Sententiola: peanutbutterandjamzee: sententiola: What puzzles me about the phrase...

sistermagpie:

peanutbutterandjamzee:

sententiola:

What puzzles me about the phrase ‘have you ever seen them in the same room together?’ is the ‘in the same room’ bit.

Does it add evidential value? If someone has seen two people together outdoors, is that insufficient proof that they aren’t the same…

I do use it to mean something different? I thought I used to to mean the same thing—a joking suggestion that two people might be the same person? Like you’re referring to Superman and Clark Kent never being in the same room together at the same time—more likely Clark Kent would show up just after Superman left?

Yes, but I thought you’d said earlier that you use it a different way, the same way you might say ‘have you ever seen them eat a hamburger?’ when trying to help someone work out whether someone else is vegetarian.  In other words, ‘in the same room’ is not the crucial location that clinches the argument (which is how I think most people use it, in which case it doesn’t strictly make any sense), but is just the first and most obvious in what could be an almost infinite series of places where they might have been seen together.

If that’s how you use it, then you are literally asking whether the two people in question were in a room when they were sighted together.  Whereas Alex is suggesting that most people who use the phrase are not actually enquiring about whether the two people were literally in a room.

peanutbutterandjamzee:

sententiola:

What puzzles me about the phrase ‘have you ever seen them in the same room together?’ is the ‘in the same room’ bit.

Does it add evidential value?  If someone has seen two people together outdoors, is that insufficient proof that they aren’t the same person?  What if they were together in a car?

Hmm.

—·—

(NB:  This isn’t, and shouldn’t be used as, a criticism of people who use that phrase.  There are expressions people use because they’re already well established as having a particular meaning and particular implications, and the actual combination of words doesn’t really matter because the point is that I say it and you know what I mean by it and stuff.  It’s just funny how sometimes arbitrary and slightly nonsensical assumptions seem to get embedded in these expressions.  And stuff.)

It strikes me that you may be thinking too literally. It’s an example of whatsit. Synecdoche? Yes. “A specific class of thing is used to refer to a larger, more general class”. YES THAT’S EXACTLY IT

This phrase is synecdoche. Using the specific class of thing (“room”) to refer to a larger, more general class (“places where two people might be together”). It’s not literally and only referring to rooms.

I disagree that it’s an example of synecdoche, but even if it is, my point was precisely that the inclusion of ‘in the same room’ is nonsensical if you consider it literally.  Which is why I was considering it literally.  Obviously when we use that phrase we don’t mean it literally, as I noted in the last paragraph.  (Except Sister Magpie, who apparently does mean it literally but uses the expression in a different way entirely.)

(via tiny-puppy-teeth)

Sententiola: What puzzles me about the phrase ‘have you ever seen them in the same...

sistermagpie:

sententiola:

sistermagpie:

sententiola:

What puzzles me about the phrase ‘have you ever seen them in the same room together?’ is the ‘in the same room’ bit.

Does it add evidential value? If someone has seen two people together outdoors, is that insufficient proof that they aren’t the same person? What if they were together in a car?

I don’t think it’s nonsensical, though? Because seeing two people in the same room together at the same time would actually be good evidence that they are not the same person. 

Absolutely, but so would seeing them having a picnic in the park together or riding a tandem together.  The fact that they’re in a room when you see them together adds nothing to the evidential value of the fact that you’ve seen them together.

Whereas the implication of the question ‘have you ever seen them in the same room together?’ is that if you haven’t, you can’t be completely sure that they aren’t the same person.  Meaning that if you have seen them together but they were navigating a hot-air balloon across the Alps at the time, there would still be some doubt about whether they’re separate people: because you haven’t actually seen them in the same room together.

Maybe I’m explaining this badly?

Right, but maybe I was explaining it badly. The “in the same room” is arbitrary, but it doesn’t imply that they must be in the same room, it’s just a starting place. Like, if someone was wondering if someone was a vegetarian I might say, “Well, have you ever seen them eating a hamburger?” Obviously it could be any kind of meat, but I made it specific because that’s a common type of meat to eat. Like being the same room is a common place to see people together, plus it’s a confined space. If they were just in the same house they could be switching costumes between rooms, which often happens.

So the added detail of it being a room is arbitrary, but since it doesn’t imply it has to be a room so I wouldn’t say nonsensical. It’s intentionally using a specific example to underline how ham-handed the secret identities are usually handled. 

Apparently I have thoughts about this phrase. I think I just like it!

I’m not saying you shouldn’t like it!  And if that’s how you use it then I guess it isn’t nonsensical when you use it, but I’m pretty sure that isn’t how most people use or understand it.  If you google the phrase (and similar phrases like ‘have you ever seen them in the same room’ and ‘have you ever seen them in a room together’) you don’t find people who seem to be trying to start a conversation with the sincere goal of ascertaining whether X and Y are the same person by eliminating various locations they may have shared, starting with ‘a room’ as the most likely candidate.  They’re generally saying it with the clear (though tongue-in-cheek) implication that, if the answer to the question is ‘no’, this alone means that their interlocutor cannot be sure that X and Y are not the same person.

Sententiola: What puzzles me about the phrase ‘have you ever seen them in the same...

sistermagpie:

sententiola:

What puzzles me about the phrase ‘have you ever seen them in the same room together?’ is the ‘in the same room’ bit.

