A woman was looking at one of the small books we keep at the register while I rang up her sale today--I think it was a picture dictionary. At any rate, she said "Imbricate. What's imbricate?" The pencil drawing showed a plant somewhat like an asparagus, but beyond that, I didn't even know what the drawing was. I said, "I don't know, I guess I'll have to look into that." She said, "I'm going to take a picture of it. That's how I remember things." And so I suppose to prove that I can remember things without a camera, I'm going to look into this now.
***
Well, Latin students will know all about this one, I suspect. Imbricate plants are those whose leaves overlap partially in an even sort of pattern. The tips of asparagus do fit the bill, but so do artichokes. And pinecones. In fact, a lot of things in the world are imbricated. Fish scales. Shingles.
And shingles, or, really, roof tiles, are the key here. Imbricate and imbricated come from the Latin imbricatus, "covered with tiles", the past participle of imbricatare, "to cover with rain tiles". An imbrix was one of the rounded Roman tiles that lay over the joins of two tegula, the other flatter tile used as part of the rainproofing system. The imbrix was so named because it protected from imber--rain.
Seems a long way from there to artichokes, doesn't it?
In the course of my wanderings, I came across this post by a professor named Michael Drout from Wheaton College, refuting the idea that "imbricated" was a good way to describe overlapping cultural studies. It is not only a word used to show we are smarter than someone else, but also it is used imprecisely in this context.
"We fight a losing battle against fossilized metaphor and imprecise language, but it is a long defeat worth fighting, because when we preserve the specific meaning of "dilapidated" as "having stones missing" or "imbricated" as "overlapping like shingles on a roof," rather than allow these words to decay into just dead metaphors for "old" or "entwined," we keep the language richer and more powerful, more able to communicate specific, concrete ideas in only a few words."
Luckily, there are plenty of ways to used "imbricated" without having to resort to academic-speak.
***
Well, Latin students will know all about this one, I suspect. Imbricate plants are those whose leaves overlap partially in an even sort of pattern. The tips of asparagus do fit the bill, but so do artichokes. And pinecones. In fact, a lot of things in the world are imbricated. Fish scales. Shingles.
And shingles, or, really, roof tiles, are the key here. Imbricate and imbricated come from the Latin imbricatus, "covered with tiles", the past participle of imbricatare, "to cover with rain tiles". An imbrix was one of the rounded Roman tiles that lay over the joins of two tegula, the other flatter tile used as part of the rainproofing system. The imbrix was so named because it protected from imber--rain.
 |
| the rounded, upper tile is the imbrix. |
Seems a long way from there to artichokes, doesn't it?
In the course of my wanderings, I came across this post by a professor named Michael Drout from Wheaton College, refuting the idea that "imbricated" was a good way to describe overlapping cultural studies. It is not only a word used to show we are smarter than someone else, but also it is used imprecisely in this context.
"We fight a losing battle against fossilized metaphor and imprecise language, but it is a long defeat worth fighting, because when we preserve the specific meaning of "dilapidated" as "having stones missing" or "imbricated" as "overlapping like shingles on a roof," rather than allow these words to decay into just dead metaphors for "old" or "entwined," we keep the language richer and more powerful, more able to communicate specific, concrete ideas in only a few words."
Luckily, there are plenty of ways to used "imbricated" without having to resort to academic-speak.
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Posts
I just saw these imbricated woolen pine cone ornaments in an Etsy shop today!
ReplyDeletehttp://www.etsy.com/listing/87617468/woolen-pine-cone-ornament?ref=pr_shop
Super apropos, Kathleen! They could not be more imbricated if they tried...
ReplyDeleteHmm, the Chinese soldiers in a critical battle scene of a movie about which I've just posted held off their attackers by holding their shields in an overlapping pattern that looks very much like imbrication.
ReplyDeleteThat's a nice example. Imbrication is everywhere, really. I'm kind of surprised I've never heard of it before. Or probably just never noticed that I heard it.
ReplyDeleteI had heard the word before, but I would not have been able to tell you what it meant. And I have always been fascinated by the phenomenon. I wonder if the numbers of leaves in each level of an artichoke or pine cone are related according to some mathematical scheme, such as the Fibonacci series.
ReplyDeleteI'm sure there is some sort of mathematical correlation, but I probably wouldn't really understand it.
ReplyDeleteThe mathematics I had in mind is exceedingly simple. Your illustrations reminded me of nautilus shells and sunflower heads, where the spiral arrangements seem to conform to the Fibonacci series, a simple sequence in which each number is the sum of the previous two: 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89 and so on.
ReplyDeleteLo, artichokes are an example of Fibonacci spiraling!
ReplyDelete=======================================
Detectives Beyond Borders
"Because Murder Is More Fun Away From Home"
http://detectivesbeyondborders.blogspot.com
Cool. And so are asparagus, apparently.
ReplyDeleteI like my vegetables grilled, sauteed, or imbricated.
ReplyDeleteOr all of the above.
ReplyDeleteImbricated, with a drizzle of Modena vinegar is perfect on a hot summer day.
ReplyDeleteGreat, except for the fact that the summer is a long way away.
ReplyDeleteI guess I can finally get around to the Camilleri series if I need an idea of sun.
Yes, the Fibonacci series goes on and on and on and on and on.
ReplyDeleteAs some crime-fiction series do.
ReplyDeleteI was going to say, Why stop there?, but I see that you have written your own riposte.
ReplyDeleteSeana
ReplyDeleteIts interesting isnt it that imber seems to have become the cognate of rain in very few European languages, even romance ones. I think thats because rain is so important it was a word that resisted change.
In the German languages its regen. In French its pluie. In Irish its báisteach.
Yes, I bet that's right. I have the sense that in English a lot of things have two words for them because the Latin (and Greek) influence was so strong, but native words held their own too. I believe I've even read about that, but of course have no idea where.
ReplyDeleteAlthough English does look like it's influenced by the Germanic in this case.
We happened to have come across the word impluvium in Finnegans Wake the other night, and if I had only seen this post first, I could have temporarily looked a lot more knowledgable than I actually am.
Seana
ReplyDeleteIn Basque rain is euri. And if you believe the Brian Sykes thesis about the DNA of most western Europeans coming from an Ice Age refuge in Northern Spain then its not beyond the bounds of credibility that an ancient proto version of "euri" is the root for both regen and imber.
It's an intriguing idea, anyway. Is Sykes someone worth reading?
ReplyDeleteSeana
ReplyDeleteYup. His books are pretty convincing. Also enjoyed Stephen Oppenheimer's works which basically follow on from Sykes's research.
Okay, I'll put them on the long, long list.
ReplyDelete