Dear reader,

What do the words ‘grammar’ and ‘glamour’ have to do with each other and why did their etymologies make me think of a statue of a Greek enchantress? For ‘grammar’ and ‘glamour’ are etymologically intertwined, and once had meanings that may surprise you.

Let’s start with ‘grammar’, a word with which most of us associate stodgy and dry rules pertaining to language. Actually, this was a meaning attached to it when it arrived in English in the 14th century. However, it had links to an Old French word meaning learning in general, including in subjects such as the occult and astrology:

“... late 14c., “Latin grammar, rules of Latin,” from Old French gramaire “grammar; learning,” especially Latin and philology, also “(magic) incantation, spells, mumbo-jumbo” (12c., Modern French grammaire)...” - etymonline.com

During the renaissance, alchemy, astrology, and the practice of magic were seen as respectable fields of knowledge. The etymonline.com website notes that ‘grammar’ could mean:

“... ‘learning in general, knowledge peculiar to the learned classes’, which included astrology and magic; hence the secondary meaning of “occult knowledge” (late 15c. in English), which evolved in Scottish into glamour”

(Notable figures in the history of science such as Tycho Brahe, Francis Bacon, and Isaac Newton all included the serious study of alchemy in their portfolios of expertise; Johannes Kepler was a skilled astrologer as well as astronomer).

Tacked on to the end of the sentence above is that word ‘glamour’ which originally meant ‘enchantment’ or ‘charm’. Over time the meaning of this word shifted into something meaning alluring, and we still call attractive people charming or enchanting even today - they cast a spell over us.

It’s not surprising, then, that when reading about the etymology of the word ‘glamour’ and thinking of enchanting enchantresses that I was reminded of the statue Circe by Bertram Mackennal, displayed in the National Gallery of Victoria.

While acknowledging the skill of the sculptor, I thought this statue was hilarious the first time I saw it twenty-something years ago. The NGV website notes that

“This life-size femme fatale was Mackennal’s largest work to date, and was clearly meant to make a daring proclamation.”

I still agree with my younger self that this ‘proclamation’ was a reflection on the confused feelings Bertram felt in his undies while he constructed this erotically powerful figure - was he terrified or titillated by the idea of a powerful nude working her glamour?

The sweaty palms and fevered imaginings of Victorian-era blokes aside, Circe is a beautifully rendered sculpture, detailed with precision. And it is perhaps this precision that reminded me of this:

“You have precision. Precision is not prissy, precision is the foundation of passion. Passion without precision: Chaos.” - One of the Devil’s lines from The Witches of Eastwick, screenplay by Michael Cristofer, based on the novel by John Updike.

As I wrestle with my own purple prose, replete with bad grammar and punctuation, I often think of that sentence from The Witches of Eastwick. If I want to convey something passionate, or inspiring, or enchanting, or charming, then I need to pay attention to the precision with which I use my words. And, for me, this means fixing up my own damned grammar. Because the devil - and the magic - is in the detail.

Thank you for reading.

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Dear reader,

Recently I was searching on the internet for interesting Christmas-themed images to share. As always, I was looking through historical material in the public domain because

• I love it, and

• I don’t have to worry about breaching anyone’s copyright.

I was looking for vintage Australian Christmas card illustrations when I came across two in the State Library of South Australia’s collections featuring Forget-Me-Nots*. The poignant name of this lovely flower jolted me back to the theme that has been dominating my own ‘festive’ season this year, which is reflecting on the empty space left by people who have died or become estranged from us, or even the space left by lost jobs, businesses, or homes.

“Middle English foryeten, from Old English forgietan ‘lose the power of recalling to the mind; fail to remember; neglect inadvertently,’ from for-, used here probably with privative force, ‘away, amiss, opposite’ + gietan ‘to grasp’ (see get (v.)). To ‘un-get,’ hence ‘to lose’ from the mind.” - etymology of ‘forget’ from the wonderful etymonline.com.