Does it add evidential value? If someone has seen two people together outdoors, is that insufficient proof that they aren’t the same person? What if they were together in a car?

I don’t think it’s nonsensical, though? Because seeing two people in the same room together at the same time would actually be good evidence that they are not the same person. 

Absolutely, but so would seeing them having a picnic in the park together or riding a tandem together.  The fact that they’re in a room when you see them together adds nothing to the evidential value of the fact that you’ve seen them together.

Whereas the implication of the question ‘have you ever seen them in the same room together?’ is that if you haven’t, you can’t be completely sure that they aren’t the same person.  Meaning that if you have seen them together but they were navigating a hot-air balloon across the Alps at the time, there would still be some doubt about whether they’re separate people: because you haven’t actually seen them in the same room together.

Maybe I’m explaining this badly?

What puzzles me about the phrase ‘have you ever seen them in the same room together?’ is the ‘in the same room’ bit.

Does it add evidential value?  If someone has seen two people together outdoors, is that insufficient proof that they aren’t the same person?  What if they were together in a car?

Hmm.

—·—

(NB:  This isn’t, and shouldn’t be used as, a criticism of people who use that phrase.  There are expressions people use because they’re already well established as having a particular meaning and particular implications, and the actual combination of words doesn’t really matter because the point is that I say it and you know what I mean by it and stuff.  It’s just funny how sometimes arbitrary and slightly nonsensical assumptions seem to get embedded in these expressions.  And stuff.)

Sententiola: [Original post contains a picture of a block of text, reading:...

pareidolalia:

sententiola:

[Original post contains a picture of a block of text, reading: ‘“Quite”: an adverbial modifier that shades the meaning of a statement. Americans use “quite” to amplify their enthusiasm for the adjective, in the way they would use “really”, “very” or “totally”. By contrast, if a Brit volunteers…

What about “rather?”

Hmm.  ’Rather’ sounds pretty posh however you use it, except as a word of comparison (e.g. ‘Would you rather do X or Y?’).  It hasn’t got much currency nowadays, at least as far as I’m aware.

I think it’s perhaps a bit like the second sense of ‘quite’: it isn’t as strong as ‘very’ but it’s more positive than no adverb at all.  A lot of the time I think it has a hint of ‘surprisingly’ or ‘actually’, as if the ‘rather attractive’ person is someone you might not have expected to be particularly attractive.  This links it back to the older comparative meaning of the word, since there’s an implied contrast with the expected state of affairs.

I don’t think it really has the sense of the first ‘quite’ (to indicate a lesser degree of enthusiasm than someone else has, or than might be expected).  I can’t recall having heard or seen it used like that (except for deliberate understatement).

As with ‘quite’ there’s an older layer, which is strictly comparative and would usually be used to explicitly contrast two options (e.g. ‘The blood I drop is rather physical / Than dangerous to me’ (Coriolanus 1.5)).

I’m not entirely sure when you first start getting ‘rather’ used as a (mild) intensifier.  I’ve found it in Frankenstein (1818) and Belinda (1811) but not in Gulliver’s travels (1726) or Marchmont (1796).  There are one or two examples in The mysteries of Udolpho (1794).  There are also a few in The school for scandal (1777) and She stoops to conquer (1773), which suggests it was in conversational use by that time (plays, and especially comedies, tending to use more colloquial language than other literary texts) although it may not have become acceptable in literary prose until the next generation.

Interestingly I haven’t found anything resembling a transitional usage.  I’d expected that when it first started appearing as a word similar to ‘very’ or ‘somewhat’, there would be an implicit contrast with an alternative.  That would make sense as a stepping-stone between the explicitly contrasting usage and the more modern usage.  But the examples in UdolphoShe stoops to conquer, and The school for scandal don’t seem to have any implicit alternatives: they look very much like the modern form.

Like ‘quite’, ‘rather’ can also be used as an old-fashioned posh one-word exclamation, but in this case a much more straight-forward one expressing emphatic agreement.  For some reason when used in this way it tends to have the emphasis on the second syllable, not the first: ‘ra-THER!’.  A very Bertie Wooster thing to say.

How does all that compare with North American ‘rather’?

(Source: tigerfeel)

[Original post contains a picture of a block of text, reading: ‘“Quite”: an adverbial modifier that shades the meaning of a statement.  Americans use “quite” to amplify their enthusiasm for the adjective, in the way they would use “really”, “very” or “totally”.  By contrast, if a Brit volunteers that a visitor is “quite attractive”, they’re only saying “fairly” or “sort of attractive”.  This ambiguous intensifier bestows a “damning with faint praise” effect on any word with which it is teamed.’

peanutbutterandjamzee:

totalspiffage:

doctorrif:

And that’s terrible.: shiphassailed: tigerpellets: I NEVER KNEW THISI NEVER KNEW THAT WAS…

shiphassailed:

tigerpellets:

I NEVER KNEW THIS

I NEVER KNEW THAT WAS WHAT AMERICANS MEANT WHEN THEY SAID “QUITE”

WHY DIDN’T ANYBODY TELL ME

SUDDENLY THAT ONE SONG THAT GOES “HELLO I MISS YOU QUITE TERRIBLY” MAKES LIKE A MILLION TIMES MORE SENSE

are you serious british…

How can you all not know this? That’s QUITE terrible!

