In tracing Greek vocabulary to its source, we’ll usually be going back in time to a period before the great age of Rome. As the extant evidence of an historical culture, the ancient Greek language is centuries older than Latin. A recognizable form of Greek was spoken and written in the era of the Mycenaean Bronze Age, some 1500 years before the birth of Christ and the rule of Augustus Caesar. Documents from this palace civilization of the second millennium BC, the celebrated “Linear B tablets,” were discovered only in our century, and were revealed in the 1950s to be an early form of the Greek language. The Hellenic world lapsed into illiteracy during the so-called “Dark Age” that followed the collapse of the Bronze-Age kingdoms; but the art of writing Greek was re-invented when a new system of alphabetic symbols was borrowed from the Phoenicians (see §98).

From the 8th to the 4th centuries BC, before Rome emerged as a major force in the Mediterranean world, the Greek city-states enjoyed an astonishing level of intellectual and cultural energy. This was a 400-year period that began with the epic poet Homer, whose Iliad and Odyssey are among the supreme works of world literature, and closed with Aristotle and Alexander the Great—a teacher and his pupil whose combined influence on human history can hardly be overstated.

Any mention of ancient Greece will likely conjure up the image of Athens, the most dynamic and often the most dominant—if not always the most gentle—of the Greek city-states. This democratic polis was the birthplace of all the major dramatists, and enjoyed an unparalleled period of creativity under the great statesman Pericles, in the 5th century BC. Thanks to the fame of Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle, Athens became also the city most renowned for philosophical and intellectual studies. Still, it would be a serious mistake to equate ancient Greek culture with this one community. The classical city-states extended from Asia Minor and the Black Sea in the east to Sicily and southern Italy in the west. The epic poems of Homer had likely been composed in Ionia (western Turkey in our day); the historian Herodotus, the mathematician-philosopher Pythagoras, and the physician Hippocrates—to name just three great pioneers—all came from that same general area on the eastern fringe of the Greek world. In contrast, such towering figures as Empedocles and Archimedes lived and worked in Sicily, a Greek sphere of influence far to the west.

It would be another grievous error to suppose that Greek civilization ended with Alexander the Great. Many of the intellectual accomplishments reflected today in English vocabulary can be traced to the Hellenistic Age, the period between the death of Alexander and the Roman supremacy. Though Athens continued to play a prominent role in these later centuries, a more important centre of creativity and scholarship was Alexandria, the multicultural capital city from which a Macedonian-Greek dynasty ruled Egypt. Even under Roman rule, the eastern Mediterranean world continued to speak Greek as its first and common language, and Greece still provided traditional intellectual leadership. Centuries later (in AD 330), Byzantium on the Bosporus was chosen by Constantine as the new capital of the Roman Empire; and Constantinople (“Constantine’s polis,” modern Istanbul) became the focal point of a Byzantine civilization that endured until its fall to the Turks in AD 1453. Therefore Greek culture and the Greek language can be viewed as an unbroken continuity extending even to our own day. In considering the Greek linguistic influence on English, however, we are dealing mainly with the archaic, classical and Hellenistic Greek world that preceded the Roman conquest. It was the legacy of this creative period that Rome absorbed and then transmitted to medieval and modern Europe.

In the centuries between Homer and Archimedes, the Greeks had invented almost all the major genres of ancient poetry (most notably, epic, lyric, and drama), and had pioneered such branches of prose literature as history, philosophy, and rhetoric—including specialized vocabulary to express the theoretical and practical aspects of these disciplines. Art and architecture, of course, were areas of major achievement that also had extensive special vocabularies. The same is true of astronomy and mathematics, two fields in which the Greeks excelled. Music and athletics—kindred activities, as many believed—were given conspicuous status in Greek education and society. Medicine, a traditional art whose discovery was credited to the god Asclepius, became a true scientific discipline in the 5th century BC, thanks to Hippocrates and his followers; and Greek physicians still enjoyed international esteem at the time of Galen, in the second century AD.

After the Romans conquered the Mediterranean world, they so absorbed Greek ideas and Greek values that the fusion of cultures is generally viewed as one civilization (called “Greco-Roman,” if not simply “Hellenic”). Because all educated Romans were bilingual in Latin and Greek, hundreds of useful Greek words were taken over and adapted to Latin morphology. These words came especially from fields where the Greeks had shone: the literary and visual arts, philosophy, pure science, mathematics, and medicine.

It was the Romans who passed the cultural legacy of Hellenic civilization to western Europe. In the Middle Ages, the knowledge of Greek declined drastically in the west, and the direct influence of Greek was almost non-existent. However, when Renaissance scholars re-discovered ancient Greek texts, the languages of Europe began to acquire new loan-words from classical Greek. In the medical and biological sciences, in particular, Greek has been the primary source of technical vocabulary every since. The knowledge explosion of the 20th century has greatly intensified this process of linguistic borrowing.

§108. Exercises, Chapter 16

§112. Exercises, Chapter 17

§122. Exercises, Chapter 19

§130. Exercises, Chapter 20

The Greek ALPHABET, so called from the names of its first two letters, was itself adapted from the Phoenician alphabet, probably in the eighth century BC. (This was a rather remarkable adaptation, considering the fact that Phoenician was a Semitic language outside the Indo-European family.) In the early centuries of this new literacy, Greek letter-symbols varied from one regional dialect to the next, including some forms that would later disappear—most notably, a prototype of Q that was called a koppa (Ϙ). Eventually, however, there evolved an alphabet of 24 letters, all written in capitals. The lower-case letter system, which is the more important for our purposes, is a convention that we owe to Byzantine Greek scribes and the pioneer printers of the Renaissance.

You will have noticed that sigma (= s) has two forms: σ at the beginning or in the middle of a word (INITIAL or MEDIAL sigma) and ς at the end of a word (FINAL sigma).

Here are the more difficult or confusing lower-case letters:

Notice these letters that descend below the base-line:

B.    CONSONANTS:

C.    BREATHINGS:

If a word begins with a vowel, a BREATHING MARK is placed above it to indicate whether or not that vowel is ASPIRATED—that is, whether or not there is an h sound at the start of the word.[footnote] If a word begins with a diphthong, the breathing mark is placed over the second letter of the diphthong; e.g., αἰ, αὐ, εἰ, εὐ, οἱ, οὑ, υἱ. If the word begins with a capital vowel, the breathing mark is placed to the left of the capital; e.g., ʼAθηυη, ʽOμηρος = Athēnē, Homēros (E Homer).[/footnote] If there is an h sound, the ROUGH BREATHING mark is used (ʽ as in ἡλιος = hēlios). If there is no h sound, the SMOOTH BREATHING mark is used (ʼ as in ἀγορα = agora). One or the other must be present on all such words. Because rho is aspirated at the beginning of words, initial rho is written ῥ as in ῥυθμος = ruthmos or rhythmos.

