In Fortune’s Uncertainty published in 1667, Charles Croke wrote, “Rudolphus therefore finding such an earnest invitation embrac’d it with thanks, and with servant and portmanteau, went to Don Juan’s; where they first found good stabling for their horses and afterwards as good provisions for themselves.”
So what the hell is a “portmanteau”? Maybe it means his “toilet” or perhaps “change for dinner”?
Where do these words come from, anyway? Who thinks them up? And is it a paying job? (more on this later)
Portmanteau. Let’s look it up. It means a heavy leather case that opens in half. OK, a suitcase. It sounds like something the 1st Class travelers would take on Trans-Atlantic crossings… but certainly not the folks in steerage.
The word is derived from the French porte, meaning to “carry” and manteau, meaning a coat. I guess the French thought that instead of wearing a coat you would put it in a suitcase and carry it… or at least this is what they led the English to believe.
The French recognized that the English were a stuffy people, and only the English would put into play a snobby sounding word: “portmanteau”, when there was already a perfectly serviceable word in existence: “suitcase.”
But there is more. Portmanteau has another completely different meaning. Portmanteau describes a word that is made up of two separate words that combine to create another word. Par example: “smog”. It’s a combination of “smoke” and “fog”. Or the “Pinotage” grape grown in South Africa is not only a cross breed of “Pinot Noir” and “Hermitage” grapes; but it is itself a portmanteau word.
Let’s consider another word. Here is the first sentence on page one of Anthony Burgess’ Earthly Powers, “It was the afternoon of my eighty-first birthday, and I was in bed with my catamite when Ali announced that the archbishop had come to see me.”
That might be the best first sentence of a book that I have ever read. In fact, Earthly Powers is the finest book I have ever read. It was just a bit disconcerting to have to look up a word before getting to sentence number 2. Looking up words became a repeated exercise in this exceptionally well written book. I have never had as much difficulty with vocabulary in book written in English.
OK… do you know what a “catamite” is? At the time of my reading, I certainly didn’t. It is a young boy kept for an older man’s pleasure.
The word is derived from the Latin catamitus, itself borrowed from the Etruscan catmite, which in turn was a corruption of the Greek Ganymede. From Greek mythology we know that Ganymede was the boy (the most beautiful of mortals) who was seduced by Zeus and became his beloved and cupbearer on Olympus. Cupbearer? Hmmmmm. Sounds like a “caddie”, or maybe this Ganymede fellah shlepped Zeus’ portmanteau?
And here I thought that Ganymede was a moon, or maybe one of King Lear’s Daughters?
It’s all confusing. Catamites carrying portmanteaus for Gods. I wonder if the Teamsters know about this?
Folks who study and compile words into a book (a dictionary) are called lexicographers. Verrius Flaccus composed the first known book of this sort during the rule of Augustus. Only parts of the book have survived to this day and regrettably the swear words have been omitted.
Today books of this nature abound.
Samuel Johnson’s Dictionary of English and the New Oxford Dictionary of English are considered to be the best of the early dictionaries.
The Concise Oxford Dictionary features shorter definitions. The entry for Armageddon is “You don’t want to know.”
Webster’s Dictionary I took that to college.
Webster’s Third International Dictionary this includes foreign words in common English usage. For example, agina is “What a teenaged daughter gives you.”
Webster’s New Universal Unabridged Dictionary this book, besides including all the swear words, since it’s truly universal in scope, includes swear words from other planets and galaxies and colloquial expressions for genitalia. For example, bledzhik is a hysterical term for a Klingon penis. Here is a sentence: Flarczx nug plav zhebitt fung getooch mich leben bledzhik! (man, that’s so funny… I have tears in my eyes!)
And who gets to be a lexicographer anyway? I bet it’s a government appointment… sort of like the Supreme Court… once you’re in, you’re in for life! Then you meet in groups, sit around in dimly lit rooms, surrounded by tons of books, globes and stuffed birds, wearing threadbare cardigans that smell from a combination of moth balls and stale pipe tobacco… and this is for both men and women. And their idea of excitement is to have a spirited debate about the correct pronunciation of plethora… which has to be called to a halt when one of the lexicographers has to leave the table because he or she is experiencing dizzy spells. And they get paid a lot of moolah!
Do you want to trust our language to people like that? Do you want to have catamites carrying around portmanteaus for the rest of your life? I don’t think so.
I think we need a new team, and a new dictionary… a dictionary with an agenda. We will call it the Ash Creek Discerning Dictionary or maybe the De Significatu Verborum. Here are the first two entries:
Troglodyte: “The person who presently occupies the Oval Office.”
Shit-Head: “The sneaky little bastard who always grabs the first guest spot at our Condo.”
Well, there it is… two down, and only 598,000 more entries to go. It looks like it’s going to be a long night.