Swagger

Swagger (pronounced swag-er)

(1) A manner, conduct, or gait thought an ostentatious display of arrogance and conceit.

(2) To walk or strut with a defiant or insolent air.

(3) To boast or brag noisily.

(4) To bring, drive, force, etc by means of bluster (now rare).

(5) Elegantly fashionable and confident (listed by some dictionaries as “rare” but in UK use it remains understood as a way of differentiating from “arrogant” and appears often in the form “a certain swagger” on the model of a phrase like “a certain grandeur”).

(6) In historic Australian (mostly rural) slang, an alternative name for a “swagman” or “swaggie” (an itinerant worker who carried a swag (a kind of roll-up bed) (archaic).  Swagman remains familiar in Australia because of the opening line of the bush ballad Waltzing Matilda: “Once a jolly swagman camped by a billabong”.

1580–1590: The construct was swag + -er and it was a frequentative form of swag (in the sense of “to sway”), an early use of which appears in William Shakespeare’s (1564–1616) A Midsummer Night's Dream (1595): “What hempen homespuns have we swaggering here?” (Puck in Act III, Scene 1) and it appears also in Henry IV, Part 2 (circa 1598) & King Lear (circa1605).  The verb swag (in the Shakespearian sense of “to strut in a defiant or insolent manner” (which then could also mean “a gait with a sway or lurch”) was from the Middle English swaggen, swagen & swoggen, probably from the Old Norse sveggja (to swing, sway) and may be compared with the dialectal Norwegian svaga (to sway, swing, stagger).  The meaning “to boast or brag” was in use by the 1590s to describe the antics of the concurrent agent-noun swaggerer (blusterer; bully; boastful, noisy fellow), the noun appearing in the early eighteenth century in the sense of “an insolent strut; a piece of bluster; a boastful manner”.  The –er suffix was from the Middle English –er & -ere, from the Old English -ere, from the Proto-Germanic -ārijaz, thought most likely to have been borrowed from the Latin –ārius where, as a suffix, it was used to form adjectives from nouns or numerals.  In English, the –er suffix, when added to a verb, created an agent noun: the person or thing that doing the action indicated by the root verb.   The use in English was reinforced by the synonymous but unrelated Old French –or & -eor (the Anglo-Norman variant -our), from the Latin -ātor & -tor, from the primitive Indo-European -tōr.  When appended to a noun, it created the noun denoting an occupation or describing the person whose occupation is the noun.  Swagger is a noun & verb, swaggerer is a noun, swaggering is an adjective and swaggeringly is an adverb; the noun plural is swaggers.  The verb (used with object) out-swagger was used as a kind of “loaded” superlative, suggesting someone’s swagger had been “topped” by that of another.

Swaggering: Lindsay Lohan in swagger coat, New York City, March 2024.

A swagger coat was a (usually) calf-length overcoat with a distinctive cut which flared out below the knee.  They became fashionable in the early decades of the twentieth century, the wide, roomy silhouette, often without a belt, allowing for a “swaggering” or flowing appearance when worn.  The relaxed fit lent the garment a casual elegance and they often were worn, cloak-like, cast over the shoulders.  Swagger coats were commonly made from heavier fabrics like wool or tweed, making them ideal for outerwear in cooler weather and their air of “quiet sophistication” has made them a timeless classic.  A swagger stick was a short stick carried by a military officer as a symbol of authority but should not be confused with a field-marshal’s baton which was a symbol of the highest military rank.  Swagger sticks were shorter than a walking-cane, tended to be made from rattan or bamboo and adorned with a polished metal tip or cap.  A symbol rather than a practical tool, they are still seen during formal parades or other ceremonial events.  A “swagger-jack” was someone who copied or imitated the actions, sayings or personal habits of another.  The word “swagger” often carries a negative connotation but there’s a long tradition in the UK of it being used to distinguish for someone thought “arrogant”.  When one reviewer wrote of the Rolling Stones album Beggars Banquet (1968) as being the band “at their most swaggeringly debauched”, he really was giving them a compliment.  Much can context influence meaning.

The Swagger Portrait

A swagger portrait is a grand, usually large and often ostentatious portrait, typically commissioned by wealthy or influential individuals to display their status, power and prestige.  The term came into use in the late nineteenth century at the height of the British Empire when countless generals, admirals, politicians, governors, viceroys and others less exalted (though perhaps more deserving) decided it was something they deserved.  The distinguishing characteristics were (1) an imposing dimensionality, larger than life renditions not uncommon, (2) elaborate staging and poses, (3) an attention to detail, something of significance to the subjects often were dripping with decorations or precious jewels which demanded to be captured with precision and (4) a certain grandeur, something at which some artists excelled.  An exemplar of the breed was John Singer Sargent (1856-1925).

Portrait of Theodore Roosevelt (1903; left), oil on canvas by Théobald Chartran (1849–1907) and Portrait of Theodore Roosevelt (1903; right), oil on canvas by John Singer Sargent.