The problem can be neatly illustrated by taking a few Greek proper names, either historical or mythological. An exact transliteration of Σωκρατης and Περικλης ought to produce Sōkratēs and Periklēs; but because the Latin language knew these two men as Socrates and Pericles, their names have been spelled with a c for over 2,000 years. Nonetheless, there are Greek purists who prefer the English spellings Sokrates and Perikles, however pedantic that may seem. What are we to do with Aἰσχυλος — Aiskhulos or Aischylos or Aeschylus? The first version is an exact transliteration; the second can also be described as a transliteration, using Roman alphabet conventions (χ = ch, υ = y); but the third is a full-blown LATINIZATION, where a Greek diphthong (αι) has been spelled as its Latin counterpart (ae), and where the Greek noun ending -ος has been rendered by the equivalent Latin declension form (-us). Examine the following cases, and observe how the Latinized form has affected the traditional English spelling:

From this small sampling it will be obvious that Latinization went far beyond the four simple conventions that we noted above (κ = c, χ = ch, ῥ to rh, and υ = y). In modifying the spelling of Greek words that they brought into Latin, the Romans were mainly trying to represent, in an accurate and familiar form, the sounds that they heard in Greek. For example, the Greek diphthong αι sounded to them exactly like their own Latin diphthong ae, whereas the Greek diphthong ου apparently sounded very much like the Latin vowel u. In addition, the ending of a Greek noun might be adapted to the parallel Latin noun declension. Occasionally, the Latin version evolved into a completely new word: thus the Romans knew the Homeric hero ʼOδυσσευς (Odysseus) as Ulixes or Ulysses, and changed the name of his fellow-warrior Aἰας (Aias) to Aiax (E Ajax); similarly, they transformed the Queen of Troy from ʽEκαβη (Hekabē) to Hecuba, and they came to know the great ʽHρακλης (Hēraklēs) as Hercules. Today, in a Greek context, we usually refer to him as Herakles or Heracles; in a Roman context, the name is Hercules.

There was one special circumstance where the Greek consonant gamma (γ) was represented not by Roman g, but by Roman n—a surprising change, one might suppose. Again, however, the Romans were simply using phonetic spelling. In classical Greek, whenever gamma occurred before another palatal consonant (γ, κ, χ, or ξ), it was nasalized, changing in sound from [g] to [ŋ]. The principle can be illustrated as follows:

The exact transliteration of the four Greek words would be aggelos, egkōmion, kogkhē, and larugx. These precise versions, however, are almost unreadable and unpronounceable in the Roman alphabet. Even a purist might here be tempted to use the n convention, and write angelos, enkōmion, konkhē and larunx. It would be standard and acceptable to transliterate the last two as konchē and larynx.

If you are asked to give a TRANSLITERATION of a Greek word, you can normally use your own judgement in choosing between the exact and the conventional Roman alphabet options.[footnote] Major English-language reference works differ in their preference for exact or conventional Greek transliteration. Very few dictionaries favour a rigidly exact system, though professional Greek scholars are increasingly moving in that direction.[/footnote] Under no circumstances, however, should you change diphthong spellings or word endings. By doing so, you would be definitely crossing the boundary between TRANSLITERATION and LATINIZATION. Try to keep the two procedures separate.

When we examine Greek noun declensions, we'll see how Latinization affected the word-endings of Greek words adopted into Latin. For reference purposes, here is a summary of changes caused by the LATINIZATION OF GREEK DIPHTHONGS:

For Key to Exercises (Greek), see Appendix III.

Here is a table that summarizes the 1st and 2nd declension noun endings in Latin and Greek. The Greek 2nd declension, as you can see, is precise and straightforward in its correspondence with its Latin counterpart. The 1st declension is rather more complicated, and its various endings will not make much sense until we have looked at a few examples.

Except to help remember declension categories, you needn’t worry very much about NOUN GENDER. However, you will recall that almost all native Latin 1st declension nouns in -a are feminine. In Greek, we’ll see that the -η and -α types are always feminine, but that there are quite a few nouns in -ης, a masculine word-ending. These were sometimes Latinized as 1st declension masculine loan-words in -a. The grammatical gender of the 2nd declension is parallel in both languages: most nouns in -us (Latin) or -ος (Greek) are masculine, and all nouns in -um (Latin) or -ον (Greek) are neuter.

In both the 1st and 2nd declensions, a noun BASE is identified by removing its characteristic ending. In this respect, Greek is exactly analogous to Latin.

Here is a sampling of 1st declensions nouns ending in -η and -α:

Ancient Greek was a language with many dialects—a reflection of the geographical and political fragmentation of early Greek society. In the epic dialect of Homer and Hesiod, the word for “earth” was γαια (gaia), often personified as Γαια (Gaia) or “Mother Earth.” In Attic (Athenian) dialect, however, the word was γη; and this is the form in which it has influenced English vocabulary. The forms γλωσσα and γλωττα also reflect variations in dialect. In its Latin usage, glossa came to mean an “unusual word”; to gloss a text, therefore, was to explain an unusual word, and a glossary (< L glossarium) was a place in which to find unusual words.

The last two words on the list illustrate the pervasive influence of Latin. From Homer and his successors, Roman poets inherited the concept of the Muse as the source of literary inspiration. (Indeed, there were nine separate Muses, the daughters of Mnēmosynē [Μνημοσυνη], whose name meant “Memory.”) By a standard principle of Latinization (diphthong ου > ū, §101), Greek μουσα became Latin mūsa, and the English root mus- can thus be said to have a Greco-Latin pedigree. Similarly, the Romans borrowed the Greek word σφαιρα as Latin sphaera, with the minor adaptation of diphthong αι > ae.

Among 1st declension Greek masculine nouns in -ης", many are proper names like Σωκρατης, Περικλης, ’Αριστοφανης, Θουκυδιδης (Socrates, Pericles, Aristophanes, Thucydides). Here are several common nouns that received predictable treatment in Latin:

An Argonaut (< ’Αργοναυτης) was a sailor on Jason's fabulous ship, the Argo. By analogy, we have the modern coinages cosmonaut and astronaut (a “universe-sailor” and a “star-sailor,” respectively). Latin comēta and planēta entered French as comète and planète, whence their English forms comet and planet.

The straightforward rule for turning a Greek noun into an adjective is to add -ικος to the noun base; this will produce an English derivative in -ic:

There is only one exception to this rule, and it is phonetically consistent. If the noun base ends in the vowel iota (ι), the adjective forming suffix is not -ικος but -ακος; in this case, the English derivative will end in -ac:

As you have perhaps noticed already, there is an odd complication to this otherwise very easy rule. Because of the profound influence of Latin on all English vocabulary, our English adjectival derivatives from Greek nouns often display the suffix -al, which you will shrewdly (and correctly) identify as the legacy of the Latin suffix -alis. Thus the Greek adjective σφαιρικος (“like a ball”) has acquired an extra syllable in assuming its English form spherical. Educated ancient Romans would have shunned such redundant hybrids; the extra suffix has usually been added by speakers of English. But sometimes there was a good historical reason for the additional element; for example, once the feminine adjective musica (> E music) had become a Late Latin noun, the adjective musicalis (> E musical) made perfectly good sense. In English, it is not uncommon to find the pure Greek derivative co-existing with its hybrid counterpart. Thus the 1st declension Greek noun λυρα (“lyre”) has two English adjectival derivatives: lyric (< G λυρικος) and lyrical, with the hybrid Latin suffix added. Both words appear to have entered English in the same year (1581). The similar English pair of adjectives comic and comical are derived from a 2nd declension Greek noun (κωμος); comical is actually the older of the two English words.

In the English derivatives hymn and throne, we can recognize common patterns of Anglicizing Latin words that we first met in Part I, §14.

Here are some useful 2nd declension Greek nouns in -ος:

Most of the compound derivatives—words with endings like -logy, -graphy, and -phobia —will be explained in the next chapter. Notice the English adjectives dactylic, cyclic, ophthalmic, topic, and chronic; these are all regular derivatives from Greek forms in -ικος. (English cyclical and topical show the extra Latin suffix.)