What the hell??? I didn’t know this was a thing that differed between brits and americans. W OWWww.

okay you know what

JAMIE, IS THIS TRUE?

A bit true.  In my experience (dialects and registers vary, of course), ‘quite’ generally adds little to what it modifies.  To say someone is ‘quite attractive’ is not necessarily higher praise than saying they are ‘attractive’, nor is it necessarily (or even usually) ‘damning with faint praise’.  It’s quite* context-sensitive.

Consider the following exchange:

  • Person 1:   ‘Wow, Christian Bale is really attractive!’
  • Person 2:   ‘Yeah, he’s quite attractive.’

I’d interpret that to mean that person 2 doesn’t radically disagree but wants to add a note of moderation.  They’re not really prepared to go as far as ‘really attractive’, but I wouldn’t assume that they find him unattractive.

On the other hand:

  • Person 1:   ‘Wow, Christian Bale is hideous!’
  • Person 2:   ‘I think he’s quite attractive.’

Here 2 is clearly disagreeing with 1.  The word ‘quite’ adds little except perhaps to convey that 2 acknowledges that Bale is not the most attractive person in the world and there could be scope for disagreement about his attractiveness.  Nonetheless the ‘quite’ clearly indicates that Bale is attractive to a degree that is by no means to be sneezed at.  He’s more than ‘sort of’ attractive.

So it’s a rather unhelpful adverb, really, or at least a very subtle one.  But I think it’s fair to say that it’s very rarely a significant intensifier and can’t readily be exchanged for ‘very’, let alone ‘totally’.

The exception is in old-fashioned British English.  If you go back to the earlier part of the twentieth century, and to a certain somewhat posh way of speaking, ‘quite’ means ‘entirely’ or ‘completely’ (or, more loosely, ‘very’).  For example, ‘Oh Geoffrey, it was quite ghastly!’ — this means that it was entirely ghastly, with no element of non-ghastliness.  Or, ‘Dash it, I had quite forgotten!’ — meaning that the speaker had completely failed to remember.

If you go back further, you find this sense as standard, e.g. ‘The commons hath he pill’d with grievous taxes, / And quite lost their hearts: the nobles hath he fin’d / For ancient quarrels and quite lost their hearts’ (Richard II 2.1).  You still get hints of it today, when ‘quite’ is used to modify adjectives that are quantifiable, e.g. ‘I’m not quite sure’ (meaning ‘I’m not completely sure’) would still be a perfectly normal thing to say, though it would perhaps be more usual to say ‘I’m not completely sure’ or something like that.

You also get a whiff of this old meaning in certain well-established phrases like ‘quite enough’ (e.g. ‘that’s quite enough of that, thank you’ — a stern and slightly old-fashioned way of saying ‘stop that’), or when ‘quite’ is used on its own as a way of indicating ‘what you have said is exactly right’ with a slight connotation of ‘what you have said is even more true than you realize’ or ‘you have unintentionally said something extremely apposite’, e.g.:

  • Jamie:   ‘I have set out my thoughts on this subject at some length…’
  • Tumblr:   ‘Quite.’

________

* (My use of ‘quite’ here means ‘I don’t want to commit to saying something as categorical as “it’s context-sensitive” because I’m not sure that’s always true’.  You could substitute ‘fairly’.  It’s perhaps a bit stronger than ‘somewhat’.)

(Source: tigerfeel, via tiny-puppy-teeth)

raphaellaskies:

“Ancient moon priestesses were called virgins. ‘Virgin’ meant not married, not belong to a man - a woman who was ‘one-in-herself’. The very word derives from a Latin root meaning strength, force, skill; and was later applied to men: virle. Ishtar, Diana, Astarte, Isis were all all called virgin, which did not refer to sexual chasity, but sexual independence. And all great culture heroes of the past…, mythic or historic, were said to be born of virgin mothers: Marduk, Gilgamesh, Buddha, Osiris, Dionysus, Genghis Khan, Jesus - they were all affirmed as sons of the Great Mother, of the Original One, their worldly power deriving from her. When the Hebrews used the word, and in the original Aramatic, it meant ‘maiden’ or ‘young woman’, with no connotations to sexual chasity. But later Christian translators could not conceive of the ‘Virgin Mary’ as a woman of independent sexuality, needless to say; they distorted the meaning into sexually pure, chaste, never touched. When Joan of Arc, with her witch coven associations, was called La Pucelle - ‘the Maiden,’ ‘the Virgin’ - the word retained some of its original pagan sense of a strong and independent woman. The Moon Goddess was worshipped in orgiastic rites, being the divinity of matriarchal women free to take as many lovers as they choose. Women could ‘surrender’ themselves to the Goddess by making love to a stranger in her temple.”

Monica Sjoo and Barbara Mor, The Great Cosmic Mother - Rediscovering the Religion of the Earth (via munstersandghosts)

how words change over time

(via fuckyeahsexeducation)

I think a lot of this is very iffy, though.

Sjöö and Mor write as if ‘virgin’ were a single word that exists in a number of different languages, cultures, and historical periods, which allows them to slide around from one historical culture to another as if they all had essentially the same concept that meant the same thing.  If you try to tie down any of these assertions and see whether they actually work in any particular language or historical period… they mostly don’t.

