Gegeten

Helen DeWitt (whom I first mentioned here) was saying on her blog (here and here) that she has been taking some introductory Dutch classes, and was enthusiastic about some of the phonological differences between Dutch and German. She writes:

“G is a harsh guttural, like Arabic kh: geboren = khebore(n), gegeten (G. gegessen) = khekhete(n).”

Geboren and gegeten are the Dutch equivalents of born and eaten. English has dropped the perfective aspect prefix ġe- (from Proto-Germanic *ga-) a long time ago; it can still be found in Middle English verb forms with prefixes y-, i-, and ȝe-, and in remnants such as handicraft (note: there are many functions to this prefix; the perspective aspect is just one of them). In Dutch, as in German, it is maintained and still productive in the formation of past participles. Geboren, like English born, is kind of an orphan participle. Where in English the link with bear (‘normal’ past participle spelled borne, for some reason; the distinction is only a few centuries old though) is still more or less clear, in Dutch the connection with the verb baren, ‘to give birth to’ (which has long since turned weak: baren, baarde, gebaard) is even more tenuous to contemporary speakers. But that is not what I wanted to talk about.

Nor is this.

The Dutch [g] is often a source of wonder or frustration to foreigners, who attempt in vain to reproduce it. Now first of all, there is no one [g]-sound in Dutch (even disregarding <ʒ> in loanwords such as garage); one of the most well-known differences between the Dutch of Holland and Flemish, the Dutch of Belgium (although this is much too crude a dichotomy, of course, but it will do for present purposes), is precisely the one between “hard g” and “soft g”. DeWitt mentions Amsterdam, so presumably she has been confronted with the Northern Dutch pronunciation, which can indeed be described as a lot “harsher” than the Southern one – though to transcribe [g] as /kh/ is a bit weird. She calls this sound a guttural, which is kind of a vage term; let’s have a look at the precise phonetic values. But before we do that, can we first agree that Dutch and Flemish are not different *languages*, but merely dialect groups of the same language? This belief seems to be uncommonly stubborn, but let me tell you: if you want to speak of two separate languages in this case, you’d probably have to break up English into about 10 different ones. Now, the sounds:

The Dutch sound spelled [g] is pronounced:

Holland (North)	voiced velar fricative <ɣ>
Flanders (South)	voiced palatal fricative <ʝ>

Then there’s the sound spelled [ch]:

Holland (North)	voiceless velar fricative <x>
Flanders (South)	voiceless palatal fricative <ç>

The Northern variety <x> is the sound English speakers know as the quaint [ch] in Scottish loch.

Note that instead of palatal fricatives, the Flemish sounds are sometimes labeled front-velar. In any case, they are still distinct from the Northern velars.

It’s all these fricative sounds that bewilder the English speaker: English has maintained the original plosive g (as in “go“), which we have lost. German has both plosive g (as in “gehen“) and voiceless (but not voiced) velar and palatal fricatives (famously distinguished as the ach- and ich-sound, allophones in complementary distribution). Among the Dutch sounds the most problematic one for foreigners is the Flemish “soft” g (which DeWitt probably hasn’t encountered in Amsterdam; actually almost every time I address anyone in Amsterdam, in my prettiest Flemish, they immediately switch to English, while I understand them perfectly), the voiced palatal fricative. This is a very rare sound: Wikipedia mentions only seven languages that have it, and Southern Dutch is one of them. Modern Greek is another.

The neat picture outlined above is blurred by the fact that most Northern Dutch speakers pronounce a voiceless velar <x> (or a uvular <χ>) across the board; that is to say, they have lost the voiced fricative. This probably explains the harshness perceived (by DeWitt, and everyone else) in the sound of Northern Dutch, the kind you would hear in Amsterdam especially. Northerners will often refer to the Flemish “soft g” as “cute”. To us Southern Dutch speakers, it is actually their tendency of eliminating voiced fricatives that is one of the most distinguishing traits of the dialect group we refer to as “Hollands” (we don’t say Nederlands, because the Flemish, or Vlaams, we speak is also Nederlands). This trend doesn’t limit itself to velar fricatives, but extends also to the labial, alveolar and glottal fricatives. In other words, the distinction is more or less lost between:

	voiceless	voiced
labial	<f>	<v>
alveolar	<s>	<z>
velar	<x>	<ɣ>
glottal	<h>	<ɦ>

Ask a Flemish child to imitate a “Hollander”, and they will eliminate the entire right column from their speech, and opt for the voiceless equivalents. That, and exaggerate the diphthongs and leave final -n after [ə] unpronounced (as DeWitt also indicates by putting n between brackets, above; in everyday speech, we Flemish will much sooner drop the [ə] and maintain the -n); but those are different matters.