The act of remembering is central to grieving. None of us want to be forgotten when we die, to be - to borrow words from the quotation above - inadvertently neglected and lost from mind. Nor do we always want to forget that or those which have been important to us somehow. There’s an old cliche that the dead live on in our memories, but as I have grown older and started to notch up a few deaths I have found that this is true for me. Often inside the privacy of my head I speak to the people I love who have left me; I feel close to them. I want them to know that they haven’t been lost or erased. That they mattered.

But mattered how? And why? The act of remembering is not as straightforward as it first seems. Just what, exactly, do you remember? I love remembering the good things about the ones I have lost and the fun or meaningful times we had together - this makes it simple to carry the dead in my memory with love, gratitude, or tenderness.

But how candidly do you remember the bad times or the personal faults? Do you owe it to the dead to gloss over these? Or do you owe it to yourself to remember them as vividly as the more palatable memories?

I choose to remember both the good and the bad. I want to remember my dead as three-dimensional, complex humans who had to turn up (to borrow words from Gerard Manly Hopkins) as “their sweating selves”. I want to honour the way they slogged through life and I want to honour the emotional blood sweat and tears that our relationship was based on, as well as the easy times and lovable qualities. If after all of the rows, or silences, or misunderstandings, or disappointments, or bad parenting that went on we still love each other in the afterlife of one of us, then that really means something.

The empty space stands ready to receive. At Christmas and New Year, that empty space can stand out in stark contrast to the jolliness and indulgent excesses of everything else going on. When I come to remember my dead, what will I put into that empty space? My mother’s riotous laughter or her childlike joy at getting her Christmas presents? Or her tantrums when she didn’t get what she wanted? My dad sitting with a paper hat sliding down his forehead and resting on his ears? Or the way he laughed at the dog going after the neighbourhood Santa while he distributed lollies to the kids; laughed so hard that tears ran down his face? Unbelievably, while he was recently dying, he still managed a single exhausted guffaw when I reminded him of it.

I want to remember all of it, vividly and honestly. The empty space elicits, demands, invites, or challenges these memories. That empty space could be an abyss I let my dead disappear into if I choose to forget, or a repository in which I can cradle whatever I have left of the people and events that made me.

*Forget-me-Nots are not native to Australia, but white Victorian and Edwardian era Aussies culturally cleaved close and hard to Mother Britain.

Thank you for reading.

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Dear reader,

It’s just ticked past midnight here in Melbourne, so I want to wish you all a happy, safe, healthy, fun, inspiring, and rewarding 2026.

Dear reader,

It is now Boxing Day here in Australia. Boxing Day was apparently originally a day when you boxed up some spare treats or gifts and passed them onto the deserving. So, I’m passing on a few little random things that I have laying around my laptop and that I want to share.

That Phenakistoscope above is one. It dates from 1833; I found it on this webpage on the Public Domain Review where there’s a whole bunch of them. I think they’re wonderful but staring at a whole page of them for too long could be seizure-inducing so you have been warned.

The next thing I want to share keeps with the Christmas vibe; it’s a short animation made by Terry Gilliam (of Monty Python fame) in 1968 called The Christmas Card. It’s fun. I came across it on this webpage on the Open Culture website.

The third thing I want to share is what is called The Proust Questionnaire; you might have seen it before. It was a popular Victorian parlour game that is still used today as an interview tool. Maybe you can use it if the conversation with extended family that you only see at Christmas runs dry. I have adapted the questions somewhat from those listed on Wikipedia. Perhaps, after you have inflicted it upon your relatives, you can use it as a creative prompt: Imagine the answers as provided by a character in the novel you’re writing, or your ideal lover, or perfect boss.

The Proust Questionnaire

• The principal aspect of my personality. Or my favourite aspect.

• Your favourite qualities in another person.

• What you appreciate most in your friends.

• Your main fault.

• Favourite way to pass your time.

• Your idea of happiness.

• Your idea of misery.

• If not yourself, who would you be?

• Where would you like to live?

• Your favourite colour.

• Your favourite flower.

• Your favourite bird or animal.

• Your favourite writers, artists, or creators.

• Your favourite fictional heroes.

• Your favourite real life heroes.

Thank you for reading.

I hope that Yuletide is treating you kindly. Stay sane, safe, well, and happy.

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