The Oxford Latin Dictionary and the Online Etymology Dictionary agree that the Latin word ‘virgó’ is most likely to come from the same root as the Latin ‘virga’ meaning a shoot or twig.  It’s true that ‘virgó’ didn’t always mean someone who hasn’t had sex, but I’m not aware of any evidence that it implied a woman who was in charge of her own sexuality in any positive sense.

It also doesn’t seem to be related to the Latin word ‘vir’, meaning a man; and the statement that ‘The very word derives from a Latin root meaning strength, force, skill; and was later applied to men: virle’ is completely wrong.  When they mention a root ‘meaning strength, force, skill’ they presumably mean the word ‘virtus’.  ’Vir’ is not derived from ‘virtus’: it’s the other way round.  ’Virtus’, meaning courage, strength, or moral excellence, is derived from ‘vir’ because its original meaning is ‘manliness’.  Because, guess what, the dominant Roman culture and language were not matriarchal but misogynistic.

The passage about Ishtar, Diana, Astarte, Isis, Marduk, Gilgamesh, Buddha, Osiris, Dionysus, Genghis Khan, and Jesus smells to me like an appropriative attempt to mash an array of cultures together and enlist them in support of the ‘religion of the earth’ that the authors want to ‘rediscover’ by erasing their differences and subordinating them to some universalizing idea.

I can’t make much sense of the bit about ‘the Hebrews’ and ‘the original Aramaic’, but the suggestion seems to be that the idea of Mary conceiving Jesus without having sex was the result of some kind of mistranslation from Aramaic.  I can’t see how that can possibly have happened.  The earliest version of the story is in the gospels of Matthew and Luke, which were composed within living memory of Jesus’ life, and they were composed in Greek, not Aramaic.

And Mary’s virginity can’t simply be the result of mistranslation of a single word by ‘later Christians’.  First of all, Matthew uses the Greek word ‘parthenos’, which means virgin in the ‘hasn’t had sex’ sense, so it wouldn’t be mistranslation, it would be entirely accurate translation.  Moreover, it isn’t just a question of translating one word: Matthew quite clearly says that Mary and Joseph did not have sex before Jesus was born, and Luke says that Mary had not had sex with any man at the time when the angel visited her.

Possibly Sjöö and Mor are implying that there was a pre-gospel Aramaic tradition in which Mary was regarded merely as a ‘young woman’ and that the ‘later Christians’ ‘distorted’ this tradition to make Mary a virgin.  The existence of a pre-gospel Aramaic tradition is perfectly possible, but the rest makes no sense.  Sjöö and Mor are clearly framing this as an issue of translation.  Even if there were written Aramaic accounts of the conception of Jesus, the gospels of Matthew and Luke are not translations of them: they’re original compositions.  So they wouldn’t have been distorting the meaning of a word, they’d just have been changing the story.

Also, to say that ‘they distorted the meaning into sexually pure, chaste, never touched’ seems to imply not so much that they used one word in place of another but that they actually changed the meaning of the original word.  This is plainly wrong: ‘parthenos’ meant ‘woman who hasn’t had sex’ long before the gospels were written (as did Latin ‘virgó’, if that’s that the authors have in mind).

Finally, the whole proposition that ‘later Christian translators could not conceive of the ‘Virgin Mary’ as a woman of independent sexuality, needless to say’ is nonsensical.  The clear implication is that because they were Christian, they couldn’t accommodate the idea of Mary’s independent sexuality.  But the interval between the death of Jesus and the composition of the gospels was, at most, one generation.

It makes no historical sense to assume that there was a fully-formed Christian attitude towards female sexuality and that this influenced the gospel-writers so strongly that it made them change a story about a woman who had a child as a result of having sex — which would, after all, have been a perfectly conventional event and not in any way an outrageous or anti-patriarchal expression of independent female sexuality — into a story about a miraculous conception.  On the contrary, it’s much more plausible that the story of Jesus’ conception contributed to the later development of a negative Christian attitude to female sexuality.  Or, if the gospel-writers did have such attitudes already, they were not distinctively Christian attitudes but must have come from the Jewish-Hellenistic-Roman cultural environment of the time.

The reference to Joan of Arc again seems to treat ‘virgin’ as a monolithic word that is the same in all languages, which is here said to retain ‘some of its original pagan sense’.  This is despite the fact that in the very same sentence the authors recognize that the French word is ‘pucelle’, which transparently has no etymological connection with ‘virgin’ and in fact comes originally from the Latin word for a female child, a word with no connotations of independent sexuality at all.  (On the contrary, it acquired a rather male-gaze sort of connotation as a word for a young woman who is the object of sexual desire.)

As for the last bit — ‘The Moon Goddess was worshipped in orgiastic rites, being the divinity of matriarchal women free to take as many lovers as they choose. Women could ‘surrender’ themselves to the Goddess by making love to a stranger in her temple.’ — we’re back to the extreme vagueness and elision of different cultures.  When was the Moon Goddess worshipped with these rites?  Who were the women who could take as many lovers as they chose?  In what temples, and where?  If this is anything more than ahistorical puff, it’s probably a reference to ‘sacred prostitution’ in ancient Babylon (which is in modern Iraq, by the way) — a practice for which there is no real evidence beyond the account of the Greek historian Herodotus, pioneer of inaccurate and exoticizing descriptions of Asian and African cultures.

