epigoni: word of the day

I choose "epigoni" as today's word. How? I randomly browsed through a recently given copy of The Lexicon by Wm. F. Buckley, Jr.

The word reminds me of Republicans reciting select portions (no unpleasant reminders of slavery, please) of the U.S. Constitution on the House floor today, an exercise in textual fundamentalism, puritan rigor, and showy self-righteousness.

So, why "epigoni," which means disciples, or in Buckley's phrasing: "Close followers, given to imitating, or being bound by, the star they become the creatures of"?

I see these aforementioned crusading moralists as the epigoni of the so-called Tea Party movement, or perhaps would-be epigoni of the Tea Party -- until such stance is not politically beneficial or not sufficiently subservient to the high priests of conservative orthodoxy.

The irony (fully intended) is that Buckley's example in his book lampoons the left, of course.

The singular of the word is epigonus.

According to Merriam-Webster, the pronunciation of both epigoni and epigonus puts the stress on "pig." (No comment.)

The trusty Online Etymology Dictionary sheds more light:

epigon, “undistinguished scions of mighty ancestors,” (sometimes in Latin plural form epigoni), from Gk. epigonoi, in classical use with reference to the sons of the Seven who warred against Thebes; plural of epigonos “born afterward” from epi (see epi-) + -gonos, from root of “to be born” related to gignesthaigenos "race, birth, descent"

Back to our regularly unscheduled blather.

Say the Word . . .

Remember the Beatles song that had the lyrics "say the word love"? Although I didn't know it at the time, the song was arranged as a Gospel tune (perhaps faux Gospel would be a more apt description). In these waning days of the almost-eternal U.S. presidential election, we now hear several variations on this chorus (i.e., mantra); one of them is "say the word socialism." Hearing the word socialism, we are supposed to make a face of horror, like Macaulay Culkin in "Home Alone," scream, grab our wallet or purse, reach for a weapon of minor destruction (rifle or pistol), and call 911, not necessarily in that order. When we hear socialism, we are supposed to conjure up sepia tone images from newsreels of the Stasi and East Germany and the color gray (spelled g-r-e-y in the welfare state of the U.K. until Margaret Thatcher "cleaned things up" -- so goes the neocon mythology) or listless mine workers or assembly line drones or alcoholic couch potatoes living in cement blocks or Quonset huts or Swedes sitting around, well, looking blond and bored. Of course, if you mean distribution of wealth, a more genteel term, you have the uber-capitalist Adam Smith (no relation to Anna Nicole Smith, that I know of) backing you up as well as the entire history of the Internal Revenue Service code. You can look it up. No, the word socialism is pink-baiting, meant to scare, meant to bring fears of The Other (although Those Others in, say, European socialist countries did not start this mess), meant to thump one's capitalist chest. Well, um, comrades, the words capitalist and socialist -- whatever they said in the textbooks or dictionaries -- just got a rewrite inthe last several weeks. They mean zero, zilch, in traditional terms, unless you are pressing an emotional hot button. They mean n-o-t-h-i-n-g. Unless you are into good, old-fashioned political propaganda (but at least admit it and then enjoy the ride).

Oh, we have a word for that button-pressing: demagoguery. (I learned the word, long ago, from William F. Buckley, Jr., the recently deceased high priest of American conservatism.)

While we're on the subject, Catholic voters are hereby reminded that popes have repeatedly warned of the dangers of pure capitalism or pure socialism. That's my point: they don't exist. Except in Utopia. And I remind you that Utopia, as expressed in Thomas More's wonderful satire, is Greek for "nowhere."

There are some other choruses that we are tirelessly hearing. One of them is "lower taxes." It is trite. Do I want more money in my pockets? Of course I do! After all, I live in highly taxed New York State. Is our money wasted? Yes. Are there "earmarks"? Indeed. And everyone loves the bacon when it comes to their district. Then Congress is doing a great job! But I ask you: where is the end of that arc? No taxes? none? All money kept by solipsistic me me me me? People in California may recall Proposition 13 about 30 years ago. They got lower taxes. Then they cried because the library was closed two days a week or because health care was not available at a public hospital or the DMV was closed every other day, et cetera ad nauseam.

