amadeus at Severance Hall, with the stunning soundtrack provided by the Cleveland Orchestra. Realizing that the film was fictionalized–poor Salieri, a contemporary composer did not actually murder Mozart–I wondered about Mozart’s childlike (not to say sophomoric) sense of fun, as well as the real story behind his father’s exploitation of his talent.
After a couple of weeks, I’m only about 250 pages in. Mozart in real life was even sillier and more scatological than Tom Hulce’s movie performance. Now and then I take a YouTube break to listen to whatever Mozart piece Swafford is describing. As you no doubt know, there’s a lot to listen to. Though Mozart died at age 35, he began composing music when he was five years old, and he could turn out a symphony in an afternoon. He and his music deserve all 750 pages.
In contrast to sunny Mozart, Edouard Leve’s novel Suicide is also in my current reading rotation. At only a little over 100 pages long, it’s also a contrast to Swafford’s tome. Leve, an author and photographer, born in 1965, committed suicide about ten days after he submitted the Suicide manuscript to his publisher in 2007. As you can imagine, a novelistic suicide note, essentially, appeals to readers’ morbid interest.
But I didn’t know this background when I requested the book. My book group was recently discussing Julie Otsuka’s novel The Swimmers, whose last chapter is written in second person; that is, it’s addressed to a you, ostensibly the daughter of the earlier chapters’ main character, an older woman with dementia. This narrative choice is very unusual. It happens that one of my favorite books, Winter Birds (1994) by Jim Grimsley, also has a second-person narration, where it represents the adult narrator addressing himself as a young boy. When I looked up second person narrators, I found Suicide, and that’s how it made it to my bookshelf. Suicide is as somber as you might imagine, well observed and powerful, but not exactly entertaining.
For occasional relief, I pick up Tears of the Giraffe, the second in a mystery series by Alexander McCall Smith. I recently enjoyed the first installment, The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. recommended by a YouTube influencer. These popular books feature a wise and charming Botswanan sleuth named Precious Ramotswe. Smith’s series runs to 23 volumes, which might become a more ambitious reading project even than Mozart.
On an even lighter note, I’m also reading Surely You Can’t Be Serious: The True Story of “Airplane” by the movie’s goofball creators Jerry Zucker, Jim Abrahams, and David Zucker, a recommendation from our friend Tim. I was attracted by the David Letterman quote on the back cover praising the movie and the prevalence of Letterman quotes inside as well. I like David Letterman. It seems Dave auditioned for the movie and didn’t get a part, which he, like the filmmakers, finds very amusing. Dave kept telling them, “I can’t act. I can’t act. I can’t act.” After his audition, they told him, “You’re right. You can’t act.” Dave says, “I was right, and we all ended up parting as friends. So it was a good time.”
An eclectic mix, to be sure. I usually don’t read four books at a time, but I’m liking them all.
I looked up this old post, which first appeared in 2014, because my niece Frances is working at the Dallas Museum of Art, which features an outdoor sculpture called “Ave” by Mark di Suvero. I wanted to share our family connection to the artist with her. Here’s the old post, updated a little, featuring di Suvero’s Dreambook as our Weekend Edition.
I’ve written here before about my dad’s experiences at the Rusk Institute of Rehabilitation Medicine in New York City. Brush-Moore Newspapers, the company that owned the Canton Repository, where my dad worked, sent him to the Institute a number of times for surgeries and rehab, after he became a paraplegic in the early fifties.
I’ve noted in other writing his close encounters with Roy Campanella, the Dodgers shortstop who, injured in a 1958 auto accident, became a paraplegic, and his relationship with Alger Hiss, who visited him regularly when he was in New York for a long stint. Dad entertained us in his letters and after he got home in person with stories about these people, as well as Dr. Howard Rusk, the pioneering doctor who founded the hospital, and also other doctors, nurses, aides, and regular folk he encountered there. One of the people he met at the Institute, as we called it, was the artist Mark di Suvero, who had been seriously injured in a construction accident.
My dad would have been in his fifties by the time they met, when di Suvero was a thirty-something young artist. I remember that his real name was Marco Polo di Suvero and that he was born in Shanghai to Italian parents. He had a beard and apparently wore turtleneck sweaters and was already part of the counter-culture as it was then developing. My dad had educated, liberal sensibilities, but was a straightforward Middle American who eschewed affectation and regarded most eccentricities suspiciously. So, he was bemused and intrigued by di Suvero and liked him, too, all at the same time. They continued to exchange letters after my dad returned home. As far as I know, they’ve been lost.