Nobel Peace Prize laureate Theodore Roosevelt (1858–1919; US President 1901-1909), famous also for waging war and shooting wildlife, after being impressed by Théobald Chartran’s portrait of his wife, invited the French artist to paint him too.  He was so displeased with the result, which he thought made him look effete, he refused to hang the work and later supervised its destruction.  Roosevelt then turned instead to expatriate US artist John Singer Sargent.  The relationship didn’t start well as the two couldn’t agree on a setting and during one heated argument, the president suddenly, hand on hip, took on a defiant air while making a point and Sargent had his pose, imploring his subject not to move.  This one delighted Roosevelt and was hung in the White House.

Portrait of Madame X (1884), oil on canvas by John Singer Sargent, Metropolitan Museum of Art, Manhattan.

A controversial work in its time, Madame X was Virginie Amélie Avegno Gautreau (née Avegno; 1859–1915) a banker's wife.  Unusually in the tradition of swagger portraits, Madam X was not a commission but undertaken on the painter's initiative and he understood the critics as well as he knew his subjects, knowing the juxtaposition of a black satin gown and porcelain-white skin would create a sensation.  However he understood the Parisian bourgeoisie less well and after being exhibited at the Paris Salon of 1884, the public reception was such that Singer was just about run out of town.  However, the painting made his reputation and it remains his best known work.

The Duke of Wellington (1812), oil on canvas by Francisco Goya (1812-1814), The National Gallery, London.

Arthur Wellesley (1769-1852; First Duke of Wellington was a British military hero and a less successful Tory politician although he remains remembered as a classic “Ultra”, a calling which is a hallmark of twenty-first century ideology.  Goya’s work is a typical military swagger portrait and it was for his battlefield exploits rather than in parliament which saw him granted the rare distinction of a state funeral.

Portrait of Empress Eugénie (1854), oil on canvas by Franz Xaver Winterhalter (1805-1873), Metropolitan Museum of Art, Manhattan.

The Empress Eugénie (Eugénie de Montijo, 1826–1920, Condesa de Teba) was the wife of Napoleon III (Charles-Louis Napoléon Bonaparte, 1808–1873; first president of France (1848-1852) and the last monarch as Emperor (1852-1870)) and it wasn't an easy gig for her so she deserved a swagger portrait more than many, Winterhalter painting several.  They have many the elements of the swagger portraiture of royalty, lavish fabrics, the subject in regal attire, as much an almost as much an installation as any of the sumptuous surrounds, the message conveyed one of status, power and beauty.

Montreal

Montreal (pronounced mon-tree-awl or muhn-tree-awl)

(1) A city and major port in the south of the Canadian province of Quebec, on Montreal Island at the junction of the Ottawa and St Lawrence Rivers.  The French name for the city is Montréal.

(2) An ellipsis of “Montreal Archipelago”, an archipelago on the Saint Lawrence River in Quebec, Canada, which contains the island (known also as Island of Montreal, and Montreal Island).  It’s also the name of a number of rivers and localities in North America.

(3) An Alfa Romeo model (1970-1977), the appearance of which was based on a show-car built for the 1967 Montreal Exposition.

1705 (in the sense of the city’s name): From the French Montréal (deconstructed as Mont Royal (Mount Royal), the triple-peaked feature named le mont Royal by French explorer Jacques Cartier 1491-1557), honoring Francis I (1494–1547; King of France 1515-1547).  Although surpassed in economic activity by Toronto, Montreal remains a cultural, commercial, financial, and industrial centre and, with a population of 1.8 million (the Greater Montreal metropolitan area is 4.3 million), is the second-largest French-speaking city in the world, only Paris having more.  The city lies at the foot of Mount Royal.  Montreal and Montrealer are nouns; the noun plural is Montrealers.

Lindsay Lohan at Montréal International Airport, May 2009.

The surname Mulligan was of Irish origin and was from the Gaelic Maolagan and the Old Irish Maelecan, a double diminutive of mael (bald), hence “the little bald (or shaven) one”, presumably a reference to a monk and his tonsure (the practice of shaving part of the scalp as a sign of religious devotion or humility).  As an ellipsis of “mulligan stew” (a meal made with whatever was available), it’s listed by slang dictionaries as “early twentieth century US hobo slang” and is thought derived (for reasons unknown) from the name.  In various card games, it’s used to describe an opportunity (which under some rules can attract a penalty) for a player to reshuffle their cards and draw a new initial hand at the beginning of a game; by extension from this use it has come generally to mean “a second chance”.  The best known use of “mulligan” is in golf (used without an initial capital) where it describes “re-taking a shot after a poor first attempt” and while there are several tales of the origin of the tradition (said variously to date from between 1927-1949), the most accepted involves the Country Club of Montreal golf course in Saint-Lambert.  David B Mulligan (1869–1954), it’s claimed, was one of a foursome who each week played 18 holes and he was the one who drove them to the course over “rough & rutted roads”, his reward being “an extra” shot although whether that was granted in gratitude or was his price for doing the driving isn’t mentioned.  A notable variation claims Mr Mulligan simply hit a bad shot and immediately re-teed, taking another (claiming the second was a “correction shot” so the first didn’t count on his score-card); in response his partners decided to name the practice (not within the accepted etiquette of the game) after him.

