Mark Forsyth - The Etymologicon: A Circular Stroll Through the Hidden Connections of the English Language

(or that which is said fatus before)

Occasionally people make the mistake of asking me where a word comes from. They never make this mistake twice. I am naturally a stern and silent fellow; even forbidding. But theres something about etymology and where words come from that overcomes my inbuilt taciturnity. A chap once asked me where the word biscuit came from. He was eating one at the time and had been struck by curiosity.

I explained to him that a biscuit is cooked twice, or in French bi-cuit , and he thanked me for that. So I added that the bi in biscuit is the same bi that you get in bicycle and bisexual , to which he nodded. And then, just because it occurred to me, I told him that the word bisexual wasnt invented until the 1890s and that it was coined by a psychiatrist called Richard von Krafft - Ebing and did he know that Ebing also invented the word masochism ?

He told me firmly that he didnt.

Did he know about Mr Masoch, after whom masochism was named? He was a novelist and

The fellow told me that he didnt know about Mr Masoch, that he didnt want to know about Mr Masoch, and that his one ambition in life was to eat his biscuit in peace.

But it was too late. The metaphorical floodgates had opened and the horse had bolted. You see there are a lot of other words named after novelists, like Kafkaesque and Retifism

It was at this point that he made a dash for the door, but I was too quick for him. My blood was up and there was always something more to say. There always is, you know. Theres always an extra connection, another link that joins two words that most of mankind quite blithely believe to be separate, which is why that fellow didnt escape until a couple of hours later when he managed to climb out of the window while I was drawing a diagram to explain what the name Philip has to do with a hippopotamus.

It was after an incident such as this that my friends and family decided something must be done. They gathered for a confabulation and, having established that secure psychiatric care was beyond their means, they turned in despair to the publishing industry, which has a long history of picking up where social work leaves off.

So, a publisher was found somewhere near the Caledonian Road and a plan was hatched. I would start with a single word and then connect it to another word and then to another word and so on and so forth until I was exhausted and could do no more.

A book would therefore have a twofold benefit. First it would rid me of my demons and perhaps save some innocent conversationalist from my clutches. Second, unlike me, a book could be left snugly on the bedside table or beside the lavatory: opened at will and closed at will.

So a book it was, which set me thinking