Tag: Usage

Q: I find that the use of the verb “resonate” (as in “Senator Obama’s speeches resonate with the public”) is so ubiquitous as to be nauseating. Do you agree?

A: “Resonate” is indeed so overused that it appears to have lost all meaning. It’s particularly noticeable in political writing and in criticism – especially in book reviews!

The literal meaning of the noun “resonance” – sound prolonged or reinforced by synchronous vibration – was once very powerful when applied figuratively to something that strikes a chord, as it were, within the human breast.

But the figurative use of “resonate” and “resonance” has been beaten to death and trivialized. You might say the resonance has died away!

In case you’re interested, the verb “resonate” appeared in print for the first time in an 1873 book about sound and harmony: “The wires of the corresponding note will of course resonate with it.”

Over the next century, it seems to have been used primarily in its technical sense. The first figurative use in the Oxford English Dictionary is from a 1976 article in Publishers Weekly about prose “resonating with illustrations.”

The noun “resonance,” a much earlier word, dates from the late 15th century. Both words have their roots in the Latin verb resonare, meaning to resound. But neither one is a resounding success these days.

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Q: When editing other people’s writing, I often encounter a sentence like this: “Most important, we should consider these issues at our meeting.” I prefer “importantly,” but many erudite writers believe otherwise. Any comments?

A: A while back, the New Yorker published an article with a sentence beginning, “And, most important, in 1969 it hired as its managing director….” Some daily newspapers (we won’t say which ones) might have begun it this way: “And, most importantly, in 1969….”

Purists (and there are none so pure as the editors of the New Yorker) prefer the adjective “important” to the adverb “importantly” here, since “importantly” could conceivably be interpreted as modifying the verb “hired.”

In other words, somebody (though we can’t imagine who) might take an “-ly” version of that New Yorker clause to mean “it importantly hired,” which makes little sense. The literal meaning is this: “And [what is] most important [is that] in 1969 it hired….”

We once shunned “importantly” ourselves. But we now believe that it is legitimately used as a sentence adverb — an adverb that modifies an entire statement rather than a single verb.

Similar sentence adverbs are “fortunately,” “obviously,” “generally,” and even “hopefully,” which we’re sure the New Yorker would avoid at all costs.

Although we regard “importantly” as a legitimate sentence adverb when used unambiguously, we don’t use it ourselves. It’s vastly overused, it’s graceless, and it’s clumsy, especially in a sentence where it might have a literal meaning.

Example: “Importantly, she acts the role of Lady Catherine de Bourgh.” How does one interpret “importantly” in that sentence? Is it important that she’s acting the role or is she acting like her self-important character?

This is all a very windy way of saying the usage in the New Yorker is correct, but these days so is “importantly.”

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Q: My pet peeve: “The reason is because!” Very few speakers use the proper construction. It drives me up a wall!

A: The construction is widely considered to be poor usage, but it’s a no-no that’s widely committed. Usage experts frown on it (and I see that you do too!).

“Because” is primarily a conjunction, and it’s used in the same sense as “since” or “for the reason that.” So a sentence like “The reason is because he’s an only child” is considered redundant.

Since “for the reason that” is built into the word “because,” you’re just repeating yourself. It’s like saying “the reason is for the reason that he’s an only child.”

Sometimes, however, people assume that it’s wrong to use ANY construction with “is because,” as in: “That is because he’s an only child.” There’s nothing wrong with that.

It also wouldn’t be unusual to use “is for the reason that” in the same way (“That is for the reason that he’s an only child”). A bit wordy, but correct usage.

And it wouldn’t be unusual to use “is because of” (as in “That is because of his age”). The phrase “because of” acts as a preposition, and it’s used in the same sense as “on account of” or “by reason of.”

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Q: Would you do a piece on the misuse of “epicenter,” a pet peeve of mine? The epicenter of an earthquake is the point on the earth’s surface that corresponds to the quake’s center, which is actually beneath the surface. The word is now used to mean the very center of something, as in “the epicenter of the AIDS epidemic.”

A: Strictly speaking, “epicenter” is a geological term describing the point at the earth’s surface that’s directly above the underground focus of an earthquake. (The underground focus of a quake is called the “hypocenter.”)

But you’ll be disappointed to learn that a fuzzier figurative use of “epicenter” is now accepted as standard English, according to both Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary (11th ed.) and The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language (4th ed.)

Figuratively, “epicenter” simply means the focal point or center of some event or situation. American-Heritage, however, says this figurative use generally involves “dangerous, destructive, or negative” situations.

Eight-two percent of the A-H Usage Panel approves of the figurative use of “epicenter” in reference to dangerous situations, but only 61 percent accepts its use in positive or neutral contexts.

So these usage mavens would overwhelmingly accept a phrase like “the epicenter of the AIDS epidemic,” but they would not quite so overwhelmingly accept one like “the epicenter of Paris Hilton’s social life.”

Speaking of “epi” words, there’s also confusion about “epidemic” as opposed to “endemic” and the much-abused “pandemic.”