Distances from some imaginary perfect standard Dutch

Another point of interest is that the evolution from plosive to fricative g in Dutch has gone further in the South-West (the dialects that make up West-Vlaams), where a process apparently called debuccalization has taken place: instead of <ʝ> they pronounce <ɦ>, because they are too lazy to raise their tongues. In more or less the same region an original glottal ([h] or [ɦ]) deletes altogether, probably under French influence, but maybe also in a kind of domino-effect: g turns to h, so original h has to make way and change also; in this case, by disappearing. This leads to funny cases of hypercorrection when West-Vlamingen try to speak standard Dutch, and add initial h- where there never was one, in the exact same way as Arrius in Catullus 84, with his chommoda and hinsidias.

One more thing. The past participle gegeten mentioned by DeWitt (from eten, “to eat”), like Germ. gegessen (from essen), has an interesting peculiarity. Where does the second -g- come from? Strangely, etymological dictionaries ignore this unique feature completely. In Grimm’s German dictionary (which can be consulted here) we find this:

nhd. bilden wir heute zu essen, asz [note: this is the preterite, today spelled aß] ein part. gegessen, statt des organischen, noch bis ins 16 jh. allgemein gültigen gessen, geessen, wie Keisersberg, Luther, Hans Sachs, Fischart und alle ihre zeitgenossen richtig schrieben: und Adam sprach, das weib, das du mir geben hast zu einer gesellin, die hat mir geben von dem holz und ich hab davon gessen.

Don’t blame me, she gave me from the Holz

Note, in the Bible quote, the participle geben (instead of gegeben), from geben “to give”. This could be explained by pointing out that the ge-prefix is used to indicate a perfective aspect, and wasn’t deemed necessary in German – until the 18th century, at least – when the simplex verb itself already has perfective aspect (“to give” can hardly be construed as a stative verb). For instance, the famous choral from J.S. Bach’s Weihnachtsoratorium goes “Er ist auf Erden kommen arm” (“He has (is) come to Earth poor” – kommen, not gekommen as modern German would have it!). This does not explain, however, why we find gessen in the same quote, which does have a g-. It looks to me like the ge-prefix was added, contracted with the e- of the verb, and in the later standard form gegessen was added once again, because it was felt to be lacking in “gessen” (sort of like how children is a double plural, with superfluous –en added because cildra or cildru was no longer recognized as a plural). The Dutch situation is then probably entirely parallel. In fact, in Flemish everyday language we actually do still say “geten” instead of “gegeten“. So I’m assuming this explains the strange past participles in Dutch and German. Still, would it hurt those dictionary writers to comment on this, instead of letting us figure it out for ourselves?

PS.

In reading some more about the “soft g” I came by this great quote by Pé Hawinkels (1942-1977), author, poet, Nietzsche translator etc. He was born and raised in Limburg (the Dutch part of it; the other half is in the North of Belgium), and his Dutch was therefore not as “harsh”-sounding as more Northern varieties. The quote can be found in Het land der letteren. Nederland door schrijvers en dichters in kaart gebracht (1982), by Adriaan van Dis and Tilly Hermans (edd.):

“Ik spreek de g niet uit alsof er iemand met een platte schop over de stoeptegels schuurt en maak als een beschaafd mens onderscheid tussen g en ch, terwijl er verder in mijn vocalen wel eens een toonhoogtewisseling wil vigeren die volgens mij nogal aardig afsteekt bij de betonnen klanken die elders te beluisteren zijn.”

A quick and unsatisfying translation (especially thrive, but what can one do… the original is too well-written to be adequately translated), sticking rather close to the original for the benefit of those who want to pick up some Dutch:

“I don’t pronounce the g as though someone were scraping a flat spade over sidewalk tiles, and as a civilized human being I make a distinction between g and ch, while furthermore there tends to thrive at times a variation in pitch in my vocals that acts as a rather nice foil, I think, for the concrete sounds that can be heard elsewhere.”

Amsterdam fricatives

PPS. If anyone is actually reading any of this, you have now noticed that yes, it can and will in fact often take me weeks to come up with a new post. Take it or leave it.

