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Ebook has 541 lines and 35355 words, and 11 pages

Illustrator: Herb Roth

BURGESS UNABRIDGED

BURGESS UNABRIDGED

BY GELETT BURGESS

NEW YORK FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY PUBLISHERS

WOWZE

PAGE

BRIPKIN

A person whose apparel by its conscious imitation lies Respecting the society in which his limitation lies 9

DIABOB

A complicated artifact devised in proof of amity Producing to aestheticism visual calamity 15

HUZZLECOO

A conversation intimate, intensific but amical Surcharged with personalities outrageously dynamical 37

JIRRIWIG

An unaffected traveler engrossed in Touristology, A middle-western species of the Baedeker biology 47

KIPE

Evaluating notice with impertinent serenity, The envious propensity of feminine amenity 53

QUOOB

An undress-suited being in an access of humility Apologizing vainly for apparent incivility 77

SPLOOCH

The acme of ineptitude whose quality unfortunate Assails our sensibilities with agony importunate 89

TASHIVATE

Indulgent inattention to a chatter of banality Emotionally answered with a feeling of tonality 93

WOG

A thinglet unpremeditated marring one's consistency Or dignity or pulchritude with devillish persistency 109

INTRODUCTION

Yes, I have written a dictionary. Worcester and Webster are all right in their way, and Stormuth will do very well for Englishmen--but they're not up to date. Mrs. Century's book is a bit better and even old Dr. Standard's Compendium of Useful Information includes my own words, "bromide" and "sulphite." It's good enough for last year, but "Burgess Unabridged" will give the diction of the year 1915.

For, the fact is, English is a growing language, and we have to let out the tucks so often, that no last season's model will ever fit it. English isn't like French, which is corseted and gloved and clad and shod and hatted strictly according to the rules of the Immortals. We have no Academy, thank Heaven, to tell what is real English and what isn't. Our Grand Jury is that ubiquitous person, Usage, and we keep him pretty busy at his job. He's a Progressive and what he likes, he'll have, in spite of lexicographers, college professors and authors of "His Complete Works." That's the reason why English has ousted Volap?k and Esperanto as a world language. It snuggles right down where you live and makes itself at home.

How does English shape itself so comfortably to the body of our thought? With a new wrinkle here and a little more breadth there, with fancy trimmings, new styles, fresh materials and a genius for adapting itself to all sorts of wear. Everybody is working at it, tailoring it, fitting it, decorating it. There is no person so humble but that he can suggest an improvement that may easily become the reigning mode.

But slang, strictly, consists in the adaptation of phrases; it does not often--not often enough at any rate--coin new words. Thieves' patter or jargon or cant provides us almost with a language of itself, and words from the Underworld are continually being added to the language. Like the turkey trot, "We first endure, then pity, then embrace." So from all sources the language recruits new phrases, new expressions, even new rules of grammar. Horrible as they are to the conservative, common usage accepts them and they become classic. Professor Lounsbury of Yale is kept busy justifying them. He, alone of all grammarians, sees that the split infinitive must come, that verbs must be constructed of nouns. He recognizes the new function of the potential mood, in "I should worry" and "Wouldn't that jar you?"

Yes, it's easy enough to coin a phrase, to adapt an old word to a new use, like "Chestnut" and "Lemon" and "Peach." It's easy to abbreviate words, like "Gent" and "Pants" and "Exam" and "Phone" and "Stylo." It's easier still to fill the new dictionary with new derivatives from Latin or Greek or crowd in French. The scientific word requires a little invention. "Radioactive" and "Aileron" and "Hypofenyl-tribrompropionic" need only a scholastic delving in ancient tongues. But to invent a new word right out of the air or the cigarette smoke is another thing. And that's what I determined to do.

Yes, I know it has been tried, but it's never been seriously and deliberately gone about. It has been haphazard work, the result of a mere accident, or vaudeville high spirits. But the way such neologisms have become quickly current shows that here's a field for high endeavor, and a little success with "Blurb" and "Goop" encourage me to proceed in the good work. We need so many new words, and we need 'em quick. The question is: How to get 'em?

Of course, we might ransack the back numbers of the language and dig up archaic words. Many such have been dropped from the original Anglo-Saxon. There is "Dindle," to shake, and "Foin" to thrust, and "Gree" and "Lusk" and "Sweven." But the need for most of them has long gone by. We do not "Feutre" our spears, because we have no spears to feutre. We carry no "Glaive," we wear no "Coif."

So with the bright gems of Elizabethan diction. A "Bonnibel" is now a nectarine. To "Brabble" is now to "Chew the rag." What is a "Scroyle"?--a "Cad," a "Bad Actor"? A "Gargrism" has become "A Scream." So the old names become mere poetic decorations. Why, the word "Fro" we dare use only in a single collocation! And as for "Welkin," "Lush," and "Bosky"--who dares to lead their metric feet into the prim paths of prose? Let bygones be bygones. Look elsewhere.

But the time has come for a more scientific attempt to enlarge the language. The needs of the hour are multifarious and all unfilled. There are a thousand sensations that we can describe only by laborious phrases or metaphors, a thousand characters and circumstances, familiar to all, which shriek for description.