A disease is “epidemic” when it becomes widespread within a specific community or population at a particular time. It’s “endemic” when it exists all the time in (or is native to) a given community or population. It’s “pandemic” when it spreads throughout a country or a continent or the world.

An easy way to remember: the prefix “epi” means upon or close to; “en” means in or within; “pan” means all.

I think newscasters and writers love to use “pandemic” because they think it’s scarier than “epidemic,” which I suppose it is!

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Q: Is “vacuum power” or “power vacuum” the right way to refer to the absence of an authority figure in the workplace?

A: It’s “power vacuum” when you’re using the expression in a political, business, or similar sense. It’s “vacuum power” when you mean the sucking ability of a Hoover, a Eureka, or an Electrolux.

The political usage first appeared in print, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, in a 1941 issue of the Journal of Politics.

Here’s the quotation: “The world of the Eastern European minor powers was, politically speaking, a power-vacuum which depended for its continued existence on a balance of the surrounding great powers.”

The noun “vacuum,” meaning an empty space, first appeared in print in the 16th century in the religious writings of Thomas Cranmer, an Archbishop of Canterbury who was executed for heresy.

“Naturall reason abhorreth vacuum,” he wrote, “that is to say, that there shoulde be any emptye place, wherin no substance shoulde be.”

Speaking of which, I’ve discovered an “emptye place” in the OED that needs filling: There’s no published reference for the expression “vacuum power.”

The noun itself, which comes from the Latin vacuum (meaning empty), has been used in reference to the electrical floor cleaner since the early 20th century.

Here’s an OED citation from a 1907 issue of Yesterday’s Shopping: “The ‘Witch’ Dust Extractor is a vacuum cleaner suitable alike for carpets, upholstery, clothing, &c.”

I know of a few dust balls in need of extraction!

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Q: Which is correct: a social “deviate” or a social “deviant”?

A: Either one. They’re both standard English, according to Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary (11th ed.), The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language (4th ed.), and the Oxford English Dictionary.

The verb “deviate,” meaning to stray or turn aside or depart from accepted norms, dates from 1635, according to the OED. It comes from the Latin deviare, which means, more or less, to go off the road – it includes via, meaning road.

The adjectives “deviate” and “deviant,” which originally meant remote or different, weren’t used in the modern sense to describe abnormal behavior until the 20th century.

The first modern citation for the adjective “deviate” used this way is in a 1945 report on children in South Africa: “If the reaction of the individual is in conflict with the generally accepted manner of reaction or differs from it in a striking way, such behaviour is deviate.”

The earliest citation for “deviant” in this sense, according to the OED, is from a 1935 book about sex and temperament that says “deviant men often choose deviant women” for marriage.

The words “deviate” and “deviant” can also be nouns, meaning a person who strays from normal standards of behavior. As nouns, they’re relatively new, entering English only in the 20th century.

Sorry if I’ve deviated too far from your original question!

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Q: Announcers on NPR pronounce “divisive” to rhyme with “missive,” while Barack Obama pronounces it, as I do, to rhyme with “incisive.” I await your pronouncement!

A: The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language (4th ed.) lists only one pronunciation, with a long “i” (as in “vice”) in the middle syllable.

However, Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary (11th ed.) lists a second choice, with a short “i” (as in “vista”) in the middle syllable.

It’s been my experience that this second variant is primarily heard in Britain, and that the pronunciation with the long “i” is much more common in the US.

But the online version of the Longman Dictionary of Contemporary English gives only the long “i” pronunciation for both UK and US English.

The Oxford English Dictionary, which agrees with Longman on the pronunciation of “divisive,” traces the word back to an English translation of Plutarch in 1603. The word is ultimately derived from the Latin divisus, or division.

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Q: Do you think “as,” “as if,” and “as though” are completely lost in favor of “like”?

A: No, at least not yet, but the ground is shifting. In casual conversation, “like” is gaining on “as” and its cousins “as if” and “as though.”

In more formal writing and speeches, however, the rule is still that “as” should introduce a clause – a group of words with both a subject and a verb.

Here’s an example from my grammar book Woe Is I: “Homer tripped, as anyone would.” If no verb follows, “like” is correct: “Homer walks like a duck.”

As for “as if” and “as though,” their job is generally to introduce clauses that are hypothetical or contrary to fact: “She eats chocolate as if it’s going out of style.” I’m sometimes asked if there’s any difference between them. The answer is no.

I’m also asked if “as though” has gone the way of the dinosaurs. Not at all, though it may be a bit more literary sounding than “as if.” Centuries ago, “if” was a lesser meaning of “though,” a now-obscure usage that survives in “as though.”

Getting back to “as” vs. “like,” when you want to be grammatically correct, just think of the old cigarette ad (“Winston tastes good like a cigarette should”) and do the opposite. But on more relaxed occasions, it’s OK to join the crowd and do as you like.

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Q: As a teacher of English, speech, and theater, I have a good ear for pronunciation. For years I have heard people, often media announcers, pronounce the word “episode” as if it were “effisode.” My wife says I’m hearing things. Is this an acceptable pronunciation?

