Abstract
If, like me, you’re a funny amalgam of history-of-astronomy buff and etymology nerd, then you might find this little book a treasure. It is indeed a miscellany, so you could dip into it at will, not minding much about the order of its chapters, which bear single-word titles like Sky, Light, Stars, Cosmos, Sun, Moon, Eclipses, Comets, Planets, and Calendar. The Preface begins by citing a Japanese haiku: “I saw a wild flower. When I knew its name, I found it more beautiful.” This pattern certainly applies to astronomical objects as well as to wild flowers, but the enrichment also flows back in the direction of language. I had never noticed that our verb “consider” has an astronomical core, and I’m pleased to know it.
That’s the pattern of this book: more learned than scholarly. There are no footnotes, bibliography, or index, although there’s a fascinating glossary at the end. And in a sense there’s no argument or thesis other than “Look at this; isn’t it interesting?” Well, it is interesting, and there’s value in works that are predominantly epideictic, so long as you know what you’re getting. And to spend time with these authors is to enjoy the company of people who love—and clearly are eager to share the love of—their subject. They do this successfully, even if their wisdom and whimsy can’t always be readily disentangled.
Consider the following selection in the chapter headed “Light” (pp. 15–16): Illuminated and illuminations transport us to the Middle Ages and fill us with wonder. Illuminated is essential for a Christmas tree, but much less reassuring for a scientist or a mystical visionary or mystifier! If lucidity designates, figuratively speaking, one who is sharp in a certain field, it is opposed to one who is not a luminary when their intellectual capacities are questioned. The Enlightenment—along with its philosophy—expresses what the philosopher René Descartes considered a departure from the theological or supernatural point of view. Everyone sees “noon at their door” French people say where English one [sic] prefers “look at their door” when it comes to lighting, whether one is secular or not. It all depends on the colour of the crystal through which one is looking. The lustrum family, via modern Italian, has given lustrous, lustre, lustring, or lustrine, illustrate and illustrious accompanied by its emphatic illustrissime.
This sort of etymologically guided stream of consciousness is typical of the authors’ fondness for phantasmagoria, at times interesting, at times a little self-indulgent.
Not to be overlooked is the book’s wide range of illustrations, from telescopic images of (for example) the Galaxy to numerous cartoons whose French humor leaves me feeling many degrees short of brilliant. These all reinforce the sense one has of this book as a scrapbook of thoughts, words, and images that the authors find fascinating, and some readers might too.
My favorite chapter is “Planets,” which toggles between the book’s normal text with its whimsical riffing on etymology and set-off blocks of text subtitled “Scientific Description.” The block of text on Mars offers, as far as I can tell, accurate notes on the fourth planet’s atmosphere, density, climate, volcanoes, marsquakes, meteorites, orbit, and potential for terraforming, with added brief mentions of the roles of Carl Sagan and Mars Society members Robert Zubrin, Buzz Aldrin, and Elon Musk.
Finally, a sample tidbit from the Glossary (p. 142): Evening: from Old English æfnung “the coming of evening, sunset, time around sunset”; verbal noun from æfnian “become evening, grow towards evening”; from æfen “evening” (see
I’m not sure if this sort of contribution is just lovely, or simply more than one needs to know—perhaps more tautological than truly informative. But such is the love of all things astronomical and lexical on display in this book that I can’t begrudge the authors their engaging and often contagious affections. The book is enjoyable and informative enough that I for one am glad they published it.