An excavation of matriarchal religious beliefs and empowered female sexuality underlying the more well-attested historical patriarchal cultures of various parts of the world would be great, but this is clearly not it.  This is the sort of white western neo-paganism that reviles Christianity while actually being far more similar to Christianity than it is to any historically-rooted pagan traditions, and that uses bad history and bad linguistics to give the impression that it has ancient roots when actually all it has is a collection of decontextualized pieces of other people’s cultures and histories.

(Source: rabbitinthemoon, via ladysaviours)

[Image is a picture of a necklace but that isn’t really important at this stage.]
My post below is really long and is about the usage and etymology of words like ‘yonic’, ‘phallic’, ‘penis’, ‘vagina’, &c.  You have been warned.
peanutbutterandjamzee:

nekogakawaku:

uncutting:

supchristine:

What’s the opposite of phallic ?

Though not nearly as common in use, “yonic” is the word for that.

I’m pretty sure that can’t be right.  ”Phallic” comes from “phallus,” via Latin and Greek (which eventually evolved into “penis”), whereas “yonic” would come from “yoni,” which is Sanskrit.  The Latin counterpart to “phallus” is “vagina,” which hasn’t changed in modern English, while the Sanskrit counterpart to “yoni” is “lingham.”  It’s highly doubtful that the appropriate descriptive counterpart would come from a completely different language, meaning the correct (albeit somewhat sillier-sounding) counterpart would probably be “vaginic.”

Actually, it would work perfectly well with Sanskrit. Sanskrit is Indo-European just like Latin is. Nothing wrong with that.

Nekogakawaku,
Your argument seems to be that it’s illogical for the antonym of an English word with a Greek root to be an English word with a Sanskrit root, therefore this cannot be (or at least is unlikely to be) correct.  This relies on an unstated assumption that English is logical.  As to which: rofl.
Secondly, I’m no linguist, but I’m fairly certain that what makes something an English word is its usage in English by speakers and writers of English.  If it’s used (to a certain threshold, about which I dare say there’s room for disagreement) to mean a thing, then it’s the word for that thing, regardless of logic or consistency.
I hadn’t heard ‘yonic’ before this post, but Wikitionary cites two examples from ordinary use, and a quick google reveals many more (for example, this online dictionary of literary terms, this published work on literary writing, and indeed the very subtitle of this published book about English words and etymology).  Whereas a google of ‘vaginic’ reveals almost no examples of the word being used in the way you propose.
Of course this doesn’t stop you arguing that ‘yonic’ shouldn’t be the corresponding term to ‘phallic’ and that ‘vaginic’ should be, but I think it more or less does stop you credibly arguing that yonic isn’t the word.
But even by your own logic, ‘vaginic’ should definitely not be the corresponding word to ‘phallic’.
‘Phallic’ doesn’t come from Latin.  There is a Latin word ‘phallicus’ but it means  a line of verse that goes long-short-long-short-long-anceps.  There is also a Latin word ‘phallus’ but it’s extremely rare and is used to mean exactly the same thing as the Greek word ‘phallos’.
The Greek word ‘phallos’ does not mean ‘penis’.  It means a ritual image of a penis.  There are various ancient Greek words for an actual, non-symbolic penis (the most common is ‘peos’), but ‘phallos’ is not one of them.
(Also, the Latin word ‘penis’ does not derive from ‘phallos’.  The two words are completely unconnected.  And the idea that ‘phallos’ ‘eventually evolved into “penis”’ is not only wrong but makes no historical sense because ancient Greek and Latin were contemporary languages, and how can a word from one of language ‘eventually evolve’ into a different word in another language that is being spoken at the same time?  But I digress.)
Now, consistently with the meaning of ‘phallos’, the core meaning of the English word ‘phallic’ is ‘symbolic of a penis’.  Not ‘like a penis’ or ‘resembling a penis’ (though those are nowadays more popular usages) but ‘symbolizing a penis’ (especially in a ritual context).
So to find (according to your own logic) the word that ought to correspond to ‘phallic’, you need to find a root in ancient Greek, not in Latin (because ‘phallic’ comes from Greek and not from Latin), and that root needs to mean not ‘vagina’ but ‘image of a vagina’ (preferably ‘ritual image of a vagina’).
But even if the correct language were Latin and not Greek, and even if the correct root were a word meaning ‘vagina’ and not a word meaning ‘image of a vagina’, your theory would still founder on one final but rather jagged rock: ‘vagina’ is not the Latin word for ‘vagina’.  It’s the Latin word for ‘scabbard’ or ‘sheath’.  It was occasionally used by Plautus as a sexual euphemism… for the anus.  It was never used, even metaphorically, to mean the vagina.  The word for a vagina was ‘cunnus’.
(The word for a penis, in case you’re wondering, was ‘mentula’, although the word ‘penis’, which literally means a tail, was sometimes used metaphorically to mean a penis.  And yes, it is a mildly interesting fact that the Latin word for a penis is feminine and the Latin word for a vagina is masculine.)
So the word is actually ‘cunnic’.  Except that it isn’t, because it’s a word derived from ancient Greek rather than Latin and its root is a word meaning ‘image of a vagina’ rather than ‘vagina’.  Except that it isn’t, because none of those words is used in English, whereas ‘yonic’ plainly is.
Which is appropriate, actually, because from what I gather ‘yoni’ also means a ritual image of a vagina.
_______________
Sources (in no particular order):
The Oxford Latin dictionary (combined edition, reprinted with corrections 1996);
Liddell & Scott, A Greek-English lexicon (searchable on Perseus);
Lewis & Short, A Latin dictionary (searchable on Perseus);
The Online etymology dictionary;
Arnobius, Adversus natiónés 5.19.2;
Adams, The Latin sexual vocabulary (1982, Duckworth).