Golfer Greg Norman (b 1955) with Bill Clinton (b 1946; US president 1993-2001), about to take (another) mulligan.

US presidents often have been keen golfers.  John Kennedy (JFK, 1917–1963; US president 1961-1963) enjoyed pointing out to visitors the marks made in the White House’s polished timber floors by Dwight Eisenhower (1890-1969; US president 1953-1961) who walked on them in his golf shoes which was bad form but there’s no record of the general ever having “taken a mulligan”.  Bill Clinton was certainly keen on the game but not especially skilled and took mulligans so frequently that among themselves his Secret Service detail would bet how many would be claimed in each round.  They called them “billigans” and unless at risk of causing a diplomatic incident, Mr Clinton would cheerfully and openly take as many as he needed to enjoy the day.

Donald Trump (b 1946; US president 2017-2021) addressing the ball on the first tee during the pro-am prior to the LIV Golf Invitational, Trump National Golf Club Bedminster, New Jersey, 10 August 2023.

Mr Trump denies ever having taken a mulligan, explaining his prowess by saying “I am just a good golfer and athlete”.  That must be true because in 2023 he won his club tournament at Bedminster with an impressive round, posting on his own Truth social media platform: “I am pleased to report, for those that care, that I just won the Senior Club Championship (must be over 50 years old!) at Bedminster (Trump National Golf Club), shooting a round of 67”.  Aware some might be sceptical, he added “Now, some people will think that sounds low, but there is no hanky-panky.  Many people watch, plus I am surrounded by Secret Service agents.  Not much you can do even if you wanted to, and I don’t.  For some reason, I am just a good golfer & athlete - I have won many club championships, and it’s always a great honor!”  Apparently, Mr Trump always insists on the Oxford comma, even when technically not “required” (although, according to some, it’s never required).

Kim Jong-il, the Dear Leader (centre), in his custom-built LWB (long wheelbase) golf buggy in candy apple green.

Impressive though Mr Trump’s score may seem, it would not have impressed Kim Jong-il (Kim II, 1941–2011; Dear Leader of DPRK (North Korea), 1994-2011).  According the KCNA (Korean Central News Agency, the DPRK’s energetic and productive state media), although in his entire life he only ever played one round of golf and that on the country’s notoriously difficult 7,700 yard (7040 m) course at Pyongyang, the Dear Leader took only 34 strokes to complete the 18 holes, a round which included five holes-in-ones.  Experienced golfers in the imperialist West cast doubt on the round of 34 (not commenting on the holes-in-one) but the KCNA had already pointed out the physiology of the Dear Leader was so remarkable he was not subject to bowel movements, never needing to defecate or urinate (it’s not known if this is a genetic characteristic of the dynasty and thus inherited by Kim Jong-un (Kim III, b circa 1982; Supreme Leader (originally The Great Successor) of DPRK since 2011)) but this seems unlikely because the Supreme Leader is known, while on visits to remote locations within the DPRK (ballistic missile tests etc), to be accompanied by a military detail with a portable toilet for his exclusive (and reportedly not infrequent) use.

The Alfa Romeo Montreal

Alfa Romeo Montreal Expo show car at Montreal International Airport, arriving from Italy for the 1967 Universal Exposition in Montreal.

The noun exposition was from the late fourteenth century French exposicioun (explanation, narration), from the twelfth century Old French esposicion (explanation, interpretation) and directly from the Latin expositionem (nominative expositio) (a setting or showing forth; narration, explanation) a noun of action from the past-participle stem of exponere (put forth; explain), the construct being ex- (in the sense of “from, forth”) + ponere (to put, place).  The familiar modern meaning came into existence in 1851 when the Crystal Palace Exposition opened in London while the now universal form “Expo” was first used in planning documents for the 1967 World's Fair held in Montreal.

The Soviet Union’s pavilion at the 1967 Montreal Exposition.  The initialization of the country’s nane appeared as both “USSR” & “URSS”, reflecting Canada’s status as a bi-lingual (English & French) nation, USSR (Union of Soviet Socialist Republics) the form in English while in French it was Union des Républiques Socialistes Soviétiques.  URSS was also used on the Iberian Peninsula, the Spanish being Unión de Repúblicas Socialistas Soviéticas and the Portuguese União das Repúblicas Socialistas Soviéticas.  In Russian, it was CCCP (Союз Советских Социалистических Республик (Soyuz Sovetskikh Sotsialisticheskikh Respublik)), which translates as the familiar “Union of Soviet Socialist Republics”; CCCP representing the Cyrillic script, which corresponds to USSR in the Latin alphabet.