Because the Greeks began the tradition of western drama, it should be no surprise that a great many theatrical words are of Greek origin. So far, we have seen theatre (θεατρον), orchestra (ὀρχηστρα), and chorus (χορος). We could add the 1st declension noun σκηνη (skēnē), the stage building that served as the backdrop for early Attic tragedies; the Romans adapted this as scaena (not an exact transliteration), and of course the word became scene in English.[footnote] Our word scenario is an Italian derivative of the Latin scaenarium.[/footnote] The area in front of the skēnē was known as the προσκηνιον (proskēnion), a word that was regularly Latinized as proscenium. The English word actor is a pure Latin agent noun (Part I, §73). The Greek word for “actor” was ὑποκριτης (hypokritēs), a 1st declension masculine noun that meant “answerer”—because the actor replied to the words of the chorus. If someone plays an actor’s role in real life, he may be considered a hypocrite.

Two common Greek nouns that generated an amazing number of English derivatives were the 1st declension χαρτης (“sheet of papyrus”) and the 2nd declension δισκος. From the first came chart, card (< L charta), charter (< L chartula), cartel (< Ital. cartello), carton, cartoon (< Ital. cartone), cartouche and cartridge (< Ital. cartoccio). From δισκος came discus, disc, disk, dish, desk, and dais.

Greek neuter nouns of the type θεατρον, κεντρον, and μετρον became theatrum, centrum, and metrum in their Latin adaptations. After French transmission, these Latin words assumed an English spelling in -re: theatre, centre, and metre. Since the time of Noah Webster’s reforms, however, the words have had an -er ending in American usage. Originally, κεντρον denoted a sharp spur or goad; it was the Greek equivalent of the Latin stimulus. From the sharp point of the compass, it acquired the force of “centre,” the only meaning that it carried in its Latin form centrum. The English word concentric (“having a centre together with”) uses the Latin prefix con- and the standard Greek adjectival suffix.

The noun ἀνθρωπος denotes a human being—like Latin homo (cf. homo sapiens). In the long tradition of the English language, this generic concept has always been rendered by the word man—an ambiguous term, since man means also the male human being (Greek ἀνηρ, ἀνδρος; Latin vir). Quite understandably, modern feminist concerns have brought this usage into disrepute, and we are urged to replace the generic man with human (and mankind with humankind). However worthy the motive, it will be hard to purge the English language of a strong Germanic word so steeped in literary and popular tradition.

The 2nd declension noun ξενος (xenos, “stranger”) is one of the oldest and most highly charged words in the Greek language. From the time of the prehistoric Bronze Age that is reflected in the epic poems of Homer, the stranger was viewed as someone under the protection of the god Zeus, and a person who must be treated with the utmost cordiality and respect. Reverence for strangers became a central feature of the creed of hospitality that has continued to be a powerful force in Greece through some four millennia of human history. As a result of this attractive belief, the word ξενος came to mean not only “stranger,” but also “guest” and “host” (= L hospes, hospitis). The reciprocal guest-host relationship is characterized by what the Greeks still call philoxenia (“love of strangers,” “hospitality”); it is an attitude that leaves no room for xenophobia.

The word χρονος (khronos, “time”) has many English derivatives—chronic,[footnote]The Greek adjective χρονικος is etymologically parallel to the Latin temporalis, in the sense that they both mean "pertaining to time." The English derivatives chronic and temporal are not exact synonyms, but they do retain this etymological kinship. We can find other such pairs of bilingual Greek-Latin parallels; for example, G phonic and L vocal, which both mean "pertaining to the voice." More surprising, perhaps, is the etymological kinship between G psychic and L animal (or spiritual?).[/footnote] chronicle (< χρονικα), chronology, chronometer (“time-measure”), and the like. In its form and pronunciation, this Greek word was very close to the unrelated name of the god Κρονος (Kronos), father and predecessor of the Olympians Zeus, Hera, and Poseidon. Kronos, divine king of the generation of Titans, had assumed heavenly power through a singularly violent act: in league with his mother Gaia (Earth), he castrated his father Ouranos[footnote]As we have already seen, this Greek name was adapted in Latin as Uranus. The Roman god who was the counterpart of Kronos gave his name to another planet in our solar system-Saturnus or Saturn.[/footnote] (Sky), emasculating this unfortunate deity by means of a sickle. As Greek mythology evolved, Χρονος and Κρονος became confused and conflated, and the symbolic representation of Time acquired the iconography of the divine Titan. This, we think, is the origin of that wicked scythe in the hands of Father Time. He’s a Grim Reaper, indeed; any man who sees him coming would be wise to run in the opposite direction!

For Key to Exercises (Greek), see Appendix III.

The fact that we are dealing with Greek compounds at such an early stage is a signal of their greater importance in English vocabulary, relative to Latin. English words that contain two separate Latin bases (deification, manufacture, carnivora, etc.) represent only a small fraction of the thousands of Latin derivatives in our language. However, English words with multiple Greek bases probably comprise our largest category of Greek derivatives. The Greek language itself was unusually rich in compounds, and those who have turned to Greek for modern borrowings have exploited that word-building capacity. Greek compounds are especially prominent in the technical language of biology, medicine, and other scientific disciplines. They may combine various parts of speech: noun + noun, adjective + noun, noun + verb, etc. Perhaps you already know the etymological meanings for many of these compounds—words like dermatology, democracy, or pyromania; but you may need a little help with examples such as rhododendron or nephrolithotomy.

One important principle to notice is the use of the CONNECTING VOWEL omicron (ο = English o), which is as much the norm in Greek as the connecting vowel -i- is the rule in Latin. Notice the role of this connecting vowel o to link the base elements in the Greek compounds just mentioned:

The connecting vowel is present for reasons of euphony: it is needed to permit a smooth phonetic transition from one base to the next. It is not required, therefore, when the second base begins with a vowel, as in the word hierarchy (hier-archy, “sacred rule”). Also there are some words where (for various reasons) the final vowel of the first word-base is retained; a good example is agoraphobia (agora-phobia, “fear of the market-place”). The final -e (epsilon) of the adverb τηλε (tēle, “far,” “far off”) is kept in compounds like tele-phone (“far voice”), tele-pathy (“far feeling”), and the Greek-Latin hybrid tele-vision (“sight from afar”).

The hyphenated word-divisions in the last paragraph represent a very simple method of compound WORD ANALYSIS. Probably the most important step in understanding the structure of these Greek compound derivatives is getting the hyphens in the right place.[footnote]In normal usage, we use the hyphen to divide a word into syllables; here we are dividing the word into morphological components. Don't confuse the two procedures.[/footnote] That isn’t always as easy as it may seem. Because you know that βιος means “life,” you may be tempted to assume that biology can be analysed as bio-logy, “the study of life.” However, the 2nd declension noun βιος loses its -ος ending in yielding the base βι-; and therefore the English compound should be divided as bi-o-logy. That is the reason why zoology (zō-o-logy) ought not to be pronounced “zoo-ology.” Sometimes the division points in a Greek compound can be very surprising. If you asked a random group of intelligent people to divide the word helicopter into its elements, most of them would probably assume it was a heli-copter, whatever that meant—a “sun-beater,” maybe? In fact, this Greek compound derivative is a helic-o-pter, a “spiral wing” (from ἑλιξ, ἑλικ-ος, “spiral,” the connecting vowel omicron, and πτερον, “wing”). It was a precise and ideal name for that type of aircraft; amazingly enough, the word came into English way back in 1872, via the French hélicoptère.

