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It’s alive?
Dear Word Detective: I just used the expression “deader than a doornail.” Why is a doornail dead? — Dick Stacy.
Beats me. Too many bacon cheeseburgers? Texting while driving? Mowing the lawn during a thunderstorm? I almost lost an in-law that way a few years ago. Heck, I almost lost myself installing a window air-conditioner under similar circumstances a couple of years later. Boom. Zap. And I haven’t been able to balance my checkbook ever since.
Of course, doornails aren’t alive in the normal sense anyway. The Oxford English Dictionary (OED) defines “door-nail” as “A large-headed nail, with which doors were formerly studded for strength, protection, or ornamentation.” The term “door-nail” first appeared in print in the 14th century, long before home alarm systems, when having a thick, strong door was your best defense against the unpleasantness outside getting in.
“Dead as a doornail” (or, I suppose, “deader than a doornail”) means, of course, utterly and completely dead, whether figuratively (“The Congo treaty may now be regarded as being as dead as a doornail,” 1884) or literally defunct in the Monty Python Dead Parrot sense (“This parrot is no more! It has ceased to be. It’s expired and gone to meet its maker. This is a late parrot. It’s a stiff. Bereft of life, it rests in peace. If you hadn’t nailed it to the perch it would be pushing up the daisies. It’s rung down the curtain and joined the choir invisible. This is an ex-parrot.”).
Interestingly, the earliest use of “dead as a doornail” found in print (so far) is from 1362, just twelve years after “doornail” itself first appeared, and Shakespeare used it in several of his plays. The next few centuries saw the rise of several other “dead as” phrases (including “dead as a dodo,” “dead as mutton,” and “dead as a herring,” meaning smoked herring), but none proved as popular as “dead as a doornail.” Of course, the “doornail” version had a linguistic advantage over the “herring” and “mutton” phrases, being alliterative with two words beginning with hard consonants, the pop-speak equivalent of being given three out of five winning lottery numbers as a head start.
But “dead as a dodo” sported the same consonants, so many people have wondered over the years if there might be (or have been) some actual logic to “dead as a doornail” that would explain its popularity. Two theories have thus been offered to explain the phrase. One is that the “doornail” in this case is actually a very large-headed nail (or metal plate) affixed to the outside of the door on which the swinging door-knocker strikes. In this theory, the “doornail” would be dead because it had been struck so often. Unfortunately, there is no evidence that the plate beneath such door-knockers was ever known as a “doornail,” so this theory is unlikely to be true.
The other theory makes a bit more sense. It is said that when doors were constructed in days of yore, carpenters used long, stout nails to hold them firmly together (which, as we’ve seen from the OED definition of “doornail,” is true). This theory holds that the nails were long enough to be driven entirely through the door to the interior side, where they were bent flat (or “cinched,” as carpenters say) to ensure that they would never work loose (and could not be removed from the outside). The nails, goes this theory, would then be “dead” in the sense that they would not move and could never be re-used. This theory actually makes perfect sense and may well explain the original logic of the phrase. It’s not a slam-dunk certainty, but, given that we’re talking about the 14th century, it makes a lot more sense than most theories about phrases that old.
A Downhill Role
Dear WD: Lately I have seen several instances of confusing the word “role” with “roll” (in the sense of a list). The most frequent misuse seems to be using the word “role” to mean a list of some sort, usually (in my experience) the members of a church (saying “parish roles” instead of “parish rolls”), although I have also seen references to a “roll model.” Any insight into why this occurs or why it seems to be happening so much now? — Bob McGill.
Well, shucks, don’t be alarmed. It’s just another bit of evidence that civilization as we know it is skipping gaily down the slippery slope to the damnation bow-wows. End of the world. New Dark Ages. Nothing to worry about, really. Incidentally, if anyone comes looking for me, I’ll be hiding in the basement with ten cases of Spaghetti-O’s and my Oxford English Dictionary.
But seriously, folks, I say it’s all television’s fault. It used to be that the average person learned to distinguish between homophones (different words that sound the same, as “role” and “roll” do) by seeing them in print. Now that those dusty old bookshelves have been tossed out to make room for super-duper multimedia entertainment complexes in our national living room, no one knows the difference between “threw” and “through” (which is now usually spelled “thru,” anyway). Goodbye Beowulf, hello Baywatch. It’s gotten to the point that even the people who run television can’t spell common English words anymore. It is increasingly common to see one of the blow-dried twits known as “newscasters” blithely sitting in front of an enormous computer graphic containing the sort of grammatical or spelling error that would have shamed the fourth-grader of yesteryear.
Incidentally, while I certainly don’t wish to give aid and comfort to anyone who blurs the distinction between “roll” and “role,” I should probably point out that they are, essentially, the same word. “Role,” meaning the part one plays in a play (or, figuratively, life in general), comes from the French equivalent of our English “roll.” An actor’s “role” in the early days of the theater was that portion of the parchment manuscript roll containing the lines he or she was given to speak.
Due to Being Sat Upon….
Dear WD: What, please, is the origin of the phrase “pins and needles”? It seems to be no older than the mid-19th Century. It also seems to have no “proper” term. In the few languages I know, its translation is also “folksy” — for instance, “les fourmis” (“the ants”) in French, and “Codladh Grifin” (“Griffin Sleep”) in Irish. — Eoin Bairiad, Dublin, Ireland.
Sometimes I wonder whether I’m really sufficiently refined, culturally speaking, to write this column. I’ve spent the better part of an hour just now rummaging through various reference books in search of the answer to your question, and you’ll never guess what was running through my mind the entire time. Bruckner’s Seventh Symphony? A Bach cantata? Old Latin verb conjugations? Nope, not even close. Playing between my ears even as I write this is an unbelievably insipid ditty called “Pins and Needles,” recorded in the mid-1960s by The Dave Clark Five. Please, somebody, make it stop.
It does seem, as you’ve discovered, that there is no “proper” technical term for “pins and needles,” the unpleasant prickling sensation that occurs when one of our limbs, having “fallen asleep” due to being sat upon or the like, “reawakens.” As to why it’s called “pins and needles,” I cannot, offhand, think of a more appropriate description, so that doesn’t seem much of a mystery. The general category for this sort of false sensation is “paraesthesia” (from the Greek “para” (disordered) plus “aesthesis” (sensation)), defined by the Oxford English Dictionary as a “disordered or perverted sensation; a hallucination of any of the senses.” Paraesthesia includes many other sorts of sensory hallucinations than just “pins and needles,” however. Interestingly, among them is “formication,” meaning the sensation of ants (“formica” being Latin for “ant”) crawling on or just under the skin, which seems to echo the French phrase you mention.
The first print evidence of the use of “pins and needles” to mean a prickling sensation does come in the mid-19th century, although the term had been used as early as 1810 to mean “a state of excessive uneasiness” or nervousness. I would hazard a guess that the “nervous state of mind” sense of the phrase was actually based on earlier, unrecorded, uses of the “prickling” sense. After all, folk sayings are often used by “the folks” for decades or even centuries before they show up in print.
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