and
wonky
. None are what Cawdrey would have seen as “hard, usual words,” and none are anywhere near Murray’s well-defined center, but they now belong to the common language. Even
bada-bing:
“Suggesting something happening suddenly, emphatically, or easily and predictably; ‘Just like that!’, ‘Presto!’ ” The historical citations begin with a 1965 audio recording of a comedy routine by Pat Cooper and continue with newspaper clippings, a television news transcript, and a line of dialogue from the first
Godfather
movie: “You’ve gotta get up close like this and bada-bing! you blow their brains all over your nice Ivy League suit.” The lexicographers also provide an etymology, an exquisite piece of guesswork: “Origin uncertain. Perh. imitative of the sound of a drum roll and cymbal clash. Perh. cf. Italian
bada bene
mark well.”
The English language no longer has such a thing as a geographic center, if it ever did. The universe of human discourse always has backwaters. The language spoken in one valley diverges from the language of the next valley, and so on. There are more valleys now than ever, even if the valleys are not so isolated. “We are listening to the language,” said Peter Gilliver, an
OED
lexicographer and resident historian. “When you are listening to the language by collecting pieces of paper, that’s fine, but now it’s as if we can hear everything said anywhere. Take an expatriatecommunity living in a non-English-speaking part of the world, expatriates who live at Buenos Aires or something. Their English, the English that they speak to one another every day, is full of borrowings from local Spanish. And so they would regard those words as part of their idiolect, their personal vocabulary.” Only now they may also speak in chat rooms and on blogs. When they coin a word, anyone may hear. Then it may or may not become part of the language.
If there is an ultimate limit to the sensitivity of lexicographers’ ears, no one has yet found it. Spontaneous coinages can have an audience of one. They can be as ephemeral as atomic particles in a bubble chamber. But many neologisms require a level of shared cultural knowledge. Perhaps
bada-bing
would not truly have become part of twenty-first-century English had it not been for the common experience of viewers of a particular American television program (though it is not cited by the
OED
).
The whole word hoard—the lexis—constitutes a symbol set of the language. It is the fundamental symbol set, in one way: words are the first units of meaning any language recognizes. They are recognized universally. But in another way it is far from fundamental: as communication evolves, messages in a language can be broken down and composed and transmitted in much smaller sets of symbols: the alphabet; dots and dashes; drumbeats high and low. These symbol sets are discrete. The lexis is not. It is messier. It keeps on growing. Lexicography turns out to be a science poorly suited to exact measurement. English, the largest and most widely shared language, can be said very roughly to possess a number of units of meaning that approaches a million. Linguists have no special yardsticks of their own; when they try to quantify the pace of neologism, they tend to look to the dictionary for guidance, and even the best dictionary runs from that responsibility. The edges always blur. A clear line cannot be drawn between word and unword.
So we count as we can. Robert Cawdrey’s little book, making no pretense to completeness, contained a vocabulary of only 2,500. We possessnow a more complete dictionary of English as it was circa 1600: the subset of the
OED
comprising words then current. ♦ That vocabulary numbers 60,000 and keeps growing, because the discovery of sixteenth-century sources never ends. Even so, it is a tiny fraction of the words used four centuries later. The explanation for this explosive growth, from 60,000 to a million, is not simple. Much of
wonky
. None are what Cawdrey would have seen as “hard, usual words,” and none are anywhere near Murray’s well-defined center, but they now belong to the common language. Even
bada-bing:
“Suggesting something happening suddenly, emphatically, or easily and predictably; ‘Just like that!’, ‘Presto!’ ” The historical citations begin with a 1965 audio recording of a comedy routine by Pat Cooper and continue with newspaper clippings, a television news transcript, and a line of dialogue from the first
Godfather
movie: “You’ve gotta get up close like this and bada-bing! you blow their brains all over your nice Ivy League suit.” The lexicographers also provide an etymology, an exquisite piece of guesswork: “Origin uncertain. Perh. imitative of the sound of a drum roll and cymbal clash. Perh. cf. Italian
bada bene
mark well.”
The English language no longer has such a thing as a geographic center, if it ever did. The universe of human discourse always has backwaters. The language spoken in one valley diverges from the language of the next valley, and so on. There are more valleys now than ever, even if the valleys are not so isolated. “We are listening to the language,” said Peter Gilliver, an
OED
lexicographer and resident historian. “When you are listening to the language by collecting pieces of paper, that’s fine, but now it’s as if we can hear everything said anywhere. Take an expatriatecommunity living in a non-English-speaking part of the world, expatriates who live at Buenos Aires or something. Their English, the English that they speak to one another every day, is full of borrowings from local Spanish. And so they would regard those words as part of their idiolect, their personal vocabulary.” Only now they may also speak in chat rooms and on blogs. When they coin a word, anyone may hear. Then it may or may not become part of the language.
If there is an ultimate limit to the sensitivity of lexicographers’ ears, no one has yet found it. Spontaneous coinages can have an audience of one. They can be as ephemeral as atomic particles in a bubble chamber. But many neologisms require a level of shared cultural knowledge. Perhaps
bada-bing
would not truly have become part of twenty-first-century English had it not been for the common experience of viewers of a particular American television program (though it is not cited by the
OED
).
The whole word hoard—the lexis—constitutes a symbol set of the language. It is the fundamental symbol set, in one way: words are the first units of meaning any language recognizes. They are recognized universally. But in another way it is far from fundamental: as communication evolves, messages in a language can be broken down and composed and transmitted in much smaller sets of symbols: the alphabet; dots and dashes; drumbeats high and low. These symbol sets are discrete. The lexis is not. It is messier. It keeps on growing. Lexicography turns out to be a science poorly suited to exact measurement. English, the largest and most widely shared language, can be said very roughly to possess a number of units of meaning that approaches a million. Linguists have no special yardsticks of their own; when they try to quantify the pace of neologism, they tend to look to the dictionary for guidance, and even the best dictionary runs from that responsibility. The edges always blur. A clear line cannot be drawn between word and unword.
So we count as we can. Robert Cawdrey’s little book, making no pretense to completeness, contained a vocabulary of only 2,500. We possessnow a more complete dictionary of English as it was circa 1600: the subset of the
OED
comprising words then current. ♦ That vocabulary numbers 60,000 and keeps growing, because the discovery of sixteenth-century sources never ends. Even so, it is a tiny fraction of the words used four centuries later. The explanation for this explosive growth, from 60,000 to a million, is not simple. Much of
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