Now, "Say the word endum," um, sort of like addendum, but not quite.

Remembering Buckley, and Me

Wm. F. Buckley, Jr. (which is how he wrote it), the patron saint of American conservatism, has died at 82.

For starters, I learned my favorite word, cited in the banner of this blog, and blogged about frequently, from him: I had read the words solipsist or solipsistic in his columns.

When I was in high school, in 1965, I wrote an admiring letter to Mr. Buckley, asking to meet him. I grew up and lived in Stamford, Connecticut, where he had a home (and where he died today), not far from my parish church. I got a return letter from him, typed in blue, as I recall, with a short note (long since lost), saying he was busy running for mayor of New York; here's my home phone number; call after the election. I did.

On the day of December 31, 1965, my father drove me to his house, on Long Island Sound. My older and younger brothers came along for the ride. As we drove into the driveway, I met Buckley outside his study, a garage (if I recall rightly) filled with books and papers scattered about; large horseshoe desk; old-fashioned typewriter (a Smith-Corona or Underwood or Remington). His son, Christopher, whom he called Christo, came up on a bicycle and WFB told him to tend to something or other. When I got inside the study, Buckley asked how I got there. My father. My father and brothers were waiting in the car; he insisted they come in.

He wore a sweater with his shirttail hanging out in back. ("Sloppy genius" was my father's stereotyped characterization.) I remember him casually smoking a cigar. He had had a reputation, among liberals (or more accurately among those who did not know him), as being condescending and churlish. The total opposite was true. He was gracious and charming. He made us feel relaxed and comfortable. Here we were, residents of a housing project, hanging out at Bill Buckley's on (early) New Year's Eve, for crying out loud.

I don't remember all of the conversation. At one point I said something, perhaps about the newly approved use of English in the Mass, and Buckley was on the phone, speaking Spanish to a secretary mentioning a magazine article, and Buckley, um, pontificating, stark blue eyes twinkling, eyebrows dancing: "The Church is never more glorious than when she resists the zeitgeist." The maid brought coffee. We drank it, even my younger brother, not quite 9 years old. (My brothers and I were brought up as tea drinkers; Mom's influence.)

My father, a lifelong Democrat, told stories of World War II. Leyte. The Philippines. My younger brother made a pun about Leyte and lady. My father mentioned something about Joe McCarthy (and not something all that positive), and WFB reached to a bookshelf and pulled out a copy of his "McCarthy and His Enemies," inscribed and autographed it (in red, no less!), and handed it to my delighted dad. (To tell you the truth, I never did read the book, which sits in my bookcase a few feet away. I really did not have an open mind about the snarling McCarthy, then or now. My father, not particularly a book reader, did read it.) Was my father stealing the show? (Only now do I ask: was Buckley teaching me a lesson in filial piety, one later ignored in The Rebellion Years?)

I, a seminarian and liberal-in-waiting, engaged in a playful debate about the use of English in the Roman Catholic liturgy (Buckley wanted to keep Latin in the Mass, of course). He said his "mind was slowly cringing shut" on the issue (as I was reminded by my older brother tonight), and he challenged me to write a book in defense of my position. (I never did.) (Buckley was a lector, in English by the way, at nearby Saint Mary's Church, in Stamford.)

We went home, and were late for dinner. I felt bad for my Mom. Here we were, waltzing in all high and mighty. Dinner was probably cold.

It wasn't how I planned it.

Several years later, I saw Mr. Buckley in Bloomingdale's and managed to chat with him. He seemed to remember me.

I remember him.

Requiescat in pacem.

In Latin. Or English.

Or the language of the heart.