A: I’ve never come across this weird pronunciation (“effisode”). At any rate, it’s not an acceptable pronunciation of the word “episode.”

I did some etymological detective work to see whether it has ever been standard English to pronounce the “p” of “episode” with an “f” sound. The answer: nope!

We borrowed the word in the 17th century from the French épisode, which was borrowed in turn from the Greek epeisodion, meaning an addition, according to The Barnhart Concise Dictionary of Etymology.

In ancient times, an episod was a commentary (i.e., an addition) between two songs by the chorus in a Greek tragedy.

The first published reference for the word in the Oxford English Dictionary, dating from 1678, refers to the “episods” in a Greek tragedy, but the term was soon being used for all kinds of digressions.

For example, Oliver Goldsmith, in his comic play She Stoops to Conquer (1773), refers to “the terrors of a formal courtship, together with the episode of aunts, grandmothers and cousins.”

The use of “episode” in the modern sense of a film, radio, or TV installment dates from 1915, when the magazine Motion Picture World referred to “the second episode” of A Voice From the Wilderness.

As far as I can tell, the “p” sound was a “p” sound from ancient to modern times. Maybe your wife is right and you are hearing things! In case you’re not, though, I’ll keep my ears open and let you know if I hear anything.

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Q: I know “fewer” refers to something you can count and “less” to something uncountable. However, what do you say in a sentence like this: “Fewer [or “Less”] than half of the graduates are present today.” In this case, are you talking about the graduates or are you referring to the fraction?

A: Strictly speaking, as you know, “fewer” should refer to plural nouns (“fewer kittens”) and “less” to singular nouns (“less milk”). But a weakness of “fewer” can be seen with percentages and fractions.

Should we say “less than five percent of the people” or “fewer than five percent of the people”? “Less than half of the graduates” or “fewer than half of the graduates”?

The answer isn’t black and white. I think (and Garner’s Modern American Usage agrees) that in these cases “less” is better.

The phrase “half of the graduates” is closer to a collective mass noun than to a collection of individuals counted up. So I’d suggest “less than half of the graduates.”

There are intelligent arguments for “fewer,” but “less” would be my choice, since percentages and fractions suggest quantity rather than counted individuals.

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Q: During your recent discussion on WNYC about two-faced words, you mentioned that “to screen” can mean either to show something to be viewed or to hide it from view. Here’s an additional meaning: to print something. Since Andy Warhol, this term has gained usage. Yes, I am a screen printer!

A: Thanks for your comments. I was discussing contronyms, words that are their own opposites, so I mentioned only two contradictory meanings of “to screen.”

There are, of course, quite a few other meanings for the verb, including to protect or shelter, to cover a military movement, to sift, to search for a disease, and to examine for admission.

The first published reference in the Oxford English Dictionary for the verb “screen” used in printing comes from R. Randolph Karch’s Graphic Arts Procedures (1948): “Both type matter and illustrations are screened.”

The first citation that refers to screening a motion picture is in a 1913 issue of Writer’s Magazine: “Because you fail to see your story, in spite of the fact that you see others of the same type screened, will not be proof that editors are prejudiced against you.”

And the earliest reference for “screen” used to mean hide from view dates from 1686. In a book about celestial bodies, John Goad wrote that clouds “shall skreen the Sun from us.” In other words, an early sunscreen!

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[An updated and expanded post about the pronunciation of “primer” appeared on Aug. 10, 2015.]

Q: An announcer on PBS recently offered a primer (the book, not the paint) as a gift for a contribution. He pronounced “primer” with a short “i” (as in “dimmer”). It sounded funny to me. I always use a long “i” (as in “climber”). Are both acceptable?

A: The “primer” that means an elementary reading book or an instructional guide rhymes with “trimmer” (short “i”). It comes from the Latin primarium, meaning a prayer book or devotional manual, and it entered English in the 14th century.

The “primer” that’s an undercoat of paint rhymes with “timer” (long “i”). It entered English in the 17th century, through the verb “prime” (16th century) and the earlier noun “priming” (15th century). We got it from the Latin primus, meaning first.

The pronunciations I’ve given are standard American usage. You’ll find them in both Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary (11th ed.) and The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language (4th ed.).

Although the Latin roots of each word are ultimately related, in English these are two separate and distinct words: different meanings, different pronunciations, and different dictionary entries.

Vive la différence!

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[Note: An updated post on this subject was published on May 22, 2017.]

Q: David Paterson, the new governor of New York, says he had a relationship with “someone” on the public payroll, but he didn’t supervise “them.” I hear this usage from time to time. I also hear “them” used instead of “him or her.” Since when has “them” become a substitute for a singular pronoun or phrase?

A: Not in the near future! The singular “they” or “them” or “their” has been considered wrong for a couple of centuries, and it’s still a no-no in formal English. But the governor, whose grammatical relationships have come into question before on the blog, is one of millions who adulterate the language this way.
 
That’s the way things stand now, despite all the interesting history, leaving the careful writer with the task of finding an acceptable alternative to the singular “they.”