Velléité

I encountered an interesting new word today (new to me, that is), while reading a French article about disturbances at a Hecker concert, held some 6 weeks ago at the Centre Pompidou in Paris. Apparently some people were insulted or assaulted or both by his extreme sounds, someone raised his middle finger, and before long some expensive equipment was damaged. You’d think people would know what they are in for when they go see Hecker perform (I know I wouldn’t want to go anywhere near his set without multiple sets of earplugs), but apparently not. Anyway, here’s a quote from the article:

« Lorsque les gens vont au cinéma et qu’ils s’ennuient, ils prennent leurs affaires et ils s’en vont. Ils ne gesticulent pas débilement devant l’écran.
Pour moi, il s’agit d’une velléité totalitaire : ils se sentaient agressés physiquement par le son, et ne toléraient pas que d’autres (la majorité) apprécient le concert. »

I had to look up the word velléité. As it turns out, there is also an English equivalent, velleity. The OED defines it as follows:

1. The fact or quality of merely willing, wishing, or desiring, without any effort or advance towards action or realization.
2. (With a and pl.) A mere wish, desire, or inclination without accompanying action or effort. Very common in the 17th c.; now somewhat rare.`

Further research also turned up, again through simple suffix adjustment, German Velleität and even Dutch velleïteit (Dutch uses a diaeresis, which we call trema, to show that -ei- is not a diphthong here: -eï-). All 4 of these languages also have a seldom-used derived adjective: Eng. velleitary, Fr. velléitaire, Germ. velleitär, Du. velleïtair.
Interesting side note: the French don’t seem sure whether to pronounce the -ll- as in ville or as in fille.

Apparently, the Latin word that lies at the origin of all these, velleitas, dates from the 13th century; I think it was coined by (Saint) Thomas Aquinas, who uses it to express something like an incomplete or conditioned will, or a willingness of something that is impossible. The meaning seems to have fluctuated a bit, at first. Here’s a typical occurrence in Thomas:

“Voluntas completa non est nisi de possibili quod est bonum volenti; sed voluntas incompleta est de impossibili, quae secundum quosdam velleitas dicitur, quia scilicet aliquis vellet illud si esset possibile. Electio autem nominat actum voluntatis jam determinatum ad id quod est huic agendum, et ideo nullo modo est nisi possibilium.”

“Wherefore the complete act of the will is only in respect of what is possible and good for him that wills. But the incomplete act of the will is in respect of the impossible; and bysome is called “velleity,” because, to wit, one would will [vellet] such a thing, were it possible. But choice is an act of the will, fixed on something to be done by the chooser. And therefore it is by no means of anything but what is possible.”

(Summa Theologiae, First Part of the Second Part, Question 13, Article 5)

One does not simply define velleity.

It’s possible that he made up the quidam who supposedly used this word before him. Or maybe he did pick it up somewhere, perhaps in Latin translations of Aristotle?

I can see how this word could have been popular among preachers, who could accuse people of having no true volition towards ‘good’, merely a velleity, which was vanquished by a stronger desire for more instantaneous pleasures. In later times, the word seems to have had some currency in psychological circles as well, in cases of hypobulia or abulia.

In any case, velleitas joins a huge group of abstract nouns in -(i)tas, but is still kind of strange. Usually this suffix is deadjectival, and indicates a state of being:

vicinus	→ vicinitas
ferox	→ ferocitas
gravis	→ gravitas
celeber	→ celebritas
pubes	→ pubertas

We can put the formations based on numerals in the same category:

unus	→ unitas
trini (‘three each’; ‘triple’)	→ trinitas

Every now and then, we find the suffix added to the stem of a noun:

civis	→ civitas
auctor	→ auctoritas
heres	→ hereditas
virgo	→ virginitas
aevus / aevum	→ aevitas (later syncopated to aetas) (‘age’; ‘lifespan’)

(In some cases it seems, rather than a state of being, words ending in -(i)tas indicate an abstract or concrete entity.)

Velleitas, on the other hand, is pretty strange in that the suffix was appended to what is most likely the stem of velle-m, imperfect subjunctive (used contrafactually) of velle, volo, ‘want, to wish’ (this seems more likely, at least, than the infinitive, ending and all). This was already hinted at by Aquinas’ quote. I guess we can interpret this word as ‘that mood where you’re all like “I’d be all for that, but, you know…”’.