The theme of the EXPO 1967 at Montreal was “Man and his World” (a choice which now would see the event boycotted (or at least “girlcotted”)) and the organizers selected Alfa Romeo to present a car which represented the “highest aspiration of modern man in terms of cars”.  It was a time when development cycles of new cars were measured in years but the company had less than nine months in which to complete the project so the decision was taken to use the platform of the existing Giulia Sprint GT (the memorable 105/115 series coupés, 1963-1977) with Carrozzeria Bertone commissioned to style the unique bodywork, Marcello Gandini (1938–2024) the lead designer.  Gandini delivered a elegant and streamlined shape, the most distinctive features of which were the distinctive louvred eyelids which half-concealed the headlights and the six air vents on each C-pillar which led some to assume a mid-engined configuration lay beneath.  The factory fabricated two identical specimens, both finished in pearl white and named, appropriately, the Alfa Romeo Montreal Expo, displayed at the Exposition, in the “Man the Producer” pavilion by means of a clever visual trick using mirrors, the image of the two infinitely repeated throughout the exhibition space.  Both cars still exist and are housed in the Museo Storico Alfa Romeo (Alfa Romeo History Museum) on the outskirts of Milan.

1973 Alfa Romeo Montreal.

From critics and the public (notably including prospective buyers) the reaction to the Montreal Expo was such the factory opted to bring the car to market as a regular production model.  Unusually for show cars which often have their tantalizing specification “toned down” for appearance in showrooms (the Jaguar XJ220 a notorious example), the production version was considerably more exotic than what was seen at the exposition, the 1.6 litre (96 cubic inch) DOHC (double overhead camshaft) in-line four cylinder engine replaced by a 2.6 litre (158 cubic inch) version of the 2.0 litre (122 cubic inch) DOHC V8 used in the 33 Stradale (a road-going version of the Tipo 33 race car, 18 of which were produced 1967-1969).  It was one of the last of the "small" V8s used in road cars during the post-war years, a breed which included the flathead Ford (2.2, 2.4 & 2.5 litre (also used by Simca and in production (off and on) between 1935-1969), the Fiat 8V (1996 cm³, 1952-1954), the Daimler V8 (2548 cm³, 1959-1969), the Glas 2600 (2580 cm³, 1969-1967), the Lamborghini Urraco (2463 cm³, 1972-1976 & 1995 cm³, 1974-1977) and the Ferrari 208 (1991 cm³, 1975-1981).  Compared with these jewel-like power-plants, the contemporary 3.0 litre V8s (the Ferrari 308 and the sonorous but flawed Triumph Stag) were almost “big”.

The Montreal V8 was fuel-injected and used a dry-sump, both then still rarities in road cars and, reflecting the race-car origins, was configured with a cross-plane crankshaft.

Visually, the mass-produced (it’s a relative term) touring berlinetta appeared little different from what had wowed the crowds in 1967 but placed side-by side, the differences are obvious and it was offered in some vibrant colors (which were very 1970s) including metallic gold, Verde Termico green, Marrone Luci Di Bosco brown beige and the famous lobster orange with which the car became associated because it was used for many of the cars provided to the press for testing.  However, exquisite though it was, commercially it was a failure.  Although displayed at Geneva International Motor Show in March 1970, the first deliveries weren’t made until 1972 and ironically it couldn’t be purchased in Montreal or anywhere else in North America because it proved impossible to tame what was a detuned race-car engine to the point where it would comply with the new US emissions regulations, then the most onerous on the planet.  The loss of the US market really doomed the Montreal which was a shame because it offered performance which was competitive with Ferrari’s Dino 246 and all but the most potent Porsche 911s, its traditional layout meaning it was an easier car for inexpert drivers to handle, even if the absolute limits of adhesion didn’t match those two.  So, despite the innovative design and advanced engineering, the Montreal became a footnote among the exotic machines of the era and it wasn’t helped by high production costs and the first oil shock coming just as full-scale production had been achieved.  Between 1970-1977, only 3925 were made but they now have a dedicated following among collectors and those for whom an Alfa Romeo’s special charms means many flaws & foibles (and there are a few) are forgiven.

Apothaneintheloish

Apothaneintheloish (pronounced uh-poth-un-inn-th-loe-ish)

An expression of a wish to die.