It’s become so common that only a few of us diehards notice anymore! That doesn’t make it right, though. “They,” “them,” and “their” are not legitimate singular pronouns, according to nearly all usage and style guides. And I don’t like using “he or she” and “him or her,” either.

To be fair, I should mention that it was once OK to use “they” to refer to indefinite pronouns like “anyone,” “anybody,” “nobody,” and “someone.”

The Oxford English Dictionary has published references for this usage going back to the 16th century. Here’s one from Henry Fielding’s 1749 novel Tom Jones: “Every Body fell a laughing, as how could they help it.”

But in the late 18th and early 19th centuries, grammarians began condemning as illogical the use of “they” as a singular pronoun, leaving us with a great big hole in English where a gender-neutral, number-neutral pronoun ought to be.

Here’s one solution: In a long piece of writing, use “him” in some places and “her” in others when referring to a generic individual. I used to work at the Des Moines Register in the mid-1970s, and that was the thinking on the Op-Ed pages. The shifts back and forth didn’t seem to bother anyone.

Another solution is to write around the problem. In other words, don’t use the pronoun at all. Example: “Someone forgot to pay the bills” (instead of “their bills”). Or: “If anyone calls, say I’m out” (instead of “tell them I’m out”).

If you must use “they,” them,” or “their,” then make the subject (or referent noun) plural instead of singular. A sentence like “Every parent dotes on their child” could instead be “All parents dote on their children.” Instead of “A person should mind their own business,” make it “People should mind their own business.”

There’s always a way! I admit that all the foregoing is really an elaborate run-around. But disregarding the plurality of “they” isn’t the answer, at least today.

Probably the grammar question of the century is “What can I use as a suitable gender-free pronoun?” The answer: There isn’t one. And new pronouns are almost impossible to introduce into a language.

In 1884, a serious attempt was made to introduce “thon,” a genderless third-person pronoun, into English, and it actually made it into dictionaries. You can still find it in 50-year-old editions. It went the way of “ne” (1850s), “heer” (1913), “ha” (pre-1936), and several other proposed epicene (i.e., genderless) pronouns.

The linguist Dennis Baron wrote a wonderful essay in the journal American Speech in 1981 called “The Epicene Pronoun: The Word That Failed,” reviewing much of this history. He notes, “Among the many reforms proposed for the English language … the creation of an epicene or bisexual pronoun stands out as the one most often advocated and attempted, and the one that has most often failed.”

The problem isn’t just finding a sex-neutral term, but also a number-neutral term, one that can serve as both singular and plural. Better minds than mine have devoted themselves to this problem to no avail. I think I know a losing battle when I see one.

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Q: I grew up saying “PER-mit” for the noun and “per-MIT” for the verb. But I sometimes hear the noun pronounced with the accent on the second syllable. Is this a regional variation? Curiously yours.

A: The verb “permit” is pronounced, as you note, with the accent on the second syllable: “Please per-MIT me to introduce myself.”

But the noun “permit” can be pronounced with the accent on either the first or the second syllable: “Do I need a construction PER-mit to remodel my house?” … “The state requires a gun per-MIT.”

These are the pronunciations given in both Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary (11th ed.) and The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language (4th ed.).

So, both are permitted.

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Q: A couple of weeks ago, David Patterson said Eliot Spitzer’s parents once had “my wife, Michelle, and I up for lunch.” Is “I” correct or should it be “me”?

A: Oops!

The incoming (at the time) New York governor should have said the outgoing governor’s parents had “my wife, Michelle, and me up for lunch.”

Now he would have been correct if he’d said “My wife, Michelle, and I” had lunch with Eliot Spitzer’s parents. That’s because “I” is a subject while “me” is an object. And no fair using “myself”!

I’ve discussed this subject before on the blog. If you’d like to read more, check it out. The miscreant that time was Donald Trump. No, I didn’t fire him!

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Q: I increasingly see the words “discrete” and “discreet” used incorrectly. Please differentiate. Thanks.

A: You’re right – a lot of people confuse these words.

“Discreet” means cautious or tactful or judicious. “Discrete” means separate or distinct. Example: “A discreet person keeps his work and personal life discrete.”

The two words, by the way, are pronounced the same way: di-SKREET

We acquired both “discrete” and “discreet” (by way of Old French) around 1385, according to The Barnhart Concise Dictionary of Etymology.

The two English words come from the same root, the Latin discretus (meaning separated), which is the past participle of the verb discernere (meaning to distinguish or to separate by sifting). The Latin verb, it turns out, is also the source of our word “discern.”

In the 1400s, the spellings “discrete,” and “discreet” (as well as “discret”) were used interchangeably for all senses, according to Barnhart, but in the 1500s “discreet” and “discrete” went their separate ways.

“Discrete” kept the meaning of separate or distinct, while “discreet” kept the meaning of careful, prudent, or discerning.

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Q: My wife was asked about some proposed changes to a friend’s kitchen and replied, “I like it how it is.” Her friend thought she should have said, “I like it as it is,” or “I like it the way it is.” But I feel “I like it how it is” is probably a colloquialism and OK. What is your verdict?

