I’ve used the phrase “in parenthesis”—never mind having read
it thousands of times—without becoming aware of the fact that the word already contains an in. In what follows my source is Online Etymology Dictionary. It
tells me that the three roots of the word are “beside” (para-), “in” (en), and
the Proto-Indo European “put in place” (thithenai).
Thus it originally signaled an action—the putting in of something, a letter or a syllable, beside, betwixt, between
something else textual. Thus that which we put between parentheses, is already
something “put in.”
Now this on the surface absolutely pointless exercise in
etymological investigation—after all the word now means a marker that begins or
ends an “aside,” a kind of secondary or whispered addition to text, a kind of “you
might be too stupid to know, but here is what it means, chum; but since I don’t
want to insult you, I’ll make it easier to skip—if you are bright enough to
know what those marks mean”—this pointless exercise arose from a medical day in
this household or, more precisely put, a medical twenty-four hours. One of us
had to spend that time in hospital; the other was the Accompanying Fellow
Sufferer (without actual pain). This experience, thankfully over now, reminded
me of a very troubling, very powerful book I’d read in my youth. It was David
Jones’ In Parenthesis. The book
appeared in 1934 and was a recollection of the horrors of World War I. Jones’
title makes use of yet another meaning inhering
in parenthesis: that of separation,
that of holding apart. Some of our experiences are of such a nature that we do not wish to dwell on them. We’d just as
soon put them between parentheses. Jones separated his experiences using his
title—but told us all about them nonetheless, thus illustrating the altogether
ambiguous nature of this separation in some cases.
Thanks for the reference to Jones' book.
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