1968: The construct was apo + thanein + thelo + ish.  The Ancient Greek prefix ἀπό- (apó-) was from the preposition ἀπό (apó) (from, away from), from the primitive Indo-European hepo (off, away), the ultimate source also of the English words "off" & "of" and of (ab- came via Latin).  The English –ish was appended to create the adjectival form.  The -ish suffix was from the Middle English -ish & -isch, from the Old English -isċ (-ish (the suffix)), from the Proto-West Germanic -isk, from the Proto-Germanic -iskaz (-ish), from the primitive Indo-European -iskos.  It was cognate with the Dutch -s, the German -isch (from which Dutch would gain -isch), the Norwegian, Danish & Swedish -isk or -sk, the Lithuanian -iškas, the Russian -ский (-skij) and the Ancient Greek diminutive suffix -ίσκος (-ískos).  It was used to create adjectives (standard and (in the modern era) increasingly non-standard, even in slang as the stand-alone "ish" indicating “sort of”, “kind of”, “tending towards” etc).  In colloquial use it became a popular way to create both adjectives & nouns with a diminutive or derogatory implication.  The word was coined by the author Anthony Burgess (1917–1993).  Apothaneintheloish is an adjective.

A black-figure pottery vase (circa 500 BC) showing Thanatos (Death) and Hypnos (Sleep) carrying the dead body of the hero Sarpedon; discovered in Attica, Greece and now on display in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

In Greek mythology, Thantos was the god of death and the significance of Burgess's choice was that Thantos was associated specifically with a “graceful, peaceful departure from life”.  So, a vision of Thantos was a tap on the shoulder, a notice to quit the world and something known in English as "the visitation of the Angel of Death" and, except for those few wishing to go out in a “blaze of glory”, as one's death goes, a visit from Thantos was about as good as it got.   Thantos appears sometimes in commentaries by Freudians & neo-Freudians but Sigmund Freud (1856-1939) never used the word.  He used Todestrieb (death drive), the construct being Tod (death) +‎ -es- (in German a genitival interfix used to link elements in certain compounds) +‎ Trieb (sprout (but in the technical jargon of psychoanalysis specifically “drive” (in the sense of “desire, urge, impulse”)).  Freud in his famous Jenseits des Lustprinzips (Beyond the Pleasure Principle (1920)) borrowed the word (which he used more often in the plural (Todestriebe) (death drives) from Russian psychiatrist Sabina Spielrein (1885-1942 and a student and lover of Carl Jung (1875–1961)) who in 1912 had published the essay Die Destruktion als Ursache des Werdens (Destruction as the Cause of Coming Into Being).  The relationship between Freud & Spielrein was both convivial and entirely professional.  Thanatos came into popular use in psychoanalysis after it appeared in a paper by Austrian-American psychologist Paul Federn (1871–1950 and, like Freud, trained in Vienna).  Federn used Thanatos as a dichotomous contrast with eros (from the Ancient Greek ἔρως (érōs) (love, desire”) which in psychiatry) is used to describe the human “life drive” (the collective instincts for self-preservation).  In the profession it's used also of the libido and it's not only among the Freudians the link between the two uses is thought so fundamental.

The Greek phrase Apothanein thelo (I want to die) concludes the epigraph of TS Eliot’s (1888–1965) The Waste Land: “Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis vidiin ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent: Σίβνλλα τί ϴέλεις; respondebat illa: άπο ϴανεΐν ϴέλω.”  The text was from the satirical novel Satyricon, presumed written by the Roman courtier Petronius (Gaius Petronius Arbiter, circa 27–66), Eliot’s translation being: “I saw with my own eyes the Sibyl at Cumae hanging in a cage, and when the boys said to her: ‘Sibyl, what do you want?’ she answered: ‘I want to die.’”

Apollo and the Cumaean Sibyl (circa 1670), oil on canvas by Giovanni Domenico Cerrini, (1609-1681).  Sibyl is holding a handful of dust.

The Satyricon was a collection of tales, the misadventures of Trimalchio, a one-time gladiator in the Roman Empire of the first century AD and the passage is one of the few fragments of the text still extant.  Sibyl of Cumae was one of the great beauties of the age and Apollo, wanting her for his own, offered to grant her any wish.  Without a moment’s thought she asked to “live for as many years as there were grains in a handful of dust.”  Apollo granted her wish, but she anyway refused his affections and she came to regret things, over the centuries growing older and more decrepit but unable to die.  What she had wanted was an eternal youth but instead decayed into a figure tiny, frail and confined to her bed.  When Trimalchio speaks of her in the Satyricon, he describes her as a tourist attraction, a withered, ancient relic, longing to die.  As recounted by the Roman Poet Ovid (Publius Ovidius Naso; 43 BC–17 AD) in his Metamorphoses, Sibyl lived a thousand years and as she shrunk and shrivelled, eventually she was kept in an ampulla (jar); in her final years, only the faint echo of her voice remained.  She might have said, as the 99 year old Archbishop Daniel Mannix (1864–1963; Archbishop of Melbourne 1917-1963) grew fond of saying: “I have lived too long, but that is not my fault”.  That would have been half correct but, given Sibyl’s calling of prophesy, she had only herself to blame.

