One evening when a bunch of us grew tired of studying and determined
to go to town for a late-night snack, he turned down our invitation
because he was engrossed in a new dictionary he'd received.
Only later did I appreciate his commitment to the Merriam-Webster's
Seventh New Collegiate Dictionary.
I remember this small incident because for the first time in my
life I observed someone with a passion for a reference book that
I casually took for granted as a paperweight and a sometimes needed
tool.
Merriam-Webster's
Seventh Collegiate happened to be the dictionary I purchased when
I went off to college, but I never gave it the attention that
I witnessed him bestowing on the volume that night.
I remember us chiding him for choosing a dictionary over an order
of ham-and-eggs at a local diner. He went into an spirited defense
of his activity, the essence of which was dictionaries were to
be ``read'' and not simply referred to when a word meaning was
needed.
He never knew the impact his commitment had on me, but a few nights
later I embarked on my own ``reading'' of the dictionary. It proved
a tiny life-changing event.
A year later I discovered
that my mentor, a professor under whom I probably absorbed more
wisdom than anyone other than my parents, was also a reader of
dictionaries. In fact, he built a career in psycholinguistics
around research into dictionaries in a variety of languages.
Fortunately for me, by the time I studied with this professor,
I had established a habit of reading dictionaries on my own.
I tell you this story because I have recently become the owner
of a new dictionary, The Oxford Dictionary and Thesaurus, which
touts itself as the ``ultimate language reference for American
readers,'' and because I have become almost as passionate as my
college friend about urging that dictionaries be ``read'' and
not merely consulted when a new word baffles or a crossword puzzle
puzzles.
For one thing, dictionaries offer more than the mere definitions
of words.
Almost every dictionary provides clues to pronunciation of words,
how words should be properly divided into syllables, from which
ancient and modern languages the words have been derived as they
took hold in the English language, and a host of other matters
related to diction and definition.
Dictionaries also
are filled with supplementary materials, and often that's where
the intriguing fun of reading dictionaries explodes.
The Seventh Collegiate that my friend and I lived with through
our college days lists names of famous people with capsule biographies
included. A list of every college and university in the United
States and Canada as well as a list of all the junior colleges
in both countries made the ``collegiate'' edition particularly
enticing.
From a special section of my dictionary I could learn proofreader's
symbols, the most widely used abbreviations, a host of rhyming
English words, and all the rules of capitalization, punctuation,
spelling and the creation of compounds that a writer could ever
seek.
My dictionary provided a special section that taught the proper
forms of address in letter-writing. A quick consultation would
assure that cardinals of the church should be addressed as ``Your
eminence,'' and that a duchess should be addressed as ``Her royal
highness, the duchess of whatever,'' but only if she is in the
blood line. In other instances, she should be addressed as ``The
most noble, the duchess of whatever.''
My new Oxford dictionary
abandons the listing of colleges and universities, but in its
place provides wonderful sections on musical notation and the
arrangement of an orchestra, the periodic chart and the derivation
of new chemical elements, selected proverbs and a listing of the
books of the Bible, the alphabet in Arabic, Hebrew, Greek and
Russian as well as in Braille, Morse Code, and in signing with
the hand.
One of the most valuable sections was coveted by a close friend
who holds regular contests with his intelligent high-school daughter
around their supper table. They challenge each other with terms
for groups of animals; for example, everyone knows that a group
of lions is called a pride, but what do we call a group of kangaroos?
My dictionary lists close to a hundred of these terms, many of
them fanciful and humorous, but my friend pored over them, exclaiming,
``I'll really stump her with some of these.''
What may surprise
most readers once they begin to ``read'' their dictionary is the
discovery that practically every dictionary has a section near
the beginning with a title something like, ``How to use this book.''
Obviously, a little attention to this short chapter opens a whole
new world.
The modern trend toward computerized and CD-ROM dictionaries only
drives readers in the wrong direction, I fear. The amazing search
capabilities these electronic versions provide place a great premium
on speed of use.
The first rule of truly reading a dictionary is ``slow down.''
Dictionaries unfortunately have developed the reputation of being
books one flies to for information then flies from as quickly
as possible with a new definition in hand.
Reading a dictionary
demands time.
Readers of dictionaries need to let the words carry them around
the pages much as ``hypertext'' does in a computerized version,
but at a more leisurely pace. Cross references and similarly derived
words can often lead a dictionary reader to unexpected treasures.
It's often said these days of computer software packages such
as word-processing applications that most users hardly begin to
tap the software's powerful features.
The same could be said of a dictionary. I urge readers to spend
some time with a dictionary this week for an equally powerful
experience.
By the way, a group of kangaroos is called a troop or a mob.
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Allan R. Andrews can be contacted at allan.andrews@reporters.net