[Image is a picture of a necklace but that isn’t really important at this stage.]

My post below is really long and is about the usage and etymology of words like ‘yonic’, ‘phallic’, ‘penis’, ‘vagina’, &c.  You have been warned.

peanutbutterandjamzee:

nekogakawaku:

uncutting:

supchristine:

What’s the opposite of phallic ?

Though not nearly as common in use, “yonic” is the word for that.

I’m pretty sure that can’t be right.  ”Phallic” comes from “phallus,” via Latin and Greek (which eventually evolved into “penis”), whereas “yonic” would come from “yoni,” which is Sanskrit.  The Latin counterpart to “phallus” is “vagina,” which hasn’t changed in modern English, while the Sanskrit counterpart to “yoni” is “lingham.”  It’s highly doubtful that the appropriate descriptive counterpart would come from a completely different language, meaning the correct (albeit somewhat sillier-sounding) counterpart would probably be “vaginic.”

Actually, it would work perfectly well with Sanskrit. Sanskrit is Indo-European just like Latin is. Nothing wrong with that.

Nekogakawaku,

Your argument seems to be that it’s illogical for the antonym of an English word with a Greek root to be an English word with a Sanskrit root, therefore this cannot be (or at least is unlikely to be) correct.  This relies on an unstated assumption that English is logical.  As to which: rofl.

Secondly, I’m no linguist, but I’m fairly certain that what makes something an English word is its usage in English by speakers and writers of English.  If it’s used (to a certain threshold, about which I dare say there’s room for disagreement) to mean a thing, then it’s the word for that thing, regardless of logic or consistency.

I hadn’t heard ‘yonic’ before this post, but Wikitionary cites two examples from ordinary use, and a quick google reveals many more (for example, this online dictionary of literary terms, this published work on literary writing, and indeed the very subtitle of this published book about English words and etymology).  Whereas a google of ‘vaginic’ reveals almost no examples of the word being used in the way you propose.

Of course this doesn’t stop you arguing that ‘yonic’ shouldn’t be the corresponding term to ‘phallic’ and that ‘vaginic’ should be, but I think it more or less does stop you credibly arguing that yonic isn’t the word.

But even by your own logic, ‘vaginic’ should definitely not be the corresponding word to ‘phallic’.

‘Phallic’ doesn’t come from Latin.  There is a Latin word ‘phallicus’ but it means  a line of verse that goes long-short-long-short-long-anceps.  There is also a Latin word ‘phallus’ but it’s extremely rare and is used to mean exactly the same thing as the Greek word ‘phallos’.

The Greek word ‘phallos’ does not mean ‘penis’.  It means a ritual image of a penis.  There are various ancient Greek words for an actual, non-symbolic penis (the most common is ‘peos’), but ‘phallos’ is not one of them.

(Also, the Latin word ‘penis’ does not derive from ‘phallos’.  The two words are completely unconnected.  And the idea that ‘phallos’ ‘eventually evolved into “penis”’ is not only wrong but makes no historical sense because ancient Greek and Latin were contemporary languages, and how can a word from one of language ‘eventually evolve’ into a different word in another language that is being spoken at the same time?  But I digress.)

Now, consistently with the meaning of ‘phallos’, the core meaning of the English word ‘phallic’ is ‘symbolic of a penis’.  Not ‘like a penis’ or ‘resembling a penis’ (though those are nowadays more popular usages) but ‘symbolizing a penis’ (especially in a ritual context).

So to find (according to your own logic) the word that ought to correspond to ‘phallic’, you need to find a root in ancient Greek, not in Latin (because ‘phallic’ comes from Greek and not from Latin), and that root needs to mean not ‘vagina’ but ‘image of a vagina’ (preferably ‘ritual image of a vagina’).

But even if the correct language were Latin and not Greek, and even if the correct root were a word meaning ‘vagina’ and not a word meaning ‘image of a vagina’, your theory would still founder on one final but rather jagged rock: ‘vagina’ is not the Latin word for ‘vagina’.  It’s the Latin word for ‘scabbard’ or ‘sheath’.  It was occasionally used by Plautus as a sexual euphemism… for the anus.  It was never used, even metaphorically, to mean the vagina.  The word for a vagina was ‘cunnus’.

(The word for a penis, in case you’re wondering, was ‘mentula’, although the word ‘penis’, which literally means a tail, was sometimes used metaphorically to mean a penis.  And yes, it is a mildly interesting fact that the Latin word for a penis is feminine and the Latin word for a vagina is masculine.)

So the word is actually ‘cunnic’.  Except that it isn’t, because it’s a word derived from ancient Greek rather than Latin and its root is a word meaning ‘image of a vagina’ rather than ‘vagina’.  Except that it isn’t, because none of those words is used in English, whereas ‘yonic’ plainly is.