A: Not guilty! Your wife used “how” in a perfectly legitimate way.

Ordinarily, “how” is an adverb. But it can also be used as a conjunction meaning something similar to “as” or “however” or “in whatever manner or way.”

Both Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary (11th ed.) and The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language (4th ed.) include this usage in their entries for “how.”

The word is a conjunction in examples such as “I like it how it is,” “Serve dinner how you wish,” “Do it how you prefer,” “Make the drinks how you like them,” and “He told us how he took up farming.”

This usage isn’t colloquial at all – it’s standard English! And that’s how it is.

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Q: My husband makes fun of me for pronouncing “bury” as “burr-y” rather than “berry.” Was this word ever pronounced my way? He also kids me about the word “crayons,” which I pronounce “crans” rather that the two-syllable “cray-ons.” Are both acceptable? Thanks for your help!

A: You’ve brought up an interesting subject: why isn’t “bury” usually pronounced the way it looks? But before I answer that, I should mention that your pronunciation of it isn’t necessarily wrong.

The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language (4th ed.) lists only the “berry” pronunciation, but Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary (11th ed.) includes an acceptable, though uncommon, variant similar to your “burr-y” version.

Now, on to why “bury” usually rhymes with “berry” rather than with “hurry” or “curry.” American Heritage has a “word history” note that says the Old English version of the word, byrgan, was pronounced something like “BURR-yun,” not so different from the way you say “bury.”

During the Middle English period (1100 to 1500), the word was spelled all sorts of ways: birien, byryn, berry, biry, burry, bewry, and so on. Likewise, the pronunciation of the first syllable was all over the place.

In the Midlands, according to the American Heritage note, the first vowel sounded like the “u” in “put”; in southern England, it sounded like the “i” in “pit”; and in the Southeast, it sounded like the “e” in “pet.”

Ultimately, the southeastern pronunciation predominated, but the standardized spelling reflected the Midlands dialect of the scribes in London.

American Heritage says “bury” is “the only word in Modern English with a Midlands spelling and a southeastern pronunciation.”

As for the pronunciation of “crayons,” dictionaries differ on this one too. American Heritage insists on two syllables, but Merriam-Webster’s accepts your one-syllable version as a standard, though uncommon, pronunciation.

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Q: I often hear the term “schneid” used in reference to a losing streak in sports. What, pray tell, is a “schneid”?

A: The word “schneid” comes to baseball, football, basketball, and other sports from the term “schneider” in the world of card games.

The earliest reference to “schneider” in the Oxford English Dictionary, dating back to 1886, refers to skat, a popular card game in Germany. A losing player in skat is said to be “schneider” if he has no more than 30 points.

But the modern sports usage is believed to come from gin rummy, where a “schneider” refers to a game in which the loser doesn’t win a hand – that is, he’s shut out.

In sports, therefore, to be “on the schneid” means to be on a losing streak while to get “off the schneid” refers to breaking the streak.

The card term “schneider” is derived from the German word for tailor, according to the OED. Why a tailor?

Evan Morris, on his Word Detective website, speculates that someone who’s schneidered in gin is cut (as if by a tailor) from contention.

I’ve also seen speculation that “schneider” refers to a poor game in skat because tailors have a reputation for poverty. Not my tailor, however!

The up-to-date online version of the OED doesn’t have any published references for “schneid,” the sports term, but Morris believes the usage is “probably of fairly recent vintage.”

With that, it’s time for me to scat!

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Q: It should go without saying, but we have a generation that rarely says anything. Instead it’s “He goes, ‘What do you mean?’” or “She’s like, ‘I already told you once!'” You get the picture. Does this deserve a comment? Or a caveat? Just another symptom of the illiteration of American kids, I guess.

A: I see you’ve noticed this business about the decline of the verb “say” in favor of “like” and “go.” Like it or not, this has spread throughout the English-speaking world (grown-ups as well as kids) and it’s quite a phenomenon.

Linguists have studied the use of “like” and “go” to introduce quotations, thoughts, attitudes, and gestures. Their verdict? It’s a helpful and an innovative usage.

Grammarians and lexicographers haven’t gone quite so far, at least not yet. As for the parents of those youthful offenders, don’t ask!

As it happens, I did an article last year on the subject for the New York Times Magazine. Click here to read it.

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Q: I work for a municipal police department. We are busy writing our annual report and are stuck. Is “reaccredit” or “reaccredited” a word? Dictionary.com does not list it, though it does have “reaccreditation.”

A: Yes, both “reaccredit” and “reaccredited” are standard English words.

The verb “reaccredit” is in Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary (11th ed.), along with a bunch of other words prefixed by “re.” Since “reaccredit” is a legitimate verb, the past participle and adjective “reaccredited” would be legit too.

I couldn’t find any published references for “reaccredit” in the Oxford English Dictionary, but the “re”-less verb “accredit” has been in English since 1620.