Apothaneintheloish appeared first in 1968 in an essay written by Anthony Burgess and published in The Listener:

“Waking crapulous and apothaneintheloish, as I do most mornings these days, I find a little loud British gramophone music over the bloody mary helps me adjust to the daily damnation of writing.”  It can be translated as: “Suffering from taking too much strong drink and feeling I want to die.”

Burgess had an extraordinary knowledge of words so probably felt entitled to kick language around a bit and it’s likely he’d not much have been concerned at any pedant drawing a red circle around the appended –ish, content the linguistic sin of mixing an English suffix into a otherwise Greek formation was minor compared with the world gaining a new adjective.  Such was the skill of Burgess that in his writing the rare and unusual words slurred effortlessly into the text, avoiding the tiresome, jarring effect achieved by some who seem intent to flaunt what Henry Fowler (1858–1933) in his austere A Dictionary of Modern English Usage (1926) called the “pride of knowledge”; Henry Fowler knew sin when he saw it on the page.  Others can do it too: the historian Piers Brendon (1940) made the discovery of novel forms a pleasure and when reading Umberto Eco’s (1932–2016) Il pendolo di Foucault (Foucault's Pendulum (1988)), some can’t resist keeping pencil & paper at hand, just to note down the most memorable.

Lindsay Lohan and her lawyer in court, Los Angeles, December 2011.

Burgess though probably made the trick most fun and without Burgess, would it have become known even slightly that vaccine can be an adjective?  It means “cow-like” so is a word for those who find bovine too repetitive or a bit common.  He also included gems like myrmidon (a faithful follower of someone or some institution who follows orders without demur), oneiric (of, suggestive of or pertaining to dreams), proleptic (the act of anticipation) and exiguity which should baffle most used to anything similar; it means “a tiny quantity” and was from the Latin exiguus (scanty), the antonym for which was the Pythonesque sounding adaequatus, the perfect passive participle of adaequō, the construct being ad- (near, at; towards, to) +‎ aequō (make equal, level or smooth).

Apothaneintheloish will of late have gained a new audience with the publication in January 2024 of The Devil Prefers Mozart, On Music and Musicians, 1962-1993, a compilation (Carcanet Press, edited by PaulPhillips (b 1956), an associate professor at Stanford University)) of Burgess’s (mostly) previously published pieces on the topic of music (something he grants and unexpectedly wide vista).  Although now remembered mostly as a novelist and literary critic, his attachment to music was life-long, reflected in the breadth of the 75 chapters of essays, reviews and letters plus the odd interview & transcription.  The book is divided into five parts (1) Musical Musings which ranges from thoughts on Shakespeare to the Beatlemania of the 1960s and the punk movement a decade later, (2) Composers and Their Music which is a list hardly less eclectic, including Monteverdi, Mozart, Wagner & Kurt Weill, (3) Burgess and His Music, a more personal assortment of material including some intriguing liner notes, (4) Performers and Performances which includes some interesting reflections on the less obvious aspects of affording a primacy to “the singer rather than the song” and (5) Of Opera, the West’s supreme art form.  Of particular interest to some will the focus on some of the now less than fashionable British composers, notably William Walton (1902–1983) and Edward Elgar (1857–1934).

Gerti Deutsch's (1908–1979) photograph of Hans Keller (1919-1855), London, 1961.  Keller was a noted Freudian and would these days be thought a suspected postmodernist.

It’s really not even necessary to have any great interest in music to be amused by this book because probably without the reader realizing it, what is so often being explored is the interplay between words and music, Burgess understanding “everything is text” even before the postmodernists made a cult of it.  It’s worth reading also for the waspish comments about the Austrian-born music journalist Hans Keller, best understood after listening to the composition Homage to Hans Keller (1982), written by Burgess in reaction to Keller’s review of his opera Blooms of Dublin (1982) based on James Joyce’s (1882–1941) Ulysses (1922).  Scored for four tubas (which should be a hint), the “homage” was very much in the spirit of Metal Machine Music which in 1975 Lou Reed (1942–2013) handed to his record company.  In that vein, an irony of his fame was that he became best known as the author of the novel A Clockwork Orange (1962) and that happened because of the notoriety achieved by the film version (1971), directed by Stanley Kubrick (1928–1999).

Cover of a first edition A Clockwork Orange (1962), signed by the author, (Aus$18,975.08 on eBay (left)) and a promotional poster for the film version (1971, right).  The film was based on the abridged US edition of the book which omitted the final chapter in which the protagonist undergoes something of a redemption.  That does change the moral effect but some critics thought the distinction slight, the film just too gratuitous in its depiction of sexual violence for the original's anyway ambiguous conclusion to be rendered much different. 

