The English language incorporates a dizzying number of words. It is so terrifically vast that the ostensibly simple task of counting all of the words that have ever been used is impossible. Although this is attributable to the problems of definition (do we count plurals as individual words or not at all?) and the amorphous nature of all languages (new words are invented and old, unused words rendered obsolete every day), there is no question that English is a gargantuan language.
Even the magnificent Oxford English Dictionary, the finest authority on English and one of humanity’s great achievements, includes only a paltry 615,000 defined word forms. Given that the average person’s vocabulary is estimated to be less – and occasionally a lot less – than 20,000 words, the OED is commensurately massive.
Realistically, most of us will never need to employ more than about 20,000 words. Even people working in fields where jargon is a way of life – doctors, lawyers, and bumptious literary critics – will never accumulate many more than 30,000 words. That Shakespeare’s written works contain this astonishing number is highly irregular, even when the Bard’s proclivity for inventing words is taken into account. Considering that merely typing the OED’s second edition consumed 120 man-years, learning every word in the dictionary is a practical impossibility. Even reading it is a formidable challenge. Ammon Shea, a writer from New York, did just that. He read all twenty volumes – 21,730 pages, 59 million words – of the OED. Working six days a week, ten hours a day, it took him a year.
Quite simply, we don’t need to know more than about 30,000 words. Consider petrichor. The OED states that petrichor (n.) is “[a] pleasant, distinctive smell frequently accompanying the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather.” Haven’t you always wondered whether that smell had a corresponding word? Now you know it does. The trouble is, if you start talking about petrichors, no one will understand what the hell you’re saying. Sadly, most of the words in the OED are like this: amusing, recondite, and completely useless.
This is why the Sisyphean task of reading the OED is – to some people anyway – tremendously entertaining. It reminds me of George Leigh Mallory’s response to an insipid reporter. The newspaperman asked why Mallory wanted to climb Mount Everest. Mallory’s notorious reply? “Because it’s there.” Just as climbing mountains serves no practical purpose, learning words like petrichor is a completely useless endeavour. (Unless, of course, you derive some masochistic pleasure from people accusing you of overusing the thesaurus.) Although even the most linguistically sapient professors would stumble over it, knowing thatpetrichor exists – and knowing what it describes – imbues me with a feeling of immense satisfaction.
Petrichor can’t be found in my copy of the Shorter Oxford English Dictionary (which, at 3742 pages split between two hefty volumes, is a pretty substantial dictionary), and for good reason. Obsolete and obscure words are generally excluded from condensed dictionaries because they just aren’t used very much. Indeed, many of the words in the OED lack pronunciation guidelines because no one has ever heard them in use; the editors, feeling unworthy of ascribing an arbitrary standard, left them alone. Many words are dead, their entries mere headstones. There are, however, plenty of delightful use that remain in circulation. They need to be rehabilitated before they require resurrection.
One of my favourite such words is Brobdingnagian. It refers to Brobdingnag, a nation of giant people invented by Jonathan Swift for his 1726 novel Gulliver’s Travels. It means nothing more exciting than “of huge dimensions.” I like to use it when I can, much to the displeasure of my valiant editors, one of whom complained bitterly about my notorious verbosity. Yet Brobdingnagian remains a perfectly legitimate word; even the cheapest, most niggardly dictionary will define it. And that is reason enough to use it.
Martin Amis suggested that we ought to “look down on people who use the words everybody else uses…herd-words.” Given my exaggerated respect for the man, certain people might be surprised to learn that I disagree with this sentiment. There are certain places where using colossal words is acceptable. A friend of mine was recently chastised by his boss for using perspicuous in a letter to a customer. Evidently the business world ranks concise communication above flatulent, masturbatory prose. A column in a student-run newspaper with prospective academics as its primary audience, however, is just such a place. Learning and using absurd words is a delightful way to avoid writing term papers. So please, get yourself a copy of the OED: it is for luxuries like the finest dictionary ever made that God invented credit cards.
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