Category Archives: hypallage

Hypallage (hy-pal’-la-ge): Shifting the application of words. Mixing the order of which words should correspond with which others. Also, sometimes, a synonym for metonymy (see Quintilian).

“To the barn I went.” This was a turn of phrase of the most delicate sort. For many exegetes it was like scraping chalk across a blackboard. I might say “Hence, to the barn go we.” These turns of phrase were so irksome to so many whose lives were tangled and enslaved to grammar and syntax, two elements of speech that spelled the ruin of many an otherwise creative man. Trapped in a canyon of solicitude respectfully, yea, even obediently, traversed in the same fashion, starting as a rut and ending as an abyss. It made a lackluster bottomless hole in the surface of meaning, with a smiley face as a lid keeping out the light and weather, the sun, and moon, and sky.

It has the breath of a canary in a cage, endlessly discerning death—endlessly perching on the corpse that’s melting in a the gaseous stench of circumstance, the determining factor in what we believe—what we wallow in, rolling around squid-like, tentacles stretching and winding in the slime of probability, what some consider an oasis free from the arthritis of truth—the stiff-jointed fist that pounds on your beliefs making a lop-sided circle of meaning.

From day one to the end, we are, I am, prodded linguistically to put this before that, canning the alphabet over and over again, and spilling it and recanning it by the same process to the same end: repetition is the soul of spelling—always, all the time spelled like this, over and over as long as the word may exist. After all, we want to make sense to each other so we can threaten each other, make alibis, lie, pervert the course of Justice, and the handful of good things that I can’t even name.

So, it’s a mess. And, no doubt, I’ve missed the mark here. I’m like my neighbor’s dog that barks every night for a half-hour for no reason and then mercifully shuts up. So, now I will shut up.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

Hypallage (hy-pal’-la-ge): Shifting the application of words. Mixing the order of which words should correspond with which others. Also, sometimes, a synonym for metonymy (see Quintilian).

“By the bed, a bucket, spilling bitter herbs.” I did it again. I blurted out a dreadful poetic burst. I was in the library working on my dissertation. I was shushed by at least ten people as I sunk into my seat, trying to disappear. I was so embarrassed I wanted to cry, or bang my head on my desk. I couldn’t do that or I would damage my laptop, and maybe, lose my dissertation, which had a personal twist: “The Blurt: The Cultural and Social Significance of Thoughtless Speech.”

It was a difficult area and blurts are rarely recorded because blurts are ephemeral. However, there was a dissolute nobleman, Sir Crowley Trapbait, who spent most of his time in bed blurting. He might yell, “I’m a nincompoop!” in the middle of the night. The servants would go on full alert, bracing for a night of blurts, some of which might require attention. The butler, Milo Petleash, kept an extensive diary of Sir Trapbait’s blurt’s. Sadly, he misplaced the diary someplace in the castle, over 300 years ago. As soon as I’ve spell-checked what I’ve written so far, and turned it in to my advisor, I’m off to Northern England to ransack New Castle Castle, located on the Exmoor Moor.

So far, I had written nine pages. It was slow going with one finger, and my nearly continuous blurting. When I turned my pages in I had blurted out “That suit looks like shit.” My dissertation advisor was used to it, so he just said “Oh?” As usual I regretted what I had said, and tried to apologize. I said “ Your office smells like a Goddamn cow barn” and left to buy my train ticket. I was traveling from Paddington to Exmoor.

Waiting in line to purchase my ticket, I struck up a conversation with an attractive woman in front of me. We were talking about the weather and politics when I blurted out, “I want to kiss you.” Her eyes went wide and she said, “I wanted to say that to you, but I didn’t have the courage.” This was the first time one of my blurts had been honored. This was special. We kissed. She gave me tongue and I reciprocated. People standing nearby kept saying “Ahem,” so we cut it out. We texted contact info, bought our tickets, and went our separate ways. She was going all the way to Inverness to do a review of the local scotch and distilleries.

My train ride was uneventful, with the exception of two blurts. I told the ticket taker he needed to have his uniform laundered and I told a little kid running up and down the aisle, that I was going to kill his mother if he didn’t sit down. That one got me in a little trouble. I denied I said it and my fellow passengers backed me up.

So, I arrived at the castle and the butler greeted me at the: “Come in. You look like shit.” For a week, I ransacked the castle looking for the diary., and blurting with residents. There was a sort of thoughtless honesty operative at New Castle Castle. That’s when I started to believe there is a genetic basis for excessive blurting. Everybody who lived in Newcastle Castle was related in some way. They were like royal hillbillies. Eventually, I found the diary in a sock nailed to the inside of Sir Reggie Nestor’s closet door. He refused to part with it. I was disappointed and told him in a sudden blurt he was “A regular rat’s ass.” He blurted back that my breath smelled like rotted pig kidneys. Then, he gave me a ride to the train station and I went back to London.

The only thing I learned at New Castle Castle is that blurting probably has a genetic component that accounts for its transmission as a malady. But as far as my dissertation topic went, I hadn’t learned anything, except from the girl in the train station who said it was a sort of social cowardice that kept her from blurting. Clearly, it was a source of regret. As a serial blurter, I am not constrained—I am more socially free, but I alienate a lot of people. Oh, fu*k it.

My dissertation advisor told me that 9 pages in 18 point font was not actually 9 pages. He told me he was concerned. I said, “About what, dickhead?” He yelled “Get out, and don’t come back until you’ve actually written something.”

I changed my dissertation’s tack. I did further study and reading and meeting with blurters. I discovered that blurting is a kind of Tourette’s Syndrome, that consists only of unreflective speech that is coherent but inappropriate. I named it Sir Trapbait’s Syndrome.

My dissertation committee gave me a standing ovation at my oral defense. A wealthy blurter has endowed a chair named after me. I texted Lu Lu Belle, the girl I met in line at Paddington. I wrote: “I’ll be seeing your underpants soon.” She replied, “And I’ll be seeing yours.” I bought some new underpants and I’m headed to Inverness.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.