The following list of word-building elements consists, for the most part, of noun or verb bases to which have been added the abstract noun suffix -ια (-ia). The form -logia, for example, can be explained as λογ- + -ια. Unlike μανια, which existed as an independent noun, -λογια was used only as a combining form in Greek—always in the second position, as in θεολογια (the-o-log-ia, E theology). Quite clearly, -λογια should not be described as a suffix, though its derivative -logy may have assumed the status of a virtual suffix in the English language.[footnote]The same can be said of -graphy. A word like βιογραφια, which actually existed in ancient Greek, consists of the two bases βι- and γραφ-, the connecting vowel -ο-, and the abstract noun suffix -ια. Thus the derivative can be analysed as bi-o-graph-ia. However, most English compounds of this type were never Greek words, and look silly if written in the Greek alphabet.[/footnote]

In this list, the declension number of the noun base is often identified as (1), (2M), (2N), and (3); the 2nd declension is subdivided into -os (2M) and -on (2N) types.

You should not expect to understand at once all the examples given above. Those that are based on 3rd declension nouns will obviously make better sense after Chapter 18. Others involve adjective bases to be studied in Chapter 19.

You have met the noun base of metrology, the study of weights and measures. The study of causes, either medical or mythical, is aetiology (etiology).[footnote] G αἰτια (“cause”) > L aetia; English usage varies on the further reduction of the diphthong ae > e.[/footnote] Of particular interest to theologians and philosophers is eschatology, the study of last things—such as death and final judgement. Here are a few other examples that have a good Greek pedigree:

Compounds ending in -meter (< G μετρον) are measurement devices. The first element of barometer means “weight” or “pressure”; the instrument measures air pressure. Although their measurement function differs, the hybrid speedometer is an etymological equivalent of a tachometer. What does an anemometer measure? A sphygmomanometer?

Many of us suffer from phobias. The film Arachnophobia popularized one such affliction, named after ἀραχνη or ἀραχνης, the 1st declension Greek word for “spider.” According to an aetiological myth, Arachne was an arrogant young weaver, who was changed into a spider because of her foolish wish to rival the goddess of weaving, Athena. Though phobias are a serious matter, some of the descriptive labels are tongue-in-cheek. You may have encountered tris-kai-deka-phobia, a morbid fear of the number thirteen. Laurence J. Peter (author of The Peter Principle) defined papyrophobia (< G παπυρος, L papyrus) as “an abnormal desire for a clean desk.” (In a brilliant play on pyromania, he also coined the word papyromania, “the compulsive accumulation of papers.”) Other facetious and improbable coinages have included zonasphalophobia (“fear of seat-belts”), opsogalactophobia (“fear of omelettes”), and even pectocarpochylophobia (“fear of Jello”).

To judge by Greek compound derivatives, the opposite of love (φιλ-) may be either fear (φοβ-) or hate (μισ-).[footnote] The parenthetical forms are the Greek roots, which may occur in both noun and verb bases. For our purposes, we needn’t worry whether the source of the compound was a noun or a verb.[/footnote] Thus we have the antonyms anglophile and anglophobe—one who loves or fears the English. Often the phil- element comes first, as in philharmonic, “loving harmony” (ἁρμονια), philhellene, “lover of Greece,” and philanthropist, “lover of humanity.” The opposite of philanthropist is misanthrope. An aberration as old as time (alas!) is misogyny, male hatred of women (root γυν-). There now exists a counterpart word misandry, female hatred of men (root ἀνδρ-). It would be a better world if all members of both sexes practised philanthropy (φιλανθρωπια).

For Key to Exercises (Greek), see Appendix III.

What follows is a fairly daunting word-list; perhaps you can subdivide it into two or three instalments for learning purposes. If only one Greek word is listed, that will be the nominative (vocabulary) form, which provides an obvious base or combining form. If two Greek words are given, the second will be the genitive singular (= base + -ος).

First, a few comments on English spelling. You have learned that the Greek diphthong αι became regularly adapted in Latin as ae. That convention is reflected in the derivatives of γυναικ- (gynaik- “woman”), παιδ- (paid- “child”), and αἱμ- (haim-, “blood”). What can be confusing is that this ae may be either maintained in English or reduced further to e. The full development is illustrated in the progression from G δαιμων to L daemon to E demon.[footnote]In the semantic area, this word is a fine example of PEJORATION or deterioration of meaning (§15), since the original Greek word had a very positive denotation—a divinity or spirit (Socrates’ inner voice).[/footnote] Thus there are two correct spellings for the medical specialist who treats children—paediatrician or pediatrician. If you look under “Physicians and Surgeons” in the Victoria Yellow Pages, you will find both spellings used (probably revealing the geographical or educational origin of the specialist). The same is true of gynaecology or gynecology, haemorrhage or hemorrhage. In Canadian usage, there is an overwhelming trend towards the simpler e spelling. The only problem with this simplification is that it can sometimes create minor confusion. A perfect example is the Greek root παιδ- (paid-, “child”). If it is kept as paed-, the etymology of its derivatives will be abundantly clear; if, however, it is reduced to ped- (as is customary in North America), it becomes identical in form to the unrelated Latin root for “foot.” Because of Latin derivatives like pedal and pedicure—and the hybrid pedometer (an instrument to measure walking speed)—one may run the risk of associating orthopedic (orthopaedic) with feet, or of wrongly viewing pedophilia as some kind of foot fetish. Other derivatives of παιδ- include pedagogue (G παιδ-αγωγος, “child-leader” > L paedagogus), pedagogy, encyclopedia,[footnote]The word encyclopedia (still often spelled encyclopaedia in the U.K.), is derived from G παιδεια (paideia < παις), “education” (of children). The compound meant “circular (i.e., complete) education.”[/footnote] pederast (“child-lover,” now almost completely supplanted by pedophile, a word that dates only from 1951), and pedodontist (< παιδ-οδοντ-ιστης,[footnote]We'll be meeting the suffix -ιστης many times. A 1st declension masculine ending, it may be viewed as the Greek counterpart of the Latin AGENT SUFFIX -or. Occasionally a Greek noun in -ιστης was adapted as a 1st declension Latin noun in -ista. Whether or not there was an intermediate Latin form, the suffix appears in English as -ist.[/footnote] a dentist who works on children’s teeth). Notice, by the way, that the first -o- of ped-odont-ist is not a connecting vowel, since it begins the base form that means “tooth”; we should similarly divide the words orth-odont-ist and peri-odont-ist.

The first noun in Table 18.1, ἀηρ, became the Latin loan-word aēr, after exact transliteration; this was the source (through Old French) of English air. To make it clear that this Latin word has two syllables, we may wish to use the diaeresis[footnote]The word diaeresis looks as if it might have been derived from ἀηρ. That is not the case; however it is a Greek derivative, from δια + αἱρειν (“to take apart”).[/footnote] mark, spelling the form as aër. When the word aerial first entered the English language, it was pronounced “a-er-i-al.” If the initial two letters had evolved from the Latin diphthong ae, the modern English spelling would likely have become “erial.” Our word airplane was originally (1866) adapted from French as aeroplane, and may still be spelled that way; the form was apparently intended to mean “air wanderer” (cf. planet), though its second element soon became associated in usage with the more obvious plane (< L planus).