At some point, a couple of decades ago, my sisters and I checked into di Suvero and discovered that he was a prominent artist, with sculptures at museums and public places all around the world, including the nearby (to us) Akron Museum of Art, who owns his Eagle Wheel. A couple of weeks ago, I was thinking about Mark di Suvero and realized that in 2014 he probably had a website. Which he does, here.
I ferreted out the contact information and sent Mr. di Suvero a short email, wondering if he remembered my dad and expressed our appreciation to him as someone who befriended (and was befriended by) my dad in far-off New York. Soon after, I received a message, passed along by an assistant.
It begins, “I remember your father from more than 50 years ago. I liked him because he was a good man, intelligent, and he brought something positive to the climate of the room at Rusk.” He goes on to say that he’s still in touch with another roommate, a quadriplegic named Lenny, a name I recall, who played chess with my dad. Lenny recalls that he and my dad continued to play chess after they had graduated from Rusk. It’s true that my dad maintained chess games long-distance. He had a cool cardboard book with little cardboard chess pieces you could fit into slots; you communicated your plays to your antagonist via postcards. Those games, perforce, went on for months.
The message goes on: “I was forced by political conviction (anti-war) to leave the country so I lost contact with your father.” Interesting, this little division caused by the Vietnam War. My dad, too, opposed the war and disagreed with some friends and family and co-workers in doing so. He even grew a modest beard in the late sixties, but soon shaved it off, worried about those affectations I mentioned before. My dad read I.F. Stone’s Weekly and The New Republic and was way ahead of many college students, including me, in opposing the war.
Mr. di Suvero’s email message ends like this: “I am sure that he was one of the bright citizens and has made me think in a deeply positive sense of Canton, Ohio.” It’s a great thing to encounter someone who knew my dad, who was born in 1911 and died in 1971. Not many such people left.
At the end of his message, Mark di Suvero offers to send me aDreambook, a collection of photos of his work, which I’m waiting for, with great anticipation, now.
There’s nothing wrong with all these journeys, except that once you start noticing the word, it gets annoying. This is the nature of cliches. Instead of listening to the speaker, I start thinking, “You could say process, maybe, or adventure, or experience. How about undertaking or experiment?” Share your own creative substitutions in the comments.
Journey, like many cliches, began as an original and vivid metaphor. Think about the first time, for example, someone said she was head over heels in love. How startling is that image? Love turns you into Simone Biles spinning around upside down!
Except it’s not startling any more. It washes over you with no effect, because you’ve heard it so many times. The metaphor journey is the same. Originally, the word implied that your new venture felt like traveling, like you’re getting somewhere. Now it just sounds hackneyed and pretentious.
Journey itself has had an interesting journey through Western culture. The root is the Latin diurnus, meaning “daily,” which came from dies, meaning “day” (as in per diem). This evolved into the Old French word jornee, meaning “a day’s travel.” Journey, then, is related to the soup du jour on your menu and the journal in which you confide daily thoughts about your spiritual journey.
Interesting that journey by its very root once connoted a brief jaunt. Now it implies a longer voyage (or a rock band). Like a trip to the center of the earth, or like Sheila Burnford’s incredible chronicle about two lost dogs and a cat finding their way home. No longer a day trip, journey implies long and arduous effort, like, well, fitness, weight loss, and decluttering.
The Pringle is “a piece of malevolent technical genius, as a product deliberately designed to engineer obesity.” Chris Tulleken
An ultra-processed food (UPF), according to doctor and author Chris Tulleken, can be defined as a product wrapped in plastic and containing at least one ingredient that would not appear in an average home kitchen. My Morningstar Farms veggie burgers, for example, come in a plastic bag and contain wheat gluten, soy protein concentrate, calcium caseinate, and small amounts of methylcellulose, natural flavor, soy protein isolate, yeast extract, and xanthum gum. That’s why they taste so good.
