The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows

by John Koenig

looseleft adj. feeling a sense of loss upon finishing a good book, sensing the weight of the back cover locking away the lives of characters you’ve gotten to know so well.

idlewild adj. feeling grateful to be stranded in a place where you can’t do much of anything—sitting for hours at an airport gate, the sleeper car of a train, or the backseat of a van on a long road trip—which temporarily alleviates the burden of being able to do anything at any time and frees up your brain to do whatever it wants to do, even if it’s just to flicker your eyes across the passing landscape. From Idlewild, the original name of John F. Kennedy International Airport in New York City.

justing n. the habit of telling yourself that just one tweak could solve all of your problems—if only you had the right haircut, if only you found the right group of friends, if only you made a little more money, if only he noticed you, if only she loved you back, if only you could find the time, if only you were confident—which leaves you feeling perpetually on the cusp of a better life, hanging around the top of the slide waiting for one little push. From just, only, simply, merely + jousting, a sport won by positioning the tip of your lance at just the right spot, at just the right second. Pronounced “juhst-ing.”

KOINOPHOBIA the fear that you’ve lived an ordinary life

mornden n. the self-contained pajama universe shared by two people on a long weekend morning, withdrawing from the world and letting the hours slow to a crawl, coming as close as they’ll ever get to pausing the flow of time, even as they know it’ll eventually rush back in all the faster. From morn, morning + den, a comfortable room that affords private time. Pronounced “mawrn-duhn.”

soufrise n. the maddening thrill of an ambiguous flirtation, which quivers in tension halfway between platonic and romantic—maybe, but no, but maybe—leaving you guessing what’s going on inside their chest, forced to assume that at any given moment their attraction is both alive and dead at the same time. French sourire, smile + frisson, a shiver of chill or excitement. Pronounced “soo-freez.”

LUMUS the poignant humanness beneath the spectacle of society

pax latrina n. the meditative atmosphere of being alone in a bathroom, sequestered inside your own little isolation booth, enjoying a moment backstage from the razzle-dazzle of public life. Latin pax, a period of peace + latrina, toilet. Compare Pax Romana or Pax Americana; sometimes the solace of bathroom stalls can feel just as profound as the protection of empires. Pronounced “paks luh-tree-nah.”

xeno n. the smallest measurable unit of human connection, typically exchanged between passing strangers—a warm smile, a sympathetic nod, a shared laugh about some odd coincidence—moments that are fleeting and random but still contain powerful emotional nutrients that can alleviate the symptoms of feeling alone. Ancient Greek ξένος (xénos), alien, stranger. Pronounced “zee-noh.”

anaphasia n. the fear that your society is breaking apart into factions that have nothing left in common with each other—each defending their own set of values, referring to their own cult figures, speaking in their own untranslatable language. From anaphase, the stage in cell division when sister chromatids are pulled apart to opposite sides of the cell + aphasia, the inability to comprehend or formulate language due to brain dysfunction. Pronounced “an-uh-fey-zhah.”

allope n. a mysterious aura of loneliness you feel in certain places; the palpable weight of all the lonely people secretly holed up in their houses and apartments, with a flickering blue glow cast up on their walls—so many of whom might just want someone to talk to, or just want to feel needed, and could be that for each other if only they could somehow connect. Short for “All the lonely people,” from the song “Eleanor Rigby” by the Beatles. Pronounced “al-uh-pee.”

innity n. the complicated solitude of hotel rooms late at night, spending time in a place that’s both yours and emphatically not yours, both soulless and homey, both timeless and temporary, suspended somewhere halfway between vacancy and no vacancy. From inn, a small hotel or tavern for travelers + inanity, a total lack of meaning or ideas. Pronounced “ihn-i-tee.”

gaudia civis n. a humble pulse of gratification you feel when acting as a citizen—serving on a jury, standing in line at a polling place, taking part in a debate at a town meeting—where you can actually feel the gears of democracy turning ever so slightly, because you actually had a hand in it. Latin gaudia, joys + civis, citizen. Pronounced “gou-dee-uh siv-is.”