The alternative bases of γυνη, γυναικος (gun- and gunaik- ) are apparent in the contrast between mis-o-gyn-y or andr-o-gyn-ous, on the one hand, and gynec-o-logy, on the other. Words like σωμα and χρωμα may have two combining forms; see English chrom-o-some, as opposed to chromat-ic and pysch-o-somat-ic. Again, phos-phorus (< φωσφορος, “light-bearing”) can be contrasted with phot-o-graph. Greek was unlike Latin in this capacity to use two different forms of the same noun in forming derivatives or compounds. The phenomenon does represent a complication in English word analysis.

If your physician is a foot specialist, (s)he is perhaps a podiatrist (“foot healer”). However, if the medical practice is concerned with hands and feet, the doctor will be a chiropodist (< χειρ-ο-ποδ-ιστης). Some other medical specialties from Table 18.1 are gynecology, gerontology, dermatology, and haematology.

The 2nd declension neuter suffixes -ειον and -αιον (-eion, -aion) were regularly used in Greek to create derived nouns that meant “a place for.” They correspond in this sense with the Latin nouns in -arium that we met in Part I, §38. Even though Latin had a way of expressing this concept in its native vocabulary, that language sometimes borrowed Greek forms in -ειον and -αιον, adapting them in a predictable fashion as Latin forms in -eum and -aeum. This may be illustrated as follows:

There is no need to devote much space to the topic of Greek DIMINUTIVES, as we did in Latin (Part I, Chapter 7). That is not because the diminutive was unimportant in Greek; on the contrary, ancient Greek was very rich in suffixes that could connote smallness or endearment. The reason why the question can be summarily treated is because Greek diminutives have had a very minor effect on English vocabulary. One such suffix was -ιον (-ion), which appears in G ποδ-ιον (“little foot”), regularly adapted as L podium, our English podium. If you are interested in musical theory, look up the etymology of the Italian term appoggiatura (< Vulgar Latin *appodiare), which involves a little step. Another Greek diminutive suffix was -ισκος, the origin of the -isk in asterisk (ἀστηρ, ἀστερος, star; ἀστερ-ισκος, “little star”). This suffix explains the etymology of obelisk (“little spit”), which today is either a tapered pillar or a reference mark (†).

Biologists will recognize πους, ποδος as the source of many names that end in -pod. A gastropod (gastr-o-pod), logically enough, is a “stomach foot”; this is a class of molluscs that includes snails, slugs, and limpets. A cephalopod (e.g., squid, octopus, cuttlefish) has “feet on its head.” An arthropod is an animal with an articulated foot (< ἀρθρον, “joint”); the phylum Arthropoda includes insects, arachnids (spiders) and crustaceans. The octopus just mentioned is a Latinized adaptation of ὀκτω-πους, “eight-feet.” The Greek form of this word makes it obvious why one should not pluralize octopus as octopi—though that incorrect plural is gaining respectability in English. The legendary Greek hero Oedipus (Οἰδι-πους) had a name that was generally thought to mean “Swollen-Foot” (he suffered from a limp, the result of a mysterious childhood injury). In his tragedy Oedipus Tyrannos (Οἰδιπους Τυραννος), Sophocles puns upon the hero’s name, suggesting that the real etymology may be “Know-Foot.” If Oedipus acquires true self-knowledge, he will realize that the secret of his identity is to be found in his own foot, deformed when he was abandoned in infancy by his parents, the King and Queen of Thebes.

An acropolis (“top city”) was a Greek fortified hill, and a necropolis (“corpse-city”) was an ancient cemetery. A metropolis was a “mother-city” (μητρ-) that continued to play a protective role toward its colony or colonies; the meaning has changed today, of course. A cosmopolis is a “world-city,” and a cosmopolite (κοσμοπολιτης, kosm-o-poli-tēs) a “citizen of the world.” We heard that Japan had planned a utopian city in the sky, to be known as Aeropolis 2001. This excellent Greek coinage is offset, unfortunately, by another less happily named Japanese utopian community that was apparently to be called Undergroundopolis.

When we were dealing with Latin derivatives, it was usually possible to start with a hypothetical reconstruction of the Latin etymon; for example, we might trace the English collaboration from a Latin source-word collaboratio, which could then be identified and explained, element by element. This same element-by-element explanation is desirable in analysing Greek derivatives; but it will seldom be a good idea to invent an original Greek compound form. Indeed, complex English words derived from Greek are more often than not modern inventions, and they would look ludicrous in the Greek alphabet. If you know that our word began life as a Greek compound—that metropolis, for instance, was a Greek word μητροπολις —then give that Greek form, by all means. Otherwise or when in doubt, it’s probably better merely to explain the component parts; and you can display your knowledge of Greek, if you wish, in identifying these separate elements.

Here are a few typical examples of how you might perform this exercise. You are encouraged to develop your own way of conveying this information, as clearly and as succinctly as possible.

Just as the Latin adjective meaning “equal” had the three forms aequus (M), aequa (F), and aequum (N), so its Greek semantic counterpart had the three forms ἰσος (M), ἰση (F), and ἰσον (N). For simplicity’s sake, we’ll ignore gender distinctions and use only the masculine form ἰσος, whose base is obviously ἰσ- (is-). Here is a useful group of Greek 1st and 2nd declension adjectives:

You will surely be able to provide many other English derivatives from the adjectives in this list. The base aut- has given us autonomy (“self rule”), autobiography (aut-o-bi-o-graphy, “self-life-writing”), automaton, automatic, autopsy, autochthonous,[footnote] The exotic specimen aut-o-chthon-ous means “[sprung] from the earth itself”; the second element is chthōn- (χθων, “earth”), a base that appears in E chthonic or chthonian, “pertaining to the earth.” The ancient Athenians liked to call themselves autochthonous, implying that they had always inhabited the land of Attica. Today we would be more likely to use the Latin equivalents, aboriginal or indigenous.[/footnote] and the Latin hybrid automobile—shortened to auto. Alongside acropolis we can place such words as acrophobia (acr-o-phobia, “fear of the top”—i.e., fear of heights), acrobat (a “top walker”), and acronym—literally, “top name” (acr-onym), where the top or end letters of a series of words are combined to provide a convenient label. Nowadays we are exposed to a plethora of acronyms, like NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organization), radar (RAdio Detecting And Ranging), and that most sinister and ironic word AIDS (Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome). There’s nothing new about acronyms, however. It has been almost two millennia since the early Christians devised a secret acronym to identify their faith: this was the Greek word ΙΧΘΥΣ (“fish”; cf. ichthyology), or a stylized drawing of a fish, used in antiquity as a graffito and still seen on modern bumper stickers. If you are puzzled by the acronym, here is its explanation:

Table 19.1 has some pairs of adjectives with opposite meanings (antonyms). In Greek, ἑτερος (“other”) and ὁμος (“same”) were often opposed, as reflected in the modern adjectives heterogeneous (“other in kind”) and homogeneous (“same in kind”). Here the -geneous element goes back to Greek γενος (“race,” “kind”), but the English words bear the marks of Latin adaptation. The adjectives heterosexual and homosexual are modern hybrids, using the Latin 4th declension noun sexus and the Latin suffix -alis. A curious recent coinage is homophobia; its etymological meaning (“fear of the same”) is vague, but we all recognize it as denoting fear or suspicion of homosexuals. Occasionally the opposite of heter-o- may be orth-o-, as in heterodox and orthodox—“other opinion” and “straight (correct) opinion.” The scholar’s word for “straight” (or correct) spelling is orthography. The semantic concepts of “old” and “new” are often contrasted by palae-o- and ne-o-; the most familiar pair, perhaps, are Palaeolithic and Neolithic, describing the Old Stone and the New Stone Ages. The Greek adjective base ne- has become so familiar that neo- now enjoys a life of its own as an English combining form: neo-Nazi, neo-Fascist, etc.