Which is appropriate, actually, because from what I gather ‘yoni’ also means a ritual image of a vagina.

_______________

Sources (in no particular order):

The Oxford Latin dictionary (combined edition, reprinted with corrections 1996);

Liddell & Scott, A Greek-English lexicon (searchable on Perseus);

Lewis & Short, A Latin dictionary (searchable on Perseus);

The Online etymology dictionary;

Arnobius, Adversus natiónés 5.19.2;

Adams, The Latin sexual vocabulary (1982, Duckworth).

(via tiny-puppy-teeth)

jeunetbelle replied to your post: So, like, I don’t want to break the internet or…

A “take-away”? Is that food that you order from a restaurant and pick up to eat at home?

Haha!  My efforts at providing a UK English glossary were incomplete.  :)

Yes, ‘take-away’ = ‘take-out’ / ‘carry-out’.  Although actually we got it delivered, so strictly speaking we didn’t take it away at all, but for some reason that’s called ‘take-away’ here too.

I shall add another footnote.

peanutbutterandjamzee:

lesserjoke:

langlabmonitor:

I read something like this in a book on linguistics once. If anyone knows the name of this story, please tell me.

Aristotle claimed that women have fewer teeth than men.

Now thousands of women may at any time open their mouths and find they have the same number of teeth as their male neighbors. From this, we can deduce either:

1. Aristotle was misinformed. His model may need revision.
2. These women have too many teeth. They should lose a few to match Aristotle’s model.

My fifth grade teacher claimed that ending sentences with prepositions is wrong.

Now thousands of people at any given time find themselves creating meaningful sentences that end with a preposition with little confusion in comprehension. From this, we can deduce either:

1. My teacher was misinformed. Her model may need revision.
2. These people are speaking English wrong. They should change that to fit her model.

I don’t know the name of this story, but it’s a fantastic metaphor for prescriptivism, and one I hadn’t heard before. I’ll definitely be using it in the future — so thanks!

This is a model I can definitely deal with. It’s certainly one I’ll link my friends to.

I’m no linguist, but I’m pretty sure this is a terrible analogy.

First we have ‘Aristotle claimed that women have fewer teeth than men.’  Next we’re told, ‘Now thousands of women may at any time open their mouths and find they have the same number of teeth as their male neighbors.’  In other words, there are numerous examples of women having the same number of teeth as men.  Since (in traditional (Aristotelean!) logic) ‘A = B’ is inconsistent with ‘A < B’, any example of women having the same number of teeth as men is inconsistent with the proposition that women have fewer teeth than men.  Thus the first assertion (‘women have fewer teeth than men’) and the second (‘thousands of women… have the same number of teeth as their male neighbours’) cannot both be true, and thus we get the irresistible conclusion that one or other of them must be false.

But now consider the supposedly analogous ‘fifth grade teacher’ anecdote.  First, ‘My fifth grade teacher claimed that ending sentences with prepositions is wrong.’  Next, ‘Now thousands of people at any given time find themselves creating meaningful sentences that end with a preposition with little confusion in comprehension.’  In other words, there are numerous examples of sentences that end with prepositions and do not cause ‘confusion in comprehension’.  (I don’t know exactly what ‘confusion in comprehension’ means — perhaps it’s technical linguistic terminology, or perhaps it’s just slightly opaque writing — but that doesn’t matter for present purposes.)  It’s clear from what follows that we are meant to draw exactly the same sort of conclusion from these two facts as we are from the two facts in the Aristotle section: one of these two assertions (‘ending sentences with prepositions is wrong’ and ‘thousands of people… creat[e] meaningful sentences that end with… preposition[s] with little confusion in comprehension’) must be wrong.  But why?  Presumably (if the analogy with the Aristotle section is sound) because the two propositions are mutually inconsistent.  Why are they mutually inconsistent?  In the Aristotle example it was because a given number cannot be both ‘fewer than’ and ‘the same as’ another given number.  If it’s one, it cannot be the other.  So, if we follow the analogy, there must be an unstated assumption here that a way of forming sentences cannot be both ‘wrong’ and ‘[done] with little confusion in comprehension’.  Only if those two qualities are logically inconsistent does it follow that one or other of the two propositions must be false.

But is it obvious that a way of forming sentences cannot be both ‘wrong’ and ‘[done] with little confusion in comprehension’?  I imagine it is — if you are a linguistic descriptivist.  If you believe that a certain syntactic or grammatical practice can’t be ‘wrong’ if it is used and understood by a significant number of people, then indeed you’ll consider ‘wrong’ and ‘[done] with little confusion in comprehension’ to be mutually inconsistent qualities, and then the conclusion will be irresistible that one of those two propositions must be false.  But now imagine you’re a prescriptivist.  You don’t accept that the number of people who engage in a syntactic or grammatical practice has any bearing at all on whether that practice is right or wrong.  Nor do you consider that such a practice stops being wrong simply because it is comprehensible to others.  Consequently, you see no reason at all why a way of forming sentences can’t be both ‘wrong’ and ‘[done] with little confusion in comprehension’.  Since these two qualities are not incompatible, it’s entirely possible for them both to be true at once.  Therefore the analogy with the Aristotle section is completely false, and the conclusion of the ‘fifth grade teacher’ section doesn’t follow from the premises.

