The Oxford Dictionary of New Words

National Review, March 16, 1992 by John Simon

WHERE IS IT written that a dictionary must be boring? Does the birth of a future lexicographer elicit a scene such as Dryden imagined at the birth of Shadwell: "The midwife laid her hand on his thick skull,/With the prophetic blessing: Be thou dull!"? Granted, compiling lists of words along with definitions and etymologies does not invite belly laughs. But as long as there is a chance to comment, speculate, and evaluate--as afforded by many dictionaries and lexicons--there is no reason for hiding the erudition, style and wit of the editor. Provided, of course, that he or she has them.

There have been some entertaining lexicographers and stimulating dictinaries: Fowler's Modern English Usage, Sir Ernest Gower's Complete Plain Words, Eric Partridge's many tomes, Wilson Follett's Modern American Usage, B. A. Phythian's A Concise Dictionary of Correct English, J.D. Cuddon's A Dictionary of Literary Terms and Literary Theory, Kenneth Hudson's The Dictionary of Diseased English leap to mind. There are others as well, but how few compared to the legions of earnest, ponderously pedantic works that seen more inviting to dust than to readers.

To be sure, certain types of dictionaries preclude levity or wit. Samuel Johnson himself managed it only very intermittenly, and by the time we come to the mighty Oxford English Dictionary, whose purpose is to be the linguistic court of last resort, light-heartedness would be out of place. This is not the fault of the lexicographers: R. W. Burchfield, the editor of the magnificent but sedate A Supplement to the Oxford English Dictionary, can be very witty in his other books, but the mighty four-volume Supplement is not the place for smiles and idiosyncrasies. Conversely, a book that calls itself The Dictionary of Diseased English almost has to be amusing. So we find in it, under mouthwatering, a remark such as "Restaurant menus have a way of being more mouthwatering than the food itself, as many an eater has found to his cost."

If your dictionary is one of "Correct English," wit is harder to introduce, yet Phythian does it effortlessly; perhaps having to grow up with a name like his makes you develope wit in self-defense. Take Phythian on hopefully:". . . The increasingly common habit of using it in such contexts ["a context" would be better] as Hopefully, the weather will remain fine is absurd, because the weather is incapable of remaining fine while full of hope. . . ." Contrast this with the depressing descriptivism or permissiveness of Webster's Dictionary of English Usage, which after three and a half pages of waffling about hopefully concludes, "You can use it if you need it, or avoid it if you do not like it."

I give you all this as the briefest of brief introductions to the two main issues in lexicography: descriptiveness versus prescriptivness, factuality versus individuality. Where exactly on the scale between strictness and latitudinarianism, between impersonality and flavorousness, does The Oxford Dictionary of New Words, compiled by Sara Tulloch, fit in? The ODNW, as I shall call it, even though it isn't a comfortable acronym, describes itself in two different ways. On the jacket, as "a language lover's guide to the origin and definition of over two thousand words and meanings that have become popular/current in the English language in the last decade"; on the title page, as "a popular guide to words in the news."

Now, these are hardly identical kettles of fish. A language lover's guide is something, if not for scholars, who may be too blase to be lovers, at least for aficionados: educated, enlightened enthusiasts. But a popular guide is something for everyone, washed or unwashed, who wants some quick, simple information. Conforming to the latter notion, every entry in the ODNW sports a pictogram or "subject icon," whose purpose is to clue you in instantly about the type of word you're looking at. Thus if the icon following the bold-faced entry is a syringe, the word discussed pertains to the category Drugs. If it's a tree, the category is Environment. A graph is the icon for Business World; a spread-eagled homunculus denotes the Health & Fitness category. The sun represents Lifestyle & Leisure; a semiquaver stands for Music, but combined with another icon, a girl with a ponytail (the icon for Youth Culture), it signifies pop and rock music. A ballot box denotes Politics; two black faces in profile framing a white one are the symbol for People & Society; Science & Technology is marked by a computer; War & Weaponry gets an explosion.

These icons throw the ODNW tidily into the "popular guide" category. The scientifically oriented need not get involved with something having to do with music; persons interested in business can steer clear of environmental matters. Would it not be better to make users of the book read through an entire entry, and so learn something about new words and trends in the language outside their area of specialization? Why not let them find out that mousse in its newest sense has nothing to do with sunbathing or cookery, but refers to "a frothy mixture of oil and sea-water" that develops "after an oil spill and . . . is very difficult to disperse"? And why be forewarned that tonepad has nothing to do with music and so fail to learn a bit of electronics? A dictionary should encourage broadening, not narrowness.