Ostrobogulous, Indeed

In one of my autobiographical pieces elsewhere, I've mentioned that the hallmark of the bands I've played with was the use of ostrobogulous bits between songs. That, of course, was in my blood from the get-go, thanks to early indoctrination by Spike Jones and His City Slickers, Rusty Warren, Doug Clark and the Hot Nuts, and of course, the Fugs.

Last winter I was asked by a dear Gustavus friend of literary persuasion whence came such a word to my vocabulary. Well, apart from the fact it's a highly serviceable word for the type of life I lead, there was also one of those surprising connections which made me sit up and take notice.

I suppose it was ten years ago or so that I first encountered it. I don't remember the citation at this late date, as my reading is somewhat varied. Anyway, since it was new to me, I quickly jotted it down on a note card (but stupidly failed to record the bibliographic details--it'll come to me some day), then dug into my usual sources to uncover its meaning and lineage.

Imagine my astonishment when I found that the OED attributes the word to Victor Neuburg. He, of course, was Aleister Crowley's partner in thaumaturgical buggery when the two invoked the demon Choronzon in the desert. Neuburg died in 1940, but the word was finally recognized by the OED in 1951.

I guess what surprised me is Neuburg is a relatively minor character in the history of the world (although he was the one responsible for bringing Dylan Thomas to the attention of readers). That I knew the name at all was simply because of the Crowley connection, one of my literary heroes, though as a person the latter left a bit to be desired.

So, what is the etymology, I hear you ask? Incredibly eccentric, being an insane mixed-breed. The roots are ostro, bog and ulus, coming from Greek, Old English and Latin! The combined spelling was then anglicized to ostrobogulous.

The Greek ostro means "rich," as in full of piquancy. The Old English bog means "dirt," in this case conveying something akin to "dirty books." Finally, the Latin root ulus means "full of."

Put 'em all together and you get an adjective connoting much more than mere crudity or suggestiveness; its delicate shading conveys a clever, intelligent yet risqué quality: an indecent joke for the discerning audience.

I can think of no other word in English which captures that subtlety.

Next essay: To Carelessly Split an Infinitive