In Flame into Being (1985), his biography of DH Lawrence (1885–1930), Burgess would write: “The book I am best known for, or only known for, is a novel I am prepared to repudiate: written a quarter of a century ago, a jeu d’esprit (literally “game of the spirit” and used here to suggest something intended as a quick comment on an idea rather than anything substantial) knocked off for money in three weeks, it became known as the raw material for a film which seemed to glorify sex and violence. The film made it easy for readers of the book to misunderstand what it was about, and the misunderstanding will pursue me till I die. I should not have written the book because of this danger of misinterpretation, and the same may be said of Lawrence and Lady Chatterley’s Lover (1928).”  Scholars cataloguing his papers later found A Clockwork Orange was some two years in the making but that he didn’t deign even to mention the book by name was an indication of something and many suspect he’d have been not unhappy if remembered for the book and not the film which gained him a new audience, if not exactly the one he’d have preferred.  However, for those who like words, The Devil Prefers Mozart, On Music and Musicians contains enough expected Burgessian gems and like apothaneintheloish, there aren’t many other places to find multiguous, parthenogenetical, theodician, apodemoniosis, stichomythia or quinquennium.

Flibbertigibbet

Flibbertigibbet (pronounced flib-er-tee-jib-it)

(1) A chattering or flighty, light-headed person.

(2) Someone who gossips (archaic)

(3) An imp; a fiend or goblin (archaic).

1440-1450: From the late Middle English flepergebet or flipergebet; a reduplicative compound of obscure origin thought almost certainly imitative of idle chatter and as a "nonsense word" meant to sound like fast talking, it was long applied only to women.  As the name of a devil or fiend it dates from circa 1600 (along with Frateretto, Hoberdidance & Tocobatto) and until the eighteenth century, more than a dozen alternative spellings existed although most were doubtlessly mere mistakes.  Although no etymologists appear to support the noting it might be an alternative source, many note the alteration of flibbergib (toady, sycophant) which could have been from the Old Norse fleipra-geipa(re) (babbler of nonsense). The construct of the wholly hypothetical Old Norse term would have been fleipra (a variant of fleipa (to babble, tattle)) + geipa (to talk nonsense, to boast) or geipare (one who speaks nonsense, a braggart).  Fleipa was the source of the "flip-" element in the English flippant; the original meaning of flibbergib was “chatterer”.  The alternative spelling is flibberty-gibbet.  Flibbertigibbet is a noun and flibbertigibbety & flibbertigibbish are (potentially useful) adjectives; the noun plural is flibbertigibbets.  There's no record of an adverb.

Shakespeare, language and respectability

All etymologists list flibbertigibbet as a pseudo-compound.  A compound is a word or word group made up from two or more parts that work together as a unit to express a specific concept whereas a pseudo-compound is a word which merely looks like it is a compound but, even if built from real words, the final meaning bears no relationship to the components.  Flibbertigibbet is simply an imitation of meaningless or babbling speech and it’s had many different spellings over the centuries, the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) listing fifteen, noting fibbergib is likely the original.  An overarching influence in the meaning was the patriarchy; although structurally gender-neutral, it was for centuries an exclusively feminine form, the linguistic paradigm apparently unable to conceive that boys and men could be flighty, scatter-brained chatterers.  The earliest known use dates from around 1450 as fleper-gebet and, about a century later, it was a respectable enough term for Bishop Hugh Latimer (circa 1487–1555) to use it in a sermon delivered before Edward VI (1537–1553; King of England and Ireland 1547-1553), though he wrote it as flybbergybe.

David Garrick (1717–1779) in the character of King Lear (Shakespeare, King Lear, Act III, Scene 1).  An engraving (1761) by James McArdell (1729–1765) following Benjamin Wilson (1721–1788), Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

It was the influence of William Shakespeare (1564–1616) which standardized the current spelling as flibbertigibbet, if not the meaning.  In King Lear (circa 1605) it’s the name of one of five fiends possessing Edgar and in this sense was used also to describe Puck, the mischievous fairy in A Midsummer Night’s Dream (circa 1595).  Sir Walter Scott (1771–1832) would later use Flibbertigibbet as the name of an impetuous urchin child in his novel Kenilworth (1821).  As a device, flibbertigibbet was said to be "imitative of meaningless or babbling speech" but when technology made audio recording possible, sound engineers found the word "rhubarb" repeated in rapid sequence by as few as four people with different voice tones almost exactly replicated background conversation and it was possible to create the illusion of a handful of people or dozens just by adjusting the volume.

A most respectable actor: Lindsay Lohan on stage in Speed-the-Plow (1998) by David Mamet (b 1947), London, October 2014.  Actors today owe a debt to David Garrick because he was the one who made being a thespian something respectable.

Shakespeare's influence on language, the stage and the structure of performance is well known but some of those who built or enhanced their reputations performing or interpreting his work also left their mark.  Although Garrick's work as a playwright has never been highly regarded, as a producer and theatre manager it was his innovations which transformed theatre in both England, Europe and ultimately North America.  It was Garrick who more than any other who was responsible for making a career on the stage, if not entirely respectable in the eyes of "the better classes", at least no longer disreputable.  In something which would have been remarkable only a generation or two earlier, his funeral was conducted at Westminster Abbey and he was buried in Poets' Corner.  London's (still exclusively male) Garrick Club is named after him and it retains a membership which includes many theatrical types.

