If you like words (as we all now know, I do*) hold on to your horses. More fun than the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) online; an entire book of bombastic pontification.
Well, the review is at least.
Simon Winchester takes a fabulous subject and tells a marvelous story.
The OED began its current incarnation, as the literary analog to the great masterpieces of literature, in 1857. It took 70 years to reach its initial collection of 414,825 definitions. Each one a marvel of almost unambiguous information. The linguistic roots, the context of usage, the common and uncommon definitions, pronunciation, groups, sub-groups et al.It took tens of thousands of entries from many more people, the Professor (James Murray) and the madman (Dr. William Minor) being two of the most prodigious contributors.
Winchester wades through the technical to present the emotional story between these two men, who so aided the creation of one of the world’s most essential books. We see these two men for more than their contributive import.
As Winchester depicts their individual lives and how they came together, he becomes a little mired in historical details, but we eventually find how one slip of paper, an appeal for volunteers, made its way to an institution for the criminally insane.
Dr. William Chester Minor was incarcerated for murder. A wealthy, American-born, Yale-educated military surgeon, he had become delusional. After intentionally shooting a stranger in 1871, whom he believed to be stalking him, he was committed for life to Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum. As an increasingly privileged inmate, books became his life and the appeal by James Murray, to whom the enormous undertaking of compiling a new dictionary had been given, was a lifeline.
Professor James Murray, a meticulously self-educated academic whirlwind, had convinced the Oxford Delegates to allow him, “to edit, on behalf of the Philological Society of London, The New English Dictionary on Historical Principles.”
Millions of volunteers would be invited to present relevant information and, of them, Dr. Minor became the most exhaustive.
His clever adumbration of the words he presented was wildly appreciated. Entries thus far had been uselessly vague and disorganized. Contrarily, Minor submitted carefully collated definitions that were easily found when needed. He became an invaluable commodity. Ironically, the more voluminous he became, the madder he went … ”as came the madness, so came the words.”
By 1884, the first publishing of A-Ant in the OED – all 352 pages – was a success. Murray had instilled the military-like work ethic in his new workplace. 1,029 pigeon holes were built and papers covered all imaginable surfaces by the ton. At a goal of only 33 words a day, it was becoming an epic undertaking.
Murray, becoming increasingly beholden to the great Dr. Minor, invites him to visit Oxford. Years of invitations are rebuffed. He even declines the famous celebratory Chateau d’Yquem-soaked dictionary dinner (Oct. 12,1897.) How could such an imposing personage remain so silent? Surely the company of his peers and a great bottle of 1889 Pfungst champagne should entice him?But no.
Murray finally writes, “You and I have known each other through correspondence for 17 years and it is a sad fact that we have never met.” He suggests making a visit to Dr. Minor, who Murray believes lives in a village 50 miles away, and amazingly Dr. Minor accepts.
With a sense of foreboding, Murray sets out to visit Minor, the gentle doctor he imagines sequestered on his fine estate, and finds a surprisingly discordant state of affairs. Impressively, he is not deterred by his findings.
Also pleasingly surprising is the fact that they continued to maintain their friendship for another few decades. Murray found Minor to be not only a physical mirror image of himself but, apart from the delusions, the clever mind he had anticipated.
The press made much of this meeting and of the pair, and, despite the adversity, they grew to respect one another. The Connecticut Yankee and the Scotsman, in spite of all obstacles, were friends until the end.
Now that your interest is piqued, I will not tell all, but, by no means, is there a happy ending, other than the existence of the OED. Make sure to read the Postscripts and Author’s Notes at the end.
The Professor and The Madman is a book that needed writing and certainly deserves reading.
* Upon showing my parents an admissions essay I wrote at age 12, both sets of parental eyes were set a roll at my usage of wan, dour, lugubrious, consanguineous, and Lord knows what else. Why use one word when six sesquipedalian ones can be had? We all appreciate the existence of the OED and the sedulous drudgery that went into its creation.