The first three adjectives on this list can cause some confusion in meaning. In Greek, the opposite of μεγας is μικρος; so megaphone has a semantic contrast with microphone, and mega- (M) is the opposite of micro- (m) in the metric system (SI). Because of their closeness in form, however, the elements macro- and micro- have become associated as opposites meaning “large” and “small” (e.g., macroscopic and microscopic). As in the case of neo- and pseudo-, the connecting vowel is now viewed as an integral part of the combining form (e.g., macroeconomics, microanalysis). What is understood by the words microcosm and macrocosm? Is it logical that a microskirt should be shorter than a miniskirt?

There’s a rich supply of English derivatives from the adjectival bases pan- and pant- (“all”). A pantheon is a temple for “all the gods”; a pantomime (pant-o-mime) was an ancient theatrical performance that was “all mime”—though its modern British descendant has an abundance of words. We have extended the ancient term panhellenic (“involving all the Greeks”) to forms like pan-American and pan-Pacific. A truly inspired derivative is the Miltonic coinage pandemonium (< παν- + δαιμων + -ιον, “a place for all the demons”).[footnote] In Greek, this suffix -ιον (-ion) is sometimes used to mean “a place for someone,” as in the noun Παλλαδιον (Palladion), a place for Pallas Athena—source of the Latinized theatre name Palladium.[/footnote] If you’re feeling energetic, you can look up the etymologies of panacea, pancreas, panegyric, and panoply. But whatever you do, don’t panic. That powerful emotion is aroused by a direct human encounter with the shepherd god Pan. His name is not connected with πας, despite a movement in late antiquity to view him as a quasi-Christlike figure who embraced “all” goodness.

A close relative of acronym (§118) is acrostic (ἀκρος, “top” + στιχος, “line”), a poem or other composition in which the first letters of each line, when read vertically, form an independent word. There have been times in literary history when convoluted ingenuity of this sort—crossword puzzle skills, applied to poetry—have been highly treasured.

There are other common Greek adjectives with which you should have a nodding acquaintance. Close in meaning to ἑτερος (“other”) is ἀλλος (“another”). It is found in the linguistic term allophone, which is a nondistinctive variant of a phoneme (e.g., the English sounds [p^h] and [p] in pin and spin). In Quebec, the word allophone (“another voice”) has a very different meaning: it is applied to those whose first language is neither French (francophone) nor English (anglophone). A Greek synonym for ραλαιος (“old”) is ἀρχαιος (“ancient”); thus the kindred disciplines of palaeontology (palae-ont-o-logy, “the study of old existing things”[footnote] The element -ont- is derived from οντα (“existing things”), the present participle of the Greek verb that means “to be.”[/footnote]) and archaeology (archae-o-logy, “the study of ancient things”). Palaeozoic (US Paleozoic, “pertaining to old life”) and Mesozoic (< μεσος, “middle”) are two geologic eras. That adjective meaning “middle” occurs in Mesopotamia, “the land in the middle of the rivers” (Tigris and Euphrates). The word sophomore combines two Greek adjectives that are opposite in meaning: σοφος (“wise”) and μωρος (“foolish,” “dull”). A paradoxical and contradictory expression like “wise-foolish” or “bittersweet” may be called an oxymoron (ὀξυς, “sharp” + μωρος (“dull”). Perhaps you have a favourite unintentional oxymoron, like “military intelligence” or “jumbo shrimp.”

The possibility of etymological confusion is acute in derivatives of κενος (“empty”), κοινος (“common”[footnote] The “common” Greek dialect of late antiquity—the language of the Greek New Testament—is known as the κοινη (koinē), a feminine adjective form.[/footnote]), and καινος (“new” or “recent”)—all of which may appear in English as cen-. In North American dictionaries, you will find the spellings cenotaph (“empty tomb”), cenobite (“one who lives a common life”—a type of monastic regimen), and Cenozoic (“pertaining to new life”—the most recent geologic era). In British practice, as reflected in the Oxford English Dictionary, the etymological distinctions are made clearer by the historically accurate and distinctive spellings cenotaph, coenobite, and Caenozoic.

If you want a challenging experience in etymology, consult a geological time scale in any encyclopedia. You will learn, for example, that the Cenozoic era—the last 65 million years on earth—is divided into seven epochs: Holocene (“whole new”), Pleistocene (“most new”), Pliocene (“more new”), Miocene (“less new”), Oligocene (“little new”), Eocene (“dawn new”[footnote] Greek “dawn” is ἠως; the prehistoric ancestor of all horses was the eohippus (“dawn horse”).[/footnote]), and Paleocene (“old new”). The last is an excellent oxymoron.

 For Key to Exercises (Greek), see Appendix III.

As you learned in Part I, Table 2.2, the Latin noun for “number” is numerus—and that is the source of our English word number. The regular Latin ADJECTIVE, therefore, is numeralis (“pertaining to number”), though we use its English derivative numeral more often as noun than adjective. It is an easy step from numerus to the DENOMATIVE verbs (§76) numerare and e-numerare (> E numeration, enumerate).

A cardinal number (< cardo, cardinis, “hinge”) may be considered to be in a pivotal position; in a variety of semantic areas, cardinal came to have the general meaning “chief” or “important.” An ordinal number, in contrast, stands in a “row” or “rank” (ordo, ordinis); its etymology makes it easy to remember this adjectival label that is attached to numbers like “first,” “second,” and “third.”

The Greek equivalent of Latin numerus was ἀριθμος (arithmos), a word that has not given us a simple English noun. Our word arithmetic derives from G ἀριθμητικη, which is short for ἡ ἀριθμητικἠ τἑχνη (hē arithmētikē tekhnē, “the numbering art”). In a later chapter, we’ll see that ἀριθμη-τικος is a standard adjective form, derived regularly from the verb ἀριθμειν (base ἀριθμη-), “to number,” “to count.”

We already know that geometry was originally “earth measurement.” Among the other branches of mathematics (< μαθη, “things learned”), algebra is a loan-word from Arabic (< al-jabr), and trigonometry will be explained later in this chapter.

In general, however, Latin number vocabulary has entered the English language as COMBINING FORMS, which—in the Latin language itself—were sometimes quite different from the independent number words. The Latin cardinal number “four,” for instance—quattuor—is of no relevance to English; but the Latin combining form quadr- has been very useful. Similarly, the Latin word “two” (duo) is far less essential to English than the form bi-. Therefore the numerical vocabulary of §124 consists mainly of combining forms, as you may infer from the hyphens following most items. Remember that Latin generally uses the connecting vowel -i- to link a combining form with another word base (see Part I, §92; for example, un-i-verse, cent-i-pede). That standard principle will usually apply, though there are some exceptions—primo-geniture (an adverbial first element) and quadr-u-ped (the archaic connecting vowel -u- was sometimes used with quadr-).