That line is not a joke. In his new book Ultra-Processed People: The Science Behind Food That Isn’t Food, Tulleken writes, “Good cooks can enhance flavours (he’s British) and tastes by combining them, but I think UPF is the nutritional equivalent of speedballing.” Some additives, to be sure, increase shelf life, but many are engineered to mimic real flavors (I’m American) and textures cheaply. They insidiously tempt us to consume more product. Tulleken explains, “By speedballing different tastes and sensations, UPF can force far more calories into us than we could otherwise handle.”
To be sure, he’s writing about Coke in this passage, not veggie burgers, and I can’t say I’ve ever binged on veggie burgers, but the point is the same. Most of us are eating a lot of UPF, which is to say we’re eating a lot that isn’t food. Tulleken argues that this fact explains the British and American obesity epidemic now spreading worldwide, as well as many problems and deaths related to diabetes, heart disease, cancer, among other conditions. Sixty to eighty percent of the UK and USA diet consists of UPF. It’s not good for us.
Maybe try to cut down on your xanthum gum, for instance. It’s a “sugary slime” produced by the bacteria that creates black rot on vegetables. It’s used as a thickener. Xanthum gum feeds a new bacteria appearing in our gut, that is, a bacteria unknown in remote hunter-gatherer groups. Another new species of bacteria feeds on the byproducts of the first new species. Nobody knows the effects of these two new bacteria on our bodies, including our immune systems.
I frequently cook from scratch and eat a good amount of vegetables. I’m currently following a low-carb diet, which has managed to reduce my COVID-lockdown waistline. However, in my pantry currently are Ritz Crackers, McCormick Turkey Gravy mix, Nilla Wafers, Jello Vanilla Pudding Mix, and La Banderita Tortillas (mmm, xanthum gum!). All packaged in plastic, or something similar, and all containing a plethora of weird s—t.
I never imagined I would be a person writing on this topic, but Dr. Tulleken inspired me. He’s not only smart. He’s also funny and compassionate. (He deplores the stigma attached to being overweight, for example.) He makes no judgments on people and their choices. He merely provides information. I recommend his book.
This is the interview that made me request Ultra-Processed People from my local library.
Learning a word’s history at the same time as its meaning helps reinforce our understanding of the word and remember it more effectively. If you know, for example, that volition comes from the Latin word volo, meaning “wish,” you’re likely to remember that volition denotes relying on one’s will or choice, as in doing something of one’s own volition. Then the rarer, related word avolition is easy to decode, if you know that the Greek prefix a means “without,” as in amoral. Avolition, used in psychology, describes a profound lack of motivation, literally “without wishing,” a disinclination to, well, do anything.
Encountering two unfamiliar words in recent New Yorker magazines (I thought), I checked out their etymologies to help me comprehend and retain their meanings. Cynthia Ozick’s story “A French Doll” (7/2423) includes the word ukase. Its meaning is “command” or “edict,” but I had to know where that weird-looking word is from. In Russian, ukaz is a decree issued by the emperor. Because the story concerns Jewish immigrants in the Bronx, many of them Russian, that unusual and interesting word is apropos.
The second unfamiliar word appears not in a New Yorker short story (although I just reread an entire story trying in vain to find it), but in an online interview with author T. Coraghessan Boyle about his story “The End Is Only the Beginning” (8/14/2023). The story concerns the randomness of Covid and the randomness of fate. His main character, Boyle explains to his interviewer in a remarkable sentence, “is not me, or not entirely, but a shadowy simulacrum existing not in our terrifyingly stochastic world but in the orderly paginated one I have created in order to work out my own anxieties.” As it happens, I’m familiar with simalacrum and paginated, but not stochastic, which means “random” or “unpredictable.” This Greek-derived word, which appeared first in English in 1662, related originally to probability; its Greek root means “to aim at a mark, to conjecture, to guess.” Later writers have used it to mean “random.”
I was interested to see that the term, as many of you smart people probably know, is used in mathematics, natural science, physics, computer science, finance, linguistics, medicine, music, and other studies, including geomorphology. Regarding that last science, in case you wanted to know, the direction of a river’s meanderings has been studied as a stochastic process.
Some readers might be annoyed at T. Coraghessan Boyle’s tossing about of such rare and recondite words. Words that you have to look up, at least if you’re me. But at one time all words were unfamiliar to us. How else do we learn new ones? I ask you. And if you read the story, which I recommend, you’ll see that “our terrifyingly stochastic world” encapsulates his story in four perfect words.