vellichor n. the strange wistfulness of used bookstores, which are somehow infused with the passage of time—filled with thousands of old books you’ll never have time to read, each of which is itself locked in its own era, bound and dated and papered over like an old room the author abandoned years ago, a hidden annex littered with thoughts left just as they were on the day they were captured. From vellum, parchment + ichor, the fluid that flows in the veins of the gods in Ancient Greek mythology. Pronounced “vel-uh-kawr.”

austice n. a wistful omen of the first sign of autumn—a subtle coolness in the shadows, a rustling of dead leaves abandoned on the sidewalk, or a long skein of geese sweeping over your head like the second hand of a clock. From autumn + auspice, an omen, or a divination derived from observing the actions of birds. Pronounced “aw-stis.”

tirosy n. a complicated feeling of envy and admiration for people younger than you—their eyes shining with energy, their futures rich with potential, their confidence smooth and untouched like a freshly opened jar of peanut butter, which you simultaneously want to preserve forever and gleefully undercut. Latin tiros, beginners, new recruits + jealousy. Pronounced “teer-uh-see.”

nowlings n. the total set of human beings alive at any given time, a group that nudges slightly forward whenever a new baby is born or the world’s oldest person dies, and turns over completely every hundred years or so; a random assemblage of billions of contemporaries who you feel an odd sense of connection to, because whatever problems we might face right now, we’re all facing them simultaneously. From now, the present moment + -lings, inhabitants of.

epistrix n. a disconcerting cluster of endings that all seem to happen at once; a random barrage of departures and closures and divorces and series finales and celebrity deaths, which leaves you anxiously aware that the author of your story seems to be wrapping up an awful lot of loose ends. Ancient Greek ἐπὶ- (epi-), on top of + ὕστριξ (hystrix), a porcupine. To sit on a porcupine is to feel the pain of too many endings all at once. Pronounced “ih-pis-triks.”

rialtoscuro n. the disorientation of stepping outside a movie theater into unexpected darkness—a twinge of jet lag after letting your mind escape to some other world for a while, only to be thrown abruptly back into reality. Italian rialto, a theater district + oscuro, dark, obscure. Compare chiaroscuro, which describes a quality of visual art that emphasizes the contrast between deep shade and bright light. Pronounced “ree-al-toh-skyoor-oh.”

According to linguists, that is the most commonly understood word in the world, the closest thing we have to a master key. The only problem with that is, well, nobody seems to know what those two letters are supposed to stand for. “Orl Korrect”? “Old Kinderhook”? Or perhaps it was borrowed from one of a dozen other languages around the world, any of which could make a plausible claim to the origins of the term. Nobody knows for sure, and we may never know. But somehow it doesn’t matter. And the fact that it doesn’t matter says something fundamental about how we use language. For a dictionary, the parable of okay is a reminder to stay humble. To be sure, words are enormously powerful; they give meaning to everything they touch. But a word on its own can’t give meaning to itself. It doesn’t matter what its origins were, how long it’s been out there, or how many people know it. Context is everything. Perhaps the only thing. In language, as in life, meaning isn’t something that’s built in. It emerges spontaneously in the interactions between elements, even those that are meaningless on their own—a single word, a single moment, a single life. String a handful of notes into a song, and anyone who hears it can be moved to tears, or break out dancing. But a note by itself means nothing at all. Finally, here was a satisfying answer. Yes, my words are made up—but then, all words are made up. Every single one. That’s part of their magic. As much as we all tend to take them very serio...

We could all use a little more nonsense, if only to remind us not to get too caught up in the models we’ve imposed on the world. Language is not reality. The map is not the territory. As Alan Watts liked to say, “The menu is not the meal.” That’s my answer, when all is said and done: make your words real, even if you have to make them up as you go. If you have the courage to define yourself, and take ownership over the terms by which you live your life, something mysterious will happen: the walls will fall away, and the world will open up.