鈥楿nabridged鈥�: A delightful look behind the making of a dictionary
Webster鈥檚 Third New International Dictionary featured more than 450,000 entries, but one of them received outsize attention when the reference book was published in 1961. The inclusion of 补颈苍鈥檛 in Webster鈥檚 Third scandalized some critics, with overheated reviews calling the updated dictionary 鈥渁 very great calamity,鈥� 鈥渄isastrous,鈥� and 鈥淎narchy in Language.鈥�
Stefan Fatsis describes the uproar in 鈥淯nabridged: The Thrill of (and Threat to) the Modern Dictionary,鈥� his engaging and at times exuberant account of embedding with the dictionary publisher Merriam-Webster. Fatsis 鈥� whose previous books include 2001鈥檚 鈥淲ord Freak,鈥� a deep dive into the world of competitive Scrabble 鈥� is a proud word nerd. He uses his stint as a lexicographer-in-training at Merriam-Webster鈥檚 headquarters in Springfield, Massachusetts, to illuminate the painstaking process by which words enter the dictionary and to assess the dictionary鈥檚 evolving role in a digital world.
The book opens with a brisk history of Merriam-Webster, beginning with Noah Webster鈥檚 two-volume magnum opus, An American Dictionary of the English Language. Published in 1828, Webster鈥檚 work had a patriotic agenda: The lexicographer aspired to create a specifically American dialect distinct from British English. He embraced Americanisms like presidency and revolutionize and created Americanized spellings of words like color and theater.
Why We Wrote This
Lexicographers used to take decades to decide which new words to add to a dictionary. Now, words trend online with head-spinning speed, forcing dictionary-makers to adapt. The coevolution of language and culture makes a fascinating study, as one journalist learned during a stint at Merriam-Webster.
The brothers George and Charles Merriam, owners of a printing and publishing business, acquired the rights to Webster鈥檚 dictionary in 1844. In subsequent editions, they streamlined the research and editing process, condensed the work into one volume, and lowered its price. In Fatsis鈥� admiring view, they burnished Webster鈥檚 legacy, making Merriam-Webster the definitive American dictionary.
The dustup over 补颈苍鈥檛 was representative of a long-standing divide over whether dictionaries should be prescriptive or descriptive: Should they instruct users on how to speak or present the language as it鈥檚 actually spoken? The latter view has won out, but Fatsis notes that the debate has had many rounds. 鈥淎 conversation about how to label irregardless,鈥� he writes, 鈥渓asted decades.鈥� (The dictionary recognized that in its widespread usage, irregardless has the same meaning as regardless despite the ir- prefix, which would normally suggest the opposite. Merriam-Webster eventually settled on nonstandard over substandard.)
The author also addresses deliberations over how the dictionary ought to handle profanity and racial and ethnic slurs. On the order of Merriam-Webster鈥檚 then-president, the Third Edition did not include the f-word. That decision rankled the company鈥檚 longtime editor-in-chief, Philip Babcock Gove, who argued that an unabridged dictionary 鈥渟hould not omit this common word regardless of its taboo status.鈥� More than a decade passed before, in 1973, the curse word made it into a later edition.
In addition to covering these historical episodes, Fatsis describes his day-to-day work at the office. There, he immersed himself in the dictionary鈥檚 archives, most notably the file cabinets stuffed with citations, known as cits, that contain examples of how words are used in print. The cabinets contain an astounding 16 million of these slips of paper, which Fatsis calls an 鈥渋rreplaceable archive of American English.鈥�
Today, of course, the process has been digitized. The New Words spreadsheet is a database of potential candidates for the dictionary, and Fatsis eagerly contributed because, as he states, 鈥淚 was determined to get into the dictionary.鈥� He kept his eye on trending terms like microaggression and safe space, hoping that they had enough staying power to warrant inclusion on聽Merriam-Webster.com. Eventually he was tasked with crafting their definitions according to the dictionary鈥檚 strict formula.
Not surprisingly, the internet has transformed the business. In the past, new words had to linger in the files for years between print editions before being introduced to the dictionary. During that time, editors could confirm that they weren鈥檛 mere flashes in the pan. (The author cites unbae, meaning 鈥渢o break up with,鈥� as an example of a recent word that burned out.) Now new words can be added to the online dictionary at any time. That flexibility came in handy in the case of a word that was added only 34 days after first being coined: COVID-19. With users searching unfamiliar terms like social distancing and superspreader, Fatsis observes that the pandemic forced聽Merriam-Webster to 鈥渄o something the dictionary had never done: act like a newsroom on deadline.鈥�
Fatsis鈥� affectionate account comes at an uncertain time for the dictionary. His stint at the office followed rounds of layoffs ordered by
Merriam-Webster鈥檚 parent company, Encyclopaedia Britannica Inc. The author estimates that there might be only 30 full-time working lexicographers in the United States, and it鈥檚 likely that artificial intelligence will further depress those numbers.
Despite that bleak outlook, Fatsis found ways to commune with kindred spirits. In addition to bonding with his colleagues at the company, he toured the Oxford English Dictionary headquarters in England; joined hundreds of language aficionados in voting for the American Dialect Society鈥檚 2016 Word of the Year in Austin, Texas (dumpster fire beat out woke); and attended a Dictionary Society of North America conference in Bloomington, Indiana. He gushes that thinking and talking about words is 鈥渆ndlessly, enormously, incredibly fun.鈥� His delight in the dictionary is irresistible. So, too, is his appreciation for the reference book鈥檚 significance.