In the early days, “accredit” meant to vouch for or present as credible. The word “accredited” has been around since 1634, and the noun “accreditation” since 1806.

None of these terms were used in the sense of credentialed (as in an accredited diplomat or representative or program) until the late 18th century.

And it wasn’t until a century later that any of these words were used in reference to schools that were certified as meeting certain standards.

Good luck with your annual report.

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Q: Is there any etiquette concerning the forwarding of emails? At the school where I work, I see information forwarded that should be kept private. An email looking for a substitute, say, may include a forwarded message that contains the regular teacher’s excuse.

A: I think email should be forwarded very selectively.

If you have to forward something, there should be an explanation at the very beginning, saying what the information is and whom it’s from and why you’re forwarding it.

Example: “Hi, whosis. Here’s something of interest that was sent to me by so-and-so.”

Furthermore, one should forward just what’s relevant, deleting all the rest. And maybe nothing needs to be forwarded at all.

In that case, I’d just send a note paraphrasing what the original sender sent to you: “So-and-so needs a substitute for next Thursday.”

For more on email etiquette (if that’s not an oxymoron these days), test your Email I.Q. and check out You Send Me, the book about online writing that I wrote with my husband, Stewart Kellerman.

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Q: I was complaining about a cold recently when my wife said, ”You catastrophize things.” It’s true that I overreact to minor annoyances. Did she come up with a new word to describe this failing?

A: No, your wife can’t take credit for this one. The verb “catastrophize” has been around since at least the early 1960s, according to a March 2004 draft addition to the Oxford English Dictionary.

The first published reference comes from a book by the psychologist Albert Ellis, Reason and Emotion in Psychotherapy (1962):

“More specifically, he should perceive his own tendency to catastrophize about inevitable unfortunate situations – to tell himself: ‘Oh, my Lord! How terrible this situation is; I positively cannot stand it!’”

The OED gives this definition: “To conjecture or perceive disastrous implications or scenarios; to regard a relatively innocuous situation as considerably worse than it actually is.”

(Although ”catastrophize” hasn’t yet made it into major American dictionaries, several people have proposed it to Merriam-Webster’s Open Dictionary, which accepts suggestions for words that aren’t already in M-W’s Online Dictionary.)

In addition to “catastrophize,” the OED has citations for “catastrophizing” as a noun and an adjective. Ellis gets credit for coining the noun in his 1962 book. John Bradshaw, who writes and speaks on addiction and recovery, used the adjective first in his book Healing the Shame That Binds You (1988).

The OED has references for another noun, “catastrophizer,” dating back to the beginning of the 20th century. The earliest citation is in John Fiske’s Essays, Historical and Literary (1902):

“The difficulty with the catastrophizers was that while talking glibly about millions of years, they had not stopped to consider what it meant by a million years when it takes the shape of work accomplished.”

Or, as Jimmy Durante might have put it, “Whadda catastastroke!”

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Q: What, exactly, is a “quick question”? Is there such a thing as a “slow question”?

A: I suspect that your question is rhetorical and that you agree with this description of “quick question” in Urban Dictionary, an online reference whose definitions are written by users: “A question that usually requires a long answer.”

Seriously, someone who says “I have a quick question” is promising the answer will be quick! And someone who says “I have time for a quick question” is hoping the answer will be quick!

A “quick question” is, of course, an idiomatic expression – that is, one that makes its own rules.

The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language (4th ed.) describes an idiom as an expression “that is peculiar to itself grammatically or cannot be understood from the individual meanings of its elements.”

No matter how you describe it, an idiom doesn’t have to make literal sense. And “quick question” doesn’t.

I couldn’t find any citations for it in the Oxford English Dictionary, but I did find a few for “quick-reference,” as in a reference book that may be long but provides quick answers.

Sorry for a long answer to a short question. Next time, I hope to be quicker.

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Q: I’m confused by the expression “lucked out.” Why does it suggest out of luck when it actually means in luck?

A: “Lucking out” does indeed seem to imply running out of luck, while in fact it means lucking into something. But who says idioms have to make sense?

The Oxford English Dictionary defines the idiomatic phrasal verb “to luck out” as meaning “to achieve success or advantage by good luck in a difficult, testing, or dangerous situation.”

The OED traces the usage back to 1954, so it’s a relatively new one. The expression “luck into,” meaning “to acquire by good fortune,” came along in 1959, according to the OED.

We use a lot of prepositions idiomatically in confusing ways. Why does “drugged out” essentially mean “drugged up”? Why do we “stand down” but “mess up”? Why can we show we’re exhausted by saying “I’m all in” or “I’m all out”?

What’s more, we turn ON an alarm so it will go OFF, and then we turn it OFF when it goes ON. We also fill IN a form that we’re told to fill OUT. It’s no wonder that people new to English have so much trouble with prepositions!

I think we can chalk all this up to the flexibility of English prepositions, which give us endless possibilities for idiomatic expression.

H.W. Fowler, in The King’s English, says there are so many idiomatic uses of prepositions that it would be impossible for dictionaries, grammar books, or usage guides to cite more than “the scantiest selection.” The best way to learn how to use them, he says, is “good reading with the idiomatic eye open.”