As it turns out, those scholastic monks knew a thing or two about fantastical neologisms like this one; they also created such monstrosities as haecitas, ipseitas, quidditas and anitas (meaning a response to the question an sit aliquid, ‘if anything is’).

Apparently the first one to borrow the word velleitas into French was (Saint) Francis (François) de Sales, Bishop of Geneva from 1602 to 1621. As a philosophical term, it also turns up in Locke, Leibniz, and Voltaire, among others. The more I read about it, the more I grew to like this word, so I thought it would be fun to make a nice selection of sample sentences or passages from the various languages:

“O Saviour, how many parts of thee are here active? thy finger is put into the ear, thy spittle toucheth the tongue, thine eyes look up, thy lungs sigh, thy lips move to an Ephphatha: thy word alone, thy beck alone, thy wish alone, yea, the least act of velleity from thee might have wrought this cure.”
((Bishop) Joseph Hall, Contemplations on the New Testament, 1618)

“For whatsoever good is proposed, if its absence carries no displeasure or pain with it, if a man be easy and content without it, there is no desire of it, nor endeavour after it; there is no more but a bare velleity, the term used to signify the lowest degree of desire, and that which is next to none at all, when there is so little uneasiness in the absence of anything, that it carries a man no further than some faint wishes for it, without any more effectual or vigorous use of the means to attain it.”
(John Locke, An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, 1690)

“Pour ce qui est des Velleïtés, ce ne sont qu’une espece fort imparfaite de volontés conditionnelles. Je voudrois, si je pouvois, liberet, si liceret: & dans le cas d’une velléité, nous ne voulons pas proprement vouloir, mais pouvoir. C’est ce qui fait qu’il n’y en a point en Dieu, & il ne faut point les confondre avec les volontés antécédentes.”
(Gottfried Leibniz, Essais de Théodicée sur la bonté de Dieu, la liberté de l’homme et l’origine du mal, 1710)

“Dans le temps de la destruction des jésuites, on eut en France une légère velléité de perfectionner l’éducation. On imagina donc d’établir une chaire d’histoire à Toulouse.”
(Voltaire, Cathares: De la Croisade contre les Langedociens, 1756)

“To get rid of the ambiguity clinging to vulgar terms the words Volition and Velleity have been coined, and applied, one to that Will which gets the mastery and the other to that controuled thereby. Thus the young lady who excused herself from the invitation had a velleity to go but a volition to stay away. But velleity can scarce be called a power, for a power which never operates is no power at all: Velleity gives birth to none of our motions, it may strive and struggle a little but volition always carries the day.”
(Abraham Tucker, The Light of Nature Pursued, I, 1768)

“In your Lordship will is volition, clothed and armed with power – in me, it is bare inert velleity.”
(Jeremy Bentham, Letters on Scotch Reform, 1808)

“Velleïteit, een barbaarsch woord der dialectici, om eenen zwakken, onvolkomenen wil, zonder ernst of kracht ter uitvoering, uittedrukken.”
(Pieter Weiland, Kunstwoordenboek of verklaring van allerhande vreemde woorden, benamingen, gezegden en spreekwijzen, die uit verschillende talen ontleend, in de zamenleving en in geschriften, betreffende alle vakken van kunsten, wetenschappen en geleerdheid voorkomen; Supplement, 1832)

“Tot dus ver inclineer ik om het stilzwijgen te bewaren; al is het dat ik somwijlen, bij het wikken zijner meeste argumenten, eenige velleïteit tot spreken gevoel.”
(Guillaume Groen van Prinsterer in a letter to Isaäc da Costa, 1845)

“Allein eine Bürgschaft der Dauer trug dieses Bündnis der Patrizier und der reichen Plebejer doch keineswegs in sich. Ohne Zweifel kam es auf Velleitäten dieser Art sehr wenig an und hat auch der bessere Teil der Geschlechter sich dieser trübseligen Verdrießlichkeitspolitik durchaus enthalten; aber ein Gefühl des Mißbehagens ließ sie doch auf beiden Seiten zurück, und wenn der Kampf der Gemeinde gegen die Geschlechter an sich eine politische und selbst eine sittliche Notwendigkeit war, so haben dagegen diese lange nachzitternden Schwingungen desselben, sowohl die zwecklosen Nachhutgefechte nach der entschiedenen Schlacht als auch die leeren Rang- und Standeszänkereien, das öffentliche und private Leben der römischen Gemeinde ohne Not durchkreuzt und zerrüttet.”
(Theodor Mommsen, Römische Geschichte, II, 1854)