You see the problem?  This analogy relies on an unstated assumption, and that unstated assumption is that descriptivism is correct and prescriptivism is wrong.  In other words, it assumes what it claims to prove.  If you don’t accept that unstated assumption then the argument doesn’t work.  It’s an argument that’s capable of convincing only those who already agree with it.

(via tiny-puppy-teeth)

This morning on BBC radio’s flagship news programme an eminent journalist defined ‘transphobia’ as ‘irrational fear of people who change sex’.

(The LGBT activist he was interviewing didn’t disagree.)

I post this because I’m aware that as part of the discussion about whether words like ‘homophobia’ and ‘transphobia’ should be abandoned there’s some debate about whether the form of those words really misleads anyone into thinking that they describe psychological states similar to claustrophobia or arachnophobia.

I have no strong view about that debate but evidence is always useful and here is a single piece of anecdotal evidence to be taken into account.

14kgoldnyc replied to your post: 14kgoldnyc replied to your post: There are a few…

I think with words that are in the process of changing, especially, people need to be much more conscious of age and background. My dad still cringes when I use ‘queer’, because that was a slur aimed at him. It’s an important perspective to keep.

True, true.  Good point.  Our ways of expression and presentation often adjust to suit the situation and the audience, including choosing our words according to how the people’s we’re addressing will interpret them.  And there’s nothing necessarily wrong with that.

(Hey look, I replied to one of these without making it into an essay!  I feel proud.  On this positive note, I shall go to bed.)

dinoquark replied to your post: There are a few people who use “bisexual” as “attracted to all possible genders,” claiming that the “bi” can refer to “people with genders like yours” and “people with genders not like yours.” But they’re also usually the people who deny the rights of others to identify as pansexual, so I’m wary of the logic, as it seems to come from a place of dictating how other people should identify!

I don’t see bisexual as being any more binarist than heterosexual, homosexual, gay, lesbian, or straight. I guess I don’t see why bi is usually what’s brought up here while all those others tend to be ignored.

I’m with you there.

Well, I guess ‘homosexual’ is less questionable since the proposition that someone is attracted to people of the same gender as themself doesn’t imply anything at all about how many other genders there may be.  And ‘lesbian’, if it means ‘woman attracted to other women’ (which I think is how pretty much everyone uses it?), is similarly okay although oddly specific.

But basically I think Kinsey Hope is right to say that our set of terms for sexuality, taken as a whole, is to a greater or lesser extent underwritten by heteronormative cissexism.  If we were starting from scratch we’d probably develop a completely different set of descriptive terms that would clearly distinguish between, among other things, sexual preferences based on physiology and sexual preferences based on gender identity.  But we obviously can’t just ignore the existing set of terms, awkward and unhelpful though they may sometimes be: we can’t ignore them because those are the criteria by which oppression is exerted.  One can say ‘oh hey I’m not homosexual because that implies a conceptual type of sexuality and actually I just really like dicks of all genders and none and in fact the dick I currently enjoy on a regular basis is attached to my girlfriend’, but that isn’t going to make that person safe from anti-‘gay’ bigots.

So apparently my conclusion is that it’s all quite complex and messy and non-ideal?

14kgoldnyc replied to your post: There are a few people who use “bisexual” as “attracted to all possible genders,” claiming that the “bi” can refer to “people with genders like yours” and “people with genders not like yours.” But they’re also usually the people who deny the rights of others to identify as pansexual, so I’m wary of the logic, as it seems to come from a place of dictating how other people should identify!

Honestly, I frequently use ‘bi’ for convenience’s sake: most straight folk are more likely to understand me when I use that then if I just say ‘pan’ or ‘queer’. Plus, I’ve been identifying as such for a long time, before other terms were in use.

Fair enough!  I am absolutely not here to criticize anyone for doing or saying things that make their lives as marginalized people easier, or for identifying themselves however they do.  I’m sorry if it seemed like that.  It’s the bit where they start trying to criticize other people’s identifications that makes me prickly.

Not that there aren’t times when it’s legit to criticize other people’s identifications.  If a white person identifies as two-spirit or a cis person with somewhat non-normative gender presentation identifies as genderqueer then there’s obviously room for saying, ‘Er, maybe this is not okay’.  I personally wouldn’t get too much into that because I’m not a member of any of the groups that have a two-spirit tradition, I’m not genderqueer, &c., and I think identity is one of those particularly sensitive things that people probably shouldn’t call others out about unless they can do it from a position of saying ‘I am one of the people you’re hurting’.

So I guess my position is that I’m not saying people shouldn’t use ‘bisexual’.  I’m not saying it’s oppressive.  I’m not saying it isn’t oppressive.  I’m saying I think it has a certain undercurrent of binarism in it, but whether that makes it actually harmful (and, if so, whether the harm outweighs its benefits) is a judgment I can’t and don’t want to make.  I don’t think it harms me, that’s all I can say about it.  And whether or not people use it to describe themselves, I don’t think people should ascribe it to others who don’t want it.  Especially not when, as with the criticism of Cynthia Nixon (because I’d hate this conversation to float too far from the original context — that’s when things get messy, I find), they’re doing so in order to reject the other person’s self-identification.

Me, well, there’s no word I can use to describe my sexuality that isn’t going to leave most people with either the wrong idea or no idea what I mean.  So I guess that puts me in a slightly inside / outside position on the whole thing.  :)