The best way to see these principles at work may be to look at several parallel English words that use Latin combining forms for “one” and “two” (un- and bi-):

As these examples suggest, numerical prefixes often draw our attention to contrasts; unilateral decisions may be opposed to those that are bilateral or multilateral. (Although Latin mult- and Greek poly- [πολυ-] are not, strictly speaking, number words, they play an obvious role in compounds of this type.) A biped may be contrasted with a quadruped or a multiped—not to mention a centipede or a millipede. In the muscle names biceps, triceps (upper arm), and quadriceps (thigh), the -ceps element is derived from L caput (“head”). Numerical compounds are conspicuous in geometry, of course: triangle and quadrangle derive from L angulus (“corner,” “angle”).[footnote] Thus a rect-angle has the etymological meaning of “straight corner.”[/footnote]

We could list many more English words containing the Latin combining form bi-: bifocal, bicultural (v. multicultural), bicuspid (L cuspis, “point)), bifurcate (denominative, from L furca, “fork”), and bigamy (hybrid, from G γαμος, “marriage”). If the second element begins with a vowel, one may meet the related Latin combining form bin-[footnote] The Latin distributive adjective bini meant “two by two,” “two at a time,” like the animals in Noah’s Ark.[/footnote]: binocular, binaural. However, biovular —more easily read if spelled bi-ovular—is a term that describes the origin of fraternal twins.

Among the “other” Latin numeral words given in §124 (and note 1) we find the direct source of English primary, secondary, tertiary, quartile, decimal, singular, binary, ternary, centenary, and millenary. The commemorative terms centenary (100), sesquicentenary (150), and bicentenary (200) are used to mark significant dates in the history of cities and nations. Unlike those words, the adjectives centennial, sesquicentennial, and bicentennial are based on a modified form of the Latin noun annus, “year.” A millennium (adjective millennial) is a period of a thousand years. Even well-educated people often leave out an -n- in spelling the word millennium; don’t confuse it with millenary.

The root of Latin singuli (“one at a time,” E single) was combined with the root plic- (“fold”) to produce L simplex (< *sin-plic-s). So duplex, triplex, etc.[footnote] In English as in Latin, twofold (duplex) and threefold (triplex) do not mean “folded twice” and “folded three times.” If you are being quite literal, a flat object folded twice has four parts, not two. Thus a large sheet of paper that early printers called a folio (L folium, “leaf”), became known as quarto, if folded twice, and octavo, if folded three times. In strict logic, Latin simplex (“onefold”) has no fold at all.[/footnote] The regular abstract nouns were simplic-itas and duplic-itas (E simplicity, duplicity, multiplicity). In medieval Latin, the 3rd declension adjective simplex developed a 2nd declension variant simplus, source of E simple. (So duplus, triplus > duple, triple.)

Relative to Latin, Greek number words have had limited influence on English, being perhaps most familiar in the fields of plane and solid geometry. Here are two such groups:

-γωνον (γωνια, gōnia, “angle”) > E -gon: tetragon, pentagon, hexagon, octagon, trigonometry (τριγωνομετρια, tri-gōn-o-metria, “triangle measure”);

-ἑδρον (ἑδρα, hedra, “seat,” “base”) > E -hedron: tetrahedron (a three-dimensional solid), hexahedron (e.g., a cube), octahedron, dodecahedron (12), polyhedron.

Students of literature will recognize the words dimeter, trimeter, pentameter, hexameter, all of which combine numerals with metron to count the “measures” in a verse of poetry. A triptych (πτυχη, “fold”; = L triplex), is an altarpiece or other work of art in three sections. Since antiquity, the Olympic games have had a pentathlon (ἀθλον, “contest”; cf. ἀθλητης, E athlete); today we have a heptathlon and a decathlon.

It is perhaps confusing that English forms in tri- may be from either Latin or Greek. Some Latin derivatives include triangle, tricolor, triennium, trimester (3 months), trisect, and triumvirate. A bang-up Latin “tri-” word is TNT (tri-nitro-toluene = C₇H₅N₃O₆). Greek derivatives in English include trilogy, trimeter, tripod, triptych, trilobite (a Palaeozoic fossil with 3 lobes), and triceratops (tri-cerat-ops < τρι- + κερας, κερατ-ος, “horn” + ὀψ, “face”)—one of many familiar dinosaurs[footnote] E dinosaur < modern Latin dinosaurus < G δεινος (“terrible”) + σαυρος (“lizard”).[/footnote] to bear a thoroughly Greek name.

SPECIAL NOTE: The next two sections (§128 and §129) are inserted for those who are curious to explore the nomenclature of the metric system and other specialized aspects of numerical terminology. The two sections are intended for reference only. Readers with less interest in these matters may skip immediately to §130.

Prefixes in SI Measurement:

Number words beyond a million are formed from Latin numeral prefixes plus the spurious base -(i)llion (by analogy from million). The nomenclature is confusing, for two reasons:

1. The numerical values differ in American and British usage.

2. The words themselves combine two sets of standard Latin prefixes. (If the usual Latin sequence had been followed, quintillion and sextillion would be quinquillion and sexillion.)

Except for the British milliard, which was adopted from French in 1823, most of these words date from the late 17th century.

For Key to Exercises (Greek), see Appendix III.

PART II: GREEK

Sixth Edition (Adapted) Copyright © Estate of Peter L. Smith

But cost considerations were not the only factors. Although I regarded our former textbook[footnote]Eli E. Burriss and Lionel Casson, Latin and Greek in Current Use, 2nd edition (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1949).[/footnote] as the best of its kind on the market, it was over forty years old, and was hardly ideal for the Canadian undergraduate of the 1990s. Moreover, it contained too much detail for a thirteen-week course, and had some inaccurate and confusing features.

Probably all of us who teach language and etymology courses get the itch to construct a textbook that perfectly matches our own approach. A successful course manual will obviously reflect the instructor’s methodology and academic priorities. However, a good one should also be well organized, clearly written, and interesting to read. That adds up to a tall order, and I can only hope that I’ve approached the goal.

I invite every student to offer criticisms and suggestions for change. Because this work has now gone through several editions, most of the glaring errors should have been caught; but there is still bound to be room for improvement.  If any explanation is puzzling or confusing, please let me know. If more examples or more exercises are needed, that lack can be remedied. There are now also computer exercises available in the University Language Centre.

Part I of the book covers Latin material. Part II—shorter in length, but no less challenging—deals with Greek. Each section is designed to provide roughly six weeks of instruction, before and after Reading Break.

Students can rest assured that these materials are being sold at cost, with no financial profit to the author or the Department. Indeed, preparation expenses have been absorbed by the Department, and the price reflects only the actual cost of printing and distribution.

The Department of Greek and Roman Studies is extremely happy to have assisted the University of Victoria library staff with the publication of this textbook which served one of the many popular courses Peter taught for our Department. This book would not be possible without the help and support of Peter’s family, and we gratefully acknowledge his wife Mary Jean, his son Dr. Daniel Hinman-Smith, and daughter Sarah Smith.

The open-access publication of this book in digital format, freely available, follows very much in character with Peter’s efforts to enrich the educational life of students of British Columbia. This book serves as a lasting memorial to one of the University of Victoria’s most revered teachers and friends.

Dr. Brendan Burke Associate Professor and Department Chair Department of Greek and Roman Studies University of Victoria

As usual, the best preparation for a new Greek topic will be to review its parallel in Latin—in this case, Part I, Chapter 8 (especially the summary in §59). As each new Greek prefix is introduced in the coming pages, ask yourself whether it has a Latin counterpart that may play a similar semantic role in English word formation. You will see, in fact, that a column of suggested Latin “equivalents” is provided. Be forewarned, however, that these are not always exact counterparts. Because Latin and Greek are closely cognate, some verbal elements match almost perfectly; but the two languages did, after all, belong to different branches of the Indo-European family.