“Il y a des envieux qui paraissent tellement accablés de votre bonheur qu’ils vous inspirent presque la velléité de les plaindre.”
(Edmond & Jules de Goncourt, Le Journal des Goncourt, 1865)

“Rousseau showed through life a singular proneness for being convinced by his own eloquence; he was always his own first convert; and this reconciles his power as a writer with his weakness as a man. He and all like him mistake emotion for conviction, velleity for resolve, the brief eddy of sentiment for the midcurrent of ever-gathering faith in duty that draws to itself all the affluents of conscience and will, and gives continuity and purpose to life. They are like men who love the stimulus of being under conviction, as it is called, who, forever getting religion, never get capital enough to retire upon and spend for their own need and the common service.”
(James Russell Lowel, Among My Books, 1870)

“La pire des politiques, en tous temps et en tous pays, a toujours été et sera toujours celle des velléités, celle qui ose et celle qui n’ose plus, celle qui ose assez pour compromettre tout et qui n’ose pas assez pour résoudre rien.”
(Émile de Girardin, Le dossier de la Guerre, 1877)

“Es ist das die typische Velleität des Künstlers: dieselbe Velleität, welcher auch der altgewordne Wagner verfiel und die er so theuer, so verhängnissvoll hat büssen müssen (— er verlor durch sie den werthvollen Theil seiner Freunde).”
(Friedrich Nietzsche, Zur Genealogie der Moral, 1887)

“»Lieber Stechlin«, begann er, »ich beschwöre Sie um sechsundsechzig Schock sächsische Schuhzwecken, kommen Sie doch nicht mit solchen Kleinigkeiten, die man jetzt, glaub’ ich, Velleitäten nennt. Wenigstens habe ich das Wort immer so übersetzt.”
(Theodor Fontane, Der Stechlin, 1897)

“Mais je suis loin de faire toujours ce que je me sens porté à faire. Je ne suis pas un caractère énergique. Je me connais. Par certains côtés, je suis ce qu’on appelle un velléitaire.”
(Jules Romains, Les hommes de bonne volonté, VII, 1910)

“Mais assurément j’anticipe, et vais gâcher tout mon récit si je donne pour acquis déjà l’état de joie, qu’à peine j’imaginais possible, qu’à peine, surtout, j’osais imaginer permis. Lorsque ensuite je fus mieux instruit, certes tout cela m’a paru plus facile: j’ai pu sourire des immenses tourments que de petites difficultés me causaient, appeler par leur nom des velléités indistinctes encore et qui m’épouvantaient parce que je n’en discernais point le contour. En ce temps il me fallait tout découvrir, inventer à la fois et le tourment et le remède, et je ne sais lequel des deux m’apparaissait le plus monstrueux.”
(André Gide, Si le grain ne meurt, 1920)

“Encore, si risibles que soient ces amateurs, ils ne sont pas tout à fait à dédaigner. Ils sont les premiers essais de la nature qui veut créer l’artiste, aussi informes, aussi peu viables que ces premiers animaux qui précédèrent les espèces actuelles et qui n’étaient pas constitués pour durer. Ces amateurs velléitaires et stériles doivent nous toucher comme ces premiers appareils qui ne purent quitter la terre mais où résidait, non encore le moyen secret et qui restait à découvrir, mais le désir du vol.”
(Marcel Proust, Le temps retrouvé, 1927)

“Ihm habe sich Anna in einem Moment letzter Verzweiflung anvertraut, wo sie bereits mit dem Leben abgeschlossen hatte, es sei ihm gelungen, sie aufzurichten, gewisse moralische Vorurteile und Velleitäten in ihr zu zerstreuen, der Missetäter hatte sich inzwischen aus dem Staub gemacht, hundert Gründe, die ihn verhinderten, wieder auf der Bildfläche zu erscheinen.”
(Jakob Wassermann, Der Fall Maurizius, 1928)

“A l’orgie latine succédèrent les ébats des Barbares, dignes héritiers de ces Romains gorgés de falerne et de sang, épuisés de stupre, sombrés dans les velléités.”
(Victor Méric, Les compagnons de l’Escopette, 1930)

