a formal expression of high praise.
Encomium, “a formal expression of high praise,” comes via Latin encōmium from Greek enkṓmion “a laudatory ode for a conqueror, a eulogy or panegyric for a living person.” Enkṓmion is composed of the preposition and prefix en, en– “in,” the noun kômos “revel making, carousal, company of men participating in a Dionysiac procession and celebration” (the ancient Greeks did nothing to excess unless they were absolutely nuts about it). The further etymology of kômos is disputed; the word appears as the first element of kōmōidoí “revel singers,” from which the noun kōmōidía “a humorous spectacle” derives, becoming comoedia in Latin, and comedy in English. Encomium entered English in the second half of the 16th century.
The latter film took a British miniseries that cast a sardonic, frequently scathing eye upon newspapering, and turned it into an encomium for the Great American Investigative Reporter.
Since Mr. Trebek announced his diagnosis, his admirers have flooded the internet and elsewhere with encomiums.
Flapdoodle, “nonsense; bosh,” is a colloquialism that first appeared in print in 1834 along with a definition: “It’s the stuff they feed fools on.” Flapdoodle has no reliable etymology; the meaning of flap is pure conjecture, but some scholars suggest that doodle has its archaic sense “a fool, silly person.” Mark Twain uses flapdoodle in chapter 25 of Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1884): “…[the King] works himself up and slobbers out a speech, all full of tears and flapdoodle about its being a sore trial for him and his poor brother….”
But Shlaes suavely dismisses the notion that Coolidge bears responsibility for the Great Depression and suggests his work was “complete, ready as a kind of blessing for another era.”
This is flapdoodle. No, Coolidge was not single-handedly culpable for the economic calamity of the 1930s. But neither can he be safely extracted from the ruin that followed his presidency.
At home, a day later, too jet-lagged to think straight, I watch the “Da Vinci Code” movie for the first time. Now, I remember some silly flapdoodle about vessels and chalices and secret societies, but not much else. Nothing, it seems, rubbed off on me.
free from concern, worry, or anxiety; carefree; nonchalant.
Insouciant, “free from concern or anxiety; carefree; nonchalant,” comes straight from French insouciant, literally “not caring,” a compound of the French negative prefix in– “not” (from Latin in-, and naturalized in English in– from both Latin and French borrowings), and the present participle souciant “caring,” from the verb soucier “to trouble, care.” Soucier comes from Vulgar Latin sollicītāre “to worry, vex,” from Latin sollicitāre “to disturb, harass.” The French noun souci “care, worry” is part of the phrase sans souci “without worries, carefree,” which, spelled Sanssouci, is the name of the summer palace built by King Frederick the Great, King of Prussia, in Potsdam, between 1745 and 1747. Insouciant entered English in the first half of the 19th century.
And while I expected to meet people electrified by political change, I mainly encountered cautious optimism mixed with insouciant shrugs toward the politicians.
She preferred to take the more insouciant attitude of an old veteran who has been there, done that, seen it all. “I’ve won so many grand slam titles. And I’m at a position where I don’t need to win another Wimbledon,” she smiled.
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