May 31, 2013
Marcus Lodwick’s The Gallery Companion: Understanding Western Art describes Saint George as “a totally legendary saint whose existence has been in doubt since the fifth century”.
The flavours of both totally and legendary have – for me at least – shifted markedly through informal usage, interfering with the intended tone. Reading the line, I was (totally) distracted by the phrase totally legendary, even though the relative clause (“whose existence has been in doubt…”) and general context left no doubt as to its meaning.
painting by Raphael
In common currency totally is like absolutely: often more a general intensifier or expression of hearty agreement than anything necessarily to do with totality or absoluteness. An example from the GloWbE corpus: “Seems totally harsh for them teachers huh?”
Legendary has been weakened by loose usage to the point where almost any degree of renown or achievement may be granted the description; similar trends with legend and its spin-off ledge(bag) – peculiarly Irish, I think – complete the inflationary effect.
The following (mildly parodic) fictional dialogue may serve to illustrate:
This bus driver is always on time – such a ledge!
Remember the time she gave us chocolate?
Yeah, that was totally legendary.
Completely. Hey, is that Saint George you’re reading about?
Didn’t he, like, slay the dragon?
What a legend!
I mean like existentially.
February 6, 2013
I’ve been stop-starting my way happily through Celtic Fairy Tales and More Celtic Fairy Tales, two late-19thC collections by the great Australian folklorist Joseph Jacobs, combined in a plump Senate paperback and handsomely illustrated by John D. Batten:
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October 30, 2012
Gearóid Mac Niocaill’s book Ireland before the Vikings (Gill and Macmillan, 1972) has an interesting passage on the names adopted on the island during the 4th, 5th and early 6th centuries. He refers to “a mosaic of peoples” who are “dimly perceptible” amid the settlements and political changes he has been discussing, and whose names appear in various forms:
ending in -raige (‘the people of’), or as Dál (‘the share of’) or Corco (perhaps ‘seed’) plus a second element, or as a collective noun ending in -ne. Some contain animal names, such as Artraige ‘bear-people’, Osraige ‘deer-people’, Grecraige ‘horse-people’, Dartraige ‘calf-people’, Sordraige ‘boar-people’; others, such as the Ciarraige, the Dubraige and Odraige, have a colour (ciar ‘black’, dub also ‘black’, odor ‘dun’) as the first element; others, such as the Cerdraige, seem to have an occupational term as the first element.
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March 31, 2011
“Sometimes, in reading a poem, the hairs will bristle at an apparently unpeopled and eventless scene described in it, if the elements bespeak her unseen presence clearly enough: for example, when owls hoot, the moon rides like a ship through scudding cloud, trees sway slowly together above a rushing waterfall…”
This is Robert Graves describing the unseen presence of the White Goddess, in his fanciful and fascinating book of the same name, first published in 1948 and instructively subtitled “A Historical Grammar of Poetic Myth”.
What struck me upon reading the quoted passage is that it’s like a checklist of motifs for Twin Peaks. Every element – the hooting owls, clouded moon, trees swaying slowly, rushing waterfall – is recognisably a feature of the show’s iconography. I wonder if David Lynch or Mark Frost read Graves’s book, or is it just an occult coincidence?