“Het aantal werken die, bij verloop van jaren, zich bij den vakman als ‘litterair’ hebben aangediend, is gewoon niet te overzien. Zelfs de eenvoudige dagbladcritiek staat tegenwoordig voor een niet te volvoeren taak, waar ze de dagelijksche productie-aan-gedrukt-werk te schiften krijgt in waardevol en waardeloos. Wat zal het dan zijn met de literatuurgeschiedenis, die gesteld wordt vóór den overmachtigen stroom geschreven en gedrukte documenten, waarin een volk het heele verloop van zijn geestelijke beschaving heet te hebben uitgedrukt? En toch is dit de opdracht: onderscheid te maken tusschen litterair-blijvend en litterair-mislukt werk, tusschen levenskrachtig en velleïtair dichterschap.”
(Frank Baur & Jozef van Mierlo, Geschiedenis van de letterkunde der Nederlanden, I, 1939)

“From time to time, hoisting his weary head, from waist to neck his weary hold transferring, Watt would kiss, in a despairing manner, Mrs. Gorman on or about the mouth, before crumpling back into his post-crucified position. And these kisses, when their first feverish force began to fail, that is to say very shortly following their application, it was Mrs. Gorman’s invariable habit to catch up, as it were, upon her own lips, and return, with tranquil civility, as one picks up a glove, or newspaper, let fall in some public space, and restores it with a smile, if not a bow, to its rightful proprietor. So that each kiss was in reality two kisses, first Watt’s kiss, velleitary, anxious, and then Mrs. Gorman’s, unctious and urbane.”
(Samuel Beckett, Watt, 1953)

“Uit dat burgermannetje van niets, met zijn kleine behoeften en middelmatige belangstelling in alles, met zijn vervelend gezond verstand, had zij een figuur geschapen die buiten de muren van zijn huis overal met sympathie en passende eerbied werd begroet. Meer kon zij niet doen en zij was niet bang dat hij ooit uit zijn rol zou vallen, want ze had de enkele kleine velleïteiten van opstand in den beginne van hun huwelijk met vaste hand onderdrukt.”
(Marnix Gijsen, De Lange Nacht, 1954)

“Ethan looked toward the mainland again. Yes, it would have been easy. What was not easy was to realize that he’d just evaluated himself as of less worth than a bottle of gin, that the impulse to the act, the abandonment of Jacqueline and his son, and life itself, had not been a velleity, but a genuine impulse, of which he still even could feel the sickening and desperate volition.”
(Malcolm Lowry, October Ferry to Gabriola, 1957/1971)

“And he – passive as trance, allowing her beauty: to enter him or avoid him, whatever’s to be her pleasure. How shall he be other than mild receiver, filler of silences? All the radii of the room are hers, watery cellophane, crackling tangential as she turns on her heel-axis, lancing as she begins to retrace her path. Can he have loved her for nearly a decade? It’s incredible. This connoisseuse of “splendid weakness,” run not by any lust or even velleity but by vacuum: by the absence of human hope. She is frightening. Someone called her an erotic nihilist…”
(Thomas Pynchon, Gravity’s Rainbow, 1973)

“The consonance of the High Renaissance
Is present, though distorted by the mirror.
What is novel is the extreme care in rendering
The velleities of the rounded reflecting surface
(It is the first mirror portrait),
So that you could be fooled for a moment
Before you realize the reflection
Isn’t yours.”
(John Ashbery, Self-portrait in a Convex Mirror, 1975)

“Wignall’s themes derived from Anglican church services, the Christmas parties of his childhood, his public school pubescence, suburban shopping streets; they occasionally exhibited perverse velleities of a fetischistic order, though his droolings over girls’ bicycles and gym tunics and black woollen stockings were chilled by whimsical ingenuities of diction.”
(Anthony Burgess, Earthly Powers, 1980)

““Astronomy in a Realm where Slavery prevails…! Slaves holding candles to illuminate the ocular Threads, whilst others hold Mirrors, should we wish another Angle. One might lie, supine, Zenith-Star position, all Night…being fann’d, fed, amus’d,— everyone else oblig’d to remain upon their Feet, ever a-tip, to respond to a ‘Gazer’s least Velleity. Hahrrh!”
“Mason, why thah’ is dis-gusting…?””
(Thomas Pynchon, Mason & Dixon, 1997)

“Have you come across the word velleity? A nice Thomistic ring to it. Volition at its lowest ebb. A small thing, a wish, a tendency. If you’re low-willed, you see, you end up living in the shallowest turns and bends of your own preoccupations. Are we getting anywhere?”
(Don Delillo, Underworld, 1997)

In the end, it turned out not to be as much fun as I’d anticipated, but there you have it.