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Q: I wonder if you’d comment on the word “peeps.” I’ve seen it several times recently, once in an ad advising young people to be tested for HIV. The young man shown says he is tested “for me and my peeps.” The meaning is clear, but the word is new to me.

A: Cassell’s Dictionary of Slang (2d ed.) defines “peeps” as a slang term originating in the 1980s on college campuses and in the black community. It’s derived from “people” and it means parents, friends, people in general, according to Cassell’s.

But the term was apparently around nearly a century and a half earlier, according to two odd citations in the Oxford English Dictionary. The OED says the quotations “represent the speech of non-native English speakers.”

In the earliest citation, from the Dec. 29, 1847, issue of the Janesville Gazette in Wisconsin, a French chaplain is quoted as offering this prayer in the Michigan Legislature: “O Lor! Bless de peeps and their servant de representatives. May dey make laws for de peeps and not for demselves – amen.”

In the other reference, from an 1868 book called Theatrical Management in the West and South for 30 Years, a French musician is quoted as saying: “I hear dat in dis Cincinnati de peops very mush fond of de musique, and de eat and de drink is sheep.”

It strikes me, though, that these attempts to quote the mangled English of two Frenchmen sound an awful lot like some 19th-century white efforts to imitate or caricature African-American speech.

The first OED citation for “peeps” used in the way you suggest comes from the Dec. 29, 1951, issue of the Chicago Daily Tribune: “Around the country, high schoolers are greeting each other with ‘Hi, peeps’ (short for ‘hello, people,’ of course).”

The dictionary has five other modern references, including this one from a 1988 book, Wad and Peep, co-authored by the British comedian Harry Enfield: “Golf, the sport of badly dressed peeps all around the world.”

From what I can tell by the more recent citations, the term “peeps” has been used by blacks and whites, young and old, over the last half-century. And I do mean used, though not always to refer to people.

I got 13.7 million hits when I googled “peeps,” but nearly all of the first few hundred refer to those tiny marshmallow candies shaped like chickens, rabbits, and other animals. All the best to you and your peeps!

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Q: I found Pat’s appearance last month on WNYC fascinating. I sat in the parking lot of a grocery store until it finished. I was particularly interested in her discussion of “sanction” and other words that are their own opposites. I have a small collection that may interest you: “cleave” (to cling or to part), “oversight” (a failure to notice or watchful care), and “dust” (to wipe off or to sprinkle on).

A: We’re glad you enjoyed the show, but Pat misspoke when she referred to these two-faced words as “autonyms.” They’re sometimes called “auto-antonyms,” “autantonyms,” or “self-antonyms.” We’ve also seen them called “Janus words,” after the god with two faces. But usual term for them is “contronyms.”

Here are some others besides “sanction,” “cleave,” “oversight,” and “dust”:

“Screen”: to view or to hide from view.

“Weather”: to stand up against a stress, or to be eroded by a stress.

“Buckle”: to fasten up, or to bend and break (not precisely opposites).

“Bolt”: to flee or to fix in place.

“Fast”: moving quickly or stuck in place.

“Boned”: to have bones, or to have had them removed.

“Enjoin”: to forbid, or to require.

“Seed”: to plant them, or to remove them.

“Trim”: to remove parts, or to add to (as in decoration).

We’re sure there are many others!

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Q: A professor of mine once told me of Mussolini’s efforts to remove foreign words from Italian. The French “garage” became autorimessa (“car shed”) and the Greek “aphrodisiac” became guerra in letto (“war in bed”). The word autorimessa is still used in Italy, but guerra in letto has vanished. I wonder, though, if the latter was the professor’s joke.

A: Your professor wasn’t joking. It turns out that guerra in letto was indeed designed to replace “aphrodisiac” in Italian.

As the professor said, it was invented in Fascist Italy in the 1930s as part of an attempt to purge Italian of its “pro-foreign” and “anti-Italian” influences.

Other words or phrases that the Fascists tossed out and replaced with Italian ones included “sleeping draft” (it became pace in letto, literally “peace in bed”), “sandwich” (traidue, or “between two”), “bar” (quisibeve, or “here one drinks”), “cocktail” (polibibita, or “multiple drink”), and “maître d’hôtel” (guidopalato, or “palate guide”).

Mussolini’s regime also went after foreign films, French food, German music, American customs, and other suspect influences.

There was even an effort to reform the Italian diet and discourage the use of pasta because of its reliance on imported flour (homegrown rice was encouraged instead).

Fascinating stuff! I got this information, by the way, from the book South Wind Through the Kitchen: The Best of Elizabeth David, compiled by Jill Norman.

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Q: I’ve had my fill of the new and irritatingly ubiquitous expression “on the ground” in sentences like this: “Let’s speak about the state of charity work on the ground in Africa.” What possible meaning would be lost if “on the ground” were left out? My guess is that this phrase is of military origin, but now every pundit and reporter who wants to sound hip and savvy uses it.