It has, of course, been tried before. Think what a success the scheme was when it was so long ago attempted. The first Nonsense Book containing really new words was published in 1846 by Edward Lear, but he failed to appreciate his opportunity. Of all his names, the "Jumblies" alone survive. Lewis Carroll later went about it more deliberately. His immortal poem, "Jabberwocky," has become a classic; but even in that masterpiece, how many words are adapted to modern use? "Slithy" perhaps and "Chortle"--though no one has ever been able to pronounce it properly to this day. Oh yes, "Galumph," I forgot that. Not even "The Hunting of the Snark" has made the title r?le popular amongst bromides. Why? His fatal rule was, "Take care of the sounds and the sense will take care of itself."

A dozen years ago a little girl tried it with fair success. In her "Animal Land, where there are no People," however, I can find no word I have ever heard used outside its covers, no word like "Hoodlum," or "Flunk" or "Primp," "Quiz," "Cabal" or "Fad" or "Fake."

You see how inarticulate you are, now, don't you, when a social emergency arises?--when you want to give swift tongue to your emotions? What can you say when you're jilted?--how mention the feeling of a broken finger-nail on satin--your esthetic delight in green-trading-stamp furniture? How do you feel with a person whose name you cannot quite remember? Why, we need at least a gross of assorted nouns this very day! What is the name of a business enterprise that was born dead? What do you call the woman who telephones to you during business hours? What is a woman who wears dirty white gloves? What is a man who gives you advice "for your own good"? Well, behold a guide to help you;--read "Burgess Unabridged." It is the dictionary of the Futurist language!

Yes, my modest "Unabridged" will "fill a long felt want." It will solidify the chinks of conversation, express the inexpressible, make our English language ornamental, elegant, distinguished, accurate. Other dictionaries have recorded the words of yesterday, my lexicon will give the words of to-morrow. What matter if none of them is "derived from two Greek words"? My words will be imaginotions, penandinkumpoops, whimpusles, mere boojums rather than classic snarks, for I shall not construct "Portmanteau" words, like Lewis Carroll. I shall create them from instinctive, inarticulate emotions, hot from the depths of necessity. No "Onomatopoeia," either, for I do not hold with those who say that the origin of language is in the mere mimicry of natural sounds. No, like the intense poetic pre-Raphaelite female, who says and feels that her soul is violet, when I see a hand-embroidered necktie, I dive deep in my inner consciousness and bring up, writhing in my hand, the glad word, "Gorgule," or "Golobrifaction" or "Diabob."

What Ro, therefore, attempts so ambitiously, I do in a more humble spirit, contenting myself with the manufacture of words to explain some of the more subtle relationships and exigencies of civilized life. I confess the work is, to a great extent, subjective and personal. I have but ministered to my own direst needs.

So contriving, choosing my words from some vague sense of color, mood, an instinctive feeling of appropriateness, I trust that I have not made my method monotonous. I must confess, however, that in my experimentation, certain sounds appealed more strongly than others to my comic spirit. The frequent use of the "oo" will perhaps require an apology, and the almost equally merry "aw." The other "long" vowels, such as "ee" and "ay" and "o" seemed inadequate to my use. Of consonants, my "G" is, no doubt, most frequent. "G" supplies spuzz to a word that can hardly be obtained elsewhere in the alphabet. "K" also has a bite, but it is frequently too suggestive for our delicate susceptibilities. "L"--what could one do in such a work, without the gentle liquid that euphonizes the most savage of consonants! Also I confess having fallen in love with the anapest.

And yet, many of these words will not, at first sound, seem appropriate. Let me remind you of Mr. Oliver Herford's not too original discovery , than any word, when often repeated, becomes strange and barbaric, even as his favorite "looking-glass" after being pronounced several times, grows marvellously beautiful and romantic.

So, as a corollary to this principle, you will, I hope, find that even my fierce and uncouth syllables may, when iterated, grow less unusual, strangely familiar, even; and, little by little, as their sharp corners and edges are worn smooth by use, they will fit into your conversation and nestle into place, making your talk firmer, more expressive and wonderfully adequate to your daily needs.

BURGESS ABRIDGED:

BURGESS UNABRIDGED

A NEW DICTIONARY

"What's that smell? Is it smoke?--Is it?" You throw open the door and have an agowilt; the staircase is in flames. But this is the fierce and wild variety. Agowilts tamed for domestic use, are far more common. The minute after you throw the burnt match into the waste-paper basket, the agowilt comes.

It may be but a single extra step which isn't there and the agowilt playfully paralyzes your heart. So a sudden jerk of the elevator, the startling stopping of the train, the automobile skidding, the roller-coaster looping the loop--bring agowilts.

Vicariously you suffer as well, when the trapeze performers swing in dizzying circles or do the "death dive."

"Good heavens! I left my bag in the train!"--an agowilt quite as painful.

Why does your friend, reckless Robert, pause on the edge of the cliff? Merely to delight you with an agowilt.

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