Appoggiatura

Appoggiatura (pronounced uh-poj-uh-too-r-uh or uh-poj-uh-tyoo- r-uh or ahp-pawd-jah-too-rah (Italian))

In musical composition, an ornament consisting of a non-harmonic note (short or long) preceding a harmonic one either before or on the stress (a note of embellishment preceding another note and taking a portion of its time).

1745-1755: From the Italian appoggiatura, from appoggiare (to lean; to prop; to support) from the Vulgar Latin appodiāre (present active infinitive of appodiō, from the Classical Latin podium) and related to the French appuyer, the Spanish apoyar and the Portuguese apoiar.  The meaning in music is for the sense of one note “propping up” another.

The Appoggiatura

As in many fields, fashions in music change.  There was a period, during the sixteenth century, when the rules of counterpoint were strict and discords permissible only if they were prepared and resolved in ways used in the previous sections; the only discord normally allowed on the strong beat was the suspension.  There the discord is prepared by the note being tied across from a weak to a strong beat and resolved onto the next weak beat; a type of syncopation.  In the mid-century however, there was a relaxation of the rules of voice leading which included experimentation with unprepared discords, the most important of which was the appoggiatura.  The appoggiatura started as a decorative note which displaced the first part of a note of a melody.  It occurred on the strong beat of the bar and could be either dissonant or consonant but in either case, the appoggiatura resolved (upwards or downwards) onto a consonance but, unlike the suspension, did not require to be prepared or tied from a previous note.  In order to overcome the earlier rule that all discords had to be prepared, the appoggiatura was originally shown as an ornament but later was written out in full.

An ornament: Bach, Orchestral Suite in B minor for flute and strings: Menuet.

That was just a fudge, a composer paying respect to a rule while breaking it because, as played, an appoggiatura is not a short ornament, it takes usually up a full half of the length of the note that it resolves onto and if resolved onto a note three beats long, it takes up a third or two thirds the length.  The appoggiatura is usually connected with the main harmony note by a slur and is normally played with a small degree of emphasis.

Haydn: Sonata in G major XVI:27 Allegro con Brio.

Haydn shows appoggiaturas at *1, *2 and *3, now written out in-full as was normal practice in the classical period. Their identity as elaborating notes is given away by the presence of the slurs.

The two superstars of the 1950s.  Maria Callas (1923-1977)  and Marilyn Monroe (1926-1962), back-stage after the "Happy Birthday Mr President" performance, Madison Square Garden, New York, 19 May 1962.  Within three months, Marilyn Monroe would be dead.

December 2 2023 marked the hundredth anniversary of the birth of the singer Maria Callas, the soprano who remains still more famous than any other and the subject of a cult, something attributable certainly to her art but the tempestuous life she led off the stage attracted many; in the very modern sense of the word, Callas was a celebrity.  What Callas is in 2023 is thus a construct, a mix of myth, discography, and public persona although it’s more correct to say she’s a number of constructs; the criteria of trained musicians and critics likely to differ from those who just listen.  She was neither the most technically accomplished nor the most refined singer and yet, as Sir Rudolf Bing (1902–1997; General Manager of the Metropolitan Opera in New York (the Met)) famously noted, “having once heard Callas, it was difficult to listen to anyone else sing the same music”.  That was because whatever the technical flaws or deliberate departures from what had become the accepted techniques of the mid-twentieth century, Callas brought to every performance a thrilling intensity which made the characters come alive in a way even the most virtuosic of her contemporaries couldn’t quite match.

The critics impressed only by technical ecstasy liked to label Callas a “singing actress” and there’s something in that but not in the way they mean; the “acting” wasn’t there to compensate for the voice, it was a part of the voice.  There are several recordings of the “madness” scene in Gaetano Donizetti's (1797–1848) Lucia di Lammermoor (1835) in which, as an exercise in singing, the performances are more accomplished yet it’s the Callas version which is the definitive because only she can send a shiver down the spine.  It was in the interpretation, just as it was when, in Giuseppe Verdi’s (1813–1901) Otello (1886), she played with layers of vocal tones variously to convey feelings of warm nostalgia, paranoia, depression and impending death.  Whatever was in the score to be expressed, it’s there but it wasn’t done with vocal pyrotechnics, indeed Callas, in both studio recordings and live performances often eschewed the cadential trills and appoggiature which, although unwritten, had entered Opera in the seventeenth century and become a signature of sopranos since at least the early nineteenth.  What she did with her voice has been called a kind of “operatic word-painting”, a lending of emotional depth which enabled her, more than any other to transcend the theatrical artificiality of opera and it’s this quality which means even roles for which she seemed an improbable choice (such as Giacomo Puccini’s (1858–1924) Madam Butterfly (1904)) demand attention.