Let us approach the problem gently by examining five Greek prefixes that are fairly straightforward: a(n)-, anti-, eu-, dys-, and syn-.

1. a- (ἀ-), sometimes known as ALPHA PRIVATIVE, is the prefix that corresponds to English un- or Latin in-, meaning “not” or “without.” Before a base beginning with a vowel it changes to an- (ἀν-). Examples in English include atheist, atheism, atom, amorphous, achromatic, amnesia[footnote] The root in amnesia (a-mnēsia, “no memory”) is μνη- (“memory”) that we met in Mnemosyne (§104). An amnesty (a-mnēstia) is another form of not remembering.[/footnote], amnesty, aphasia, apathy, asbestos; and (with an-) anarchy, analgesic, anaesthetic, anonymous, anomaly, anaemia, and anorexia .
2. ant(i)- (ἀντι-) is a prefix that we can easily recognize as meaning “against” or “opposite.” However we must be careful not to confuse it in English with the very different Latin prefix ante- (“before”). Examples: antonym, antagonist, antarctic, antidote, antipathy, antiphony, antipodes, antiseptic.
3. eu- (ἐυ-), an adverb meaning “well,” was also used as a prefix; cf. Latin bene-. Examples: euphony, eugenic, euthanasia, eurhythmic, euphoria, euphemism.
4. dys- (δυσ-), provides the opposite to eu-, since it means “badly” or “hard”; it is something like Latin male-. Examples: (dyslexia, dysphasia, dysentery, dysgenesis, dysphoria) (euphoria, dysphemism) (euphemism, dystopia) (utopia (<οὐτοπια, “no place”).
5. syn- (συν-) is very much like Latin con-, meaning “with,” “together.” Like con-, it may also show ASSIMILATION. Examples: synonym, synagogue, synchronism, syndrome, syncopate, symbiosis, symmetry, symphony, symposium, symptom, syllable.

Tackle first those prefixes that are obvious. In addition to the five we encountered in §131, you can deal easily with amphi- (“on both sides”) and peri- (“around”), which are quite uncomplicated. For the one, think of amphitheatre and amphibious; for the other, perimeter, periscope, periphery, peripatetic, and periphrasis. The prefix dia- is also fairly straightforward: diameter (“measure across”), diagonal (“through the angle”), diatonic (“through the tones”), diaphragm (“fence across”), and diaphanous (“showing through”). Like its Latin cognate, Greek pro- can mean “before” or “forward”: prophet (“before speaker”), prophecy, prophesy, proscenium, prostate, prophylactic, program, problem (see §137). Though they look much alike, hyper- (“over”) and hypo- (“under”) are easy opposites. English has the hybrids hyperactive (“That kid is hyper!”) and hypertension, plus hyperbole, hyperbola, and hyperthermia (a hot-tub ailment). In contrast, hypo- yields hypodermic, hypothesis, hypochondria, and hypothermia.

In some usages, ana- and cata- are also opposites, meaning “up” and “down.” An anabasis (“going up”) is the opposite of a catabasis (“going down”), but those words are rare and exotic. More common are analysis and catalysis, where -lysis is a “loosening.” Anatomy makes sense as “cutting up.” The force of cata- is apparent in catastrophe (“turning down”), cataclysm (“flooding down”), cataract (“breaking down”), and catalepsy (“seizing down”), but it is less clear in catalogue. Don’t be surprised or discouraged if you have trouble making the semantic connection between certain Greek prefixes and some of their English derivatives.

The Greek prefixes apo- and ec- (ex-) correspond quite closely to their Latin cognates ab- and ex-. The meaning “away from” is clear in apostle or apostolic (verb base “send”), apogee (ἀπο-γη), and apostrophe (originally a rhetorical “turning away”). What is an apotheosis? Something eccentric (ἐκ + κεντρον + -ικος) is “out of centre.” Can you work out the etymological meanings of eclectic, exodus, and ecdysis? The last is the action of the snake slipping out of its skin, or the larva shedding its cocoon. It was H.L. Mencken who used that notion to coin the impeccable Greek form ecdysiast, to describe a strip-tease dancer.

The difference between en- and epi- is basically the difference between in and on (or upon). A condition that is endemic (< δημος) is more ingrained than one that is epidemic—though the latter may be more alarming. Relatively few English words are derived from en-: energy, enema, enthusiasm—originally, a feeling that one had a god (θεος) inside one’s body. There are many more from epi-: epigram, epitaph, epidermis, epiglottis, eponym, eponymous, ephemeral (< ἡμερα, “day”). An eponym is a famous or notorious proper name that has been placed “upon” some object, process, condition, concept, etc.: Braille, boycott, pasteurize, cardigan, quisling, valentine, roentgen, Alzheimer’s Disease. A mysterious 18th century English physician, the apocryphal Dr. Condom, may be the eponymous hero of the prophylactic rubber sheath—though that etymology was questioned in the Oxford English Dictionary.

There are only three prefixes on the list that have not yet been mentioned. Pros- (usually “in addition”) is quite rare, occurring in the words prosthesis and prosthetic—referring to an artificial limb or other device that is “placed in addition.” Meta- suggests a carrying over or beyond, like Latin trans-, and will sometimes connote change: metaphor, metamorphosis, metathesis, metastasis, metaphysics. Finally there is para-, which most often means “beside” or “alongside.” The paragraph originally got its name from the symbol (now ¶) that was “written beside” it in the margin. A paradox is an opinion that stands beside or contrary to the norm. A paraplegic is one who has been struck at the side (paralyzed), as opposed to a quadriplegic, who has lost the use of all four limbs. Note also paraphrase, parallel (par-allel, “beside one another”), and paraphernalia, a word related to a bride’s dowry. In 20th century English, para- has been further extended in uses like parapsychology and paramedic.

There are some deceptive para- forms in English that have nothing to do with the Greek prefix. From Latin parare (“prepare”), Italian derived a combining form that meant a “shield” or “protection.” A parachute will protect us from falling, just as a parasol will shield us from the sun. A parapet (It. parapetto) was originally meant to protect the chest (L pectus). Because you have long since learned to take nothing for granted in word study, you won’t be surprised that English has two different forms spelled para-. It is certainly risky to leap to etymological conclusions merely on the basis of superficial appearances.

In lieu of exercises for Chapter 21, look up some of the italicized English words that have appeared in this section. But don’t worry too much about Greek vocabulary that is completely unfamiliar. There is a strong likelihood that many of those strange-looking words contain Greek verb bases that we’ll meet in the next chapter. You may recall that it was hard to get full control of Latin prefixes until we had studied some verb roots. That problem applies also to our work in Greek.

Here’s another short and snappy assignment. Now that we’ve surveyed the whole field of Greek prefixes, how many English derivatives can you list from the noun ὀνυμα (ὀνοματ- )?

For this and other reasons, there is little point in making a systematic assault upon Greek verb morphology. The present infinitive will be mentioned out of academic interest, but you won’t have to study the perfect and present participles—though both those grammatical forms do exist. We are going to concentrate almost entirely on gaining familiarity with the Greek VERB ROOTS that have had the greatest influence on English. For the first time in the course, you will be asked to study word roots in isolation, without worrying about their historical use within whole words. You will be shown how some of these roots act as bases in the formation of other parts of speech, and you will be given guidance in understanding their English derivatives; but no attempt will be made to familiarize you with the actual Greek verb system.