During Senior Disorientation 2.0 the other weekend, I found myself at McFadden’s. As I sipped a rail drink in the roped off, Georgetown-only section of D.C.’s “douchiest” bar, I wondered if my roommates might accompany me to the main area to be among the “hoi polloi,” as I jokingly put it. “The what?” one shot back. While I explained the meaning of the phrase (Greek for “the many” or “the masses”), I was aware that this type of interaction had happened before.
Occasionally I will be in conversation, and something abstruse will come out of my mouth, usually having to do with Latin or Greek etymology. My latest insight will be greeted with puzzlement and then, more likely than not, derision.
I am fine with derision. In fact, I think it’s healthy. Derision is the mark of a true friend, preventing me from taking myself too seriously and from sounding—dare I say it—like an arrogant tool. So thank you, friends, for holding me back from the abyss of bombast.
Now back to etymology. The study of the origin of words has always been full of wonders, which is why it tends to creep into my daily conversations. Be recognizing the root of a word, a deeper meaning is revealed to us. This deeper meaning is everywhere, waiting to be unlocked.
Take the word “lacuna,” for example. We use it synonymously with “gap,” as in, “There were various lacunae in his understanding.” The fun part begins now: “lacuna” is derived from the Latin lacus, which means lake or reservoir. With this little bit of etymological knowledge, we can visualize a gap in understanding as a large body of water, emphasizing the depth of comprehension the person in question is apparently lacking. In this way, etymology enriches language.
Since we have only just begun to explore the treasures to which etymology holds the key, I will present another example. Let’s go with another “L” word: “laconic.” Gerard Butler’s chiseled abs in the movie 300 and the words molon labe (“Come and take”) come to mind. Is that weird? Not really, if we realize that “laconic,” meaning concise or short, comes from the Greek lakonikos, meaning “of Laconia.” Of course we all know the capital of Laconia was Sparta, and if Sparta is not synonymous with Gerard Butler’s chiseled abs, I don’t know what is.
Clearly, the root of a word actually illustrates the meaning of that word. This is fascinating stuff. But there is more.
My penchant for etymology reflects a never-ending search for cohesion in life generally. Discovering, unlocking, revealing—these words I use to describe etymology represent a larger search for meaning in which we all take part. Sure, I bet most of us are too busy to hang around all day like Rodin’s Thinker, pondering the great questions, but we busy ourselves with those activities, classes, and jobs precisely because we find them meaningful (at least I hope we do). We may be born to die, but by continuing to live, to strive, and to love, we stubbornly refuse meaninglessness.
I am aware that Ancient Greece, and therefore the Greek language, did not exist prior to the 8th or 9th century BCE, making my trust in etymology for the source of meaning a shaky one. Greek and Latin are constructions, like any other language, implying that etymology has no absolute meaning. But what is absolute? Is anything absolute? Here, the slope gets slippery.
Veering dangerously close to the realm of metaphysics, I will say this: we find meaning through and in our choices. Whatever meaning there can be will be found within ourselves and within our constructions. But if constructions are just that—objects or systems crafted by a being destined to die—where is the absolute meaning in all of this? Great question. Here’s a better question: what other living organism is fully conscious of its own certain death, yet continues to work as though it will be around for longer than a millisecond in the grand scheme of the universe? The entire human situation is one of absurdity. We have two alternatives: die or fashion something meaningful.
While you wonder how I began this piece with a McFadden’s anecdote, only to leave you with an attempt at profundity, I will return to etymology: my rejection of meaninglessness.
Bravo!