A: I agree that “on the ground” is an empty, unnecessary phrase in a sentence like the one you’ve given. It’s more of a verbal tic than a meaningful usage.

Here are some other irritating and/or meaningless expressions used to death in the media: “in the final analysis,” “hit the ground running,” “when all is said and done,” “at the end of the day,” and “if you will.”

I’m guilty of the last one myself, though I try not to be. An example: “First I take off my left shoe, and then, if you will, my right.” Pretty lame. (No pun intended!)

A survey done some time ago in Britain found that “at the end of the day” was the most annoying cliché, in the opinion of those polled.

As for the origin of using “on the ground” to mean on the spot, the first published references in the Oxford English Dictionary, dating from the early 1960s, don’t have anything to do with the military.

Here’s a citation from the Jan. 10, 1963, issue of The Listener, a now-defunct British magazine: “There is no longer any good reason why the young … American writer should undergo a European apprenticeship unless it be to satisfy his curiosity or to watch the operations of another literature on the ground.”

But “on the ground,” as you’ve apparently noticed, has been frequently used in a military sense in recent years: “boots on the ground,” “troops on the ground,” “forces on the ground,” and so on.

In many, if not most, of these cases, the words “on the ground,” meaning in situ, add nothing to the sentences in which they appear.

Sometimes, in fact, the “on the ground” expressions may be downright confusing. Example: “The Marines had 20,000 boots on the ground.” Is that a reference to 10,000 marines or to 20,000 (perhaps each standing on one foot)?

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Q: I’m writing in defense of “dead in the water,” an expression you criticized on the air as an example of overused business-speak. If a becalmed sailing ship can be “dead in the water,” a becalmed business project can be likewise described.

A: Yes, “dead in the water” is really evocative in the maritime sense, but it’s overworked in the office, in my opinion. Nevertheless, I appreciate your comments and those of others defending this usage in the workplace.

Interestingly, I searched the Oxford English Dictionary, but couldn’t find a single published reference for “dead in the water.” I think the OED lexicographers have been asleep (or rather becalmed) on this one.

I did, however, find citations going back to around 1000 for “dead” (or “deada” in Old English) used as an adjective to describe motionless air or water.

Here’s a citation about the life of a trout from Izaak Walton’s The Compleat Angler (1653): “As he growes stronger, he gets from the dead, still water, into the sharp streames and the gravel.”

The OED also has several references for the phrase “dead water” (water without a current), dating from a 1601 English translation from Pliny: “A standing poole or dead water.”

As for the use of “dead” in a business sense, the OED’s first citation is from a 1601 report of “complaints against dead Trade.” And here’s one from the publishing world: Samuel Johnson, in a 1758 essay in The Idler, writes of publishers that “never had known such a dead time.”

And now, I’ve come to a dead stop!

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Q: It has always bothered me when people use the word “orientate.” Is there a difference between “orientate” and “orient,” as in “They oriented the students as to the layout of the school”? Similarly, I am irritated by the overuse of the word “signage.” Would not “signs” be just as effective? “Orientate” and “signage” seem to me to be unnecessary altogether. Am I being ridiculous?

A: You certainly are NOT being ridiculous. “Signage” is merely a pumped-up version of “signs.” I take umbrage at “signage”!

This usage is relatively recent and (like so many other examples of stretched-out words) appears to have originated in legal-speak, or so one would surmise from the first published reference in the Oxford English Dictionary.

The earliest citation is from a court ruling in a 1976 issue of the Federal Register: “All signage, stationery, forms, calling cards and other symbols are identical with no distinction between the main bank and the drive-in facility.”

A few other examples of supersized nouns, puffed up merely to make the speaker sound more authoritative, are “spillage” (spills), “wastage” (waste), and “shirtings” (shirts).

As for the extra-large “orientate,” take a look at the “right orientation” posting on Oct. 26, 2007. You also may be interested in the related “conversation stopper” posting on Nov. 13, 2007.

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Q: Is it “Liberia President Johnson Sirleaf” or “Liberian President Johnson Sirleaf”? Similarly, is it “Algeria Department of Education” or “Algerian Department of Education”?

A: The adjective forms should be used: “Liberian President Johnson Sirleaf” and “Algerian department of education.”

But some stylebooks (the New York Times’s, for example) frown on attaching an adjective to a title, and prefer something like “President Johnson Sirleaf of Liberia.”

You could also use possessives: “Liberia’s president, Ellen Johnson Sirleaf,” and “Algeria’s department of education.” Or constructions like “Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, president of Liberia,” and “the president of Liberia, Ellen Johnson Sirleaf.”

Note the words that are lowercase. The Algerian agency isn’t officially called the “Department of Education,” so that should be lowercase (the official name in English is “Ministry of Education”).

Also, some stylebooks require capitalizing the “p” in “president” whenever it refers to a specific national leader, but others call for using an uppercase “p” only when the title precedes the name of the leader.

As you can see, these issues of style can be more art than science. If you’re writing for a publication or an organization or another enterprise, check out your stylebook for any capital quirks.

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