Sbagliando s'impera

eurìstico aggettivo [derivato del greco εὑρίσκω «trovare, scoprire»] (pl. m. –ci). – Nel linguaggio scientifico, detto di ipotesi che viene assunta precipuamente come idea direttrice nella ricerca dei fatti, e del metodo stesso di ricerca così condotta: mezzo euristico, in senso lato, mezzo di ricerca. In particolare, in matematica, procedimento euristico, qualsiasi procedimento non rigoroso (a carattere approssimativo, intuitivo, analogico, ecc.) che consente di prevedere o rendere plausibile un risultato, il quale in un secondo tempo dovrà essere controllato e convalidato per via rigorosa. [Vocabolario Treccani online]

eurìstica s. f. [dall’agg. euristico]. – Parte di una scienza che ha per oggetto la scoperta di fatti o di verità (per es., nella storiografia, è il metodo di ricerca e di raccolta dei documenti). [Vocabolario Treccani online]

εὑρίσκω è il verbo greco che alla 1ª persona singolare dell’indicativo perfetto fa εὕρηκα, la celebre esclamazione di Archimede.

La storia la racconta Vitruvio. Gerone 2°, tiranno di Siracusa, sospettava che un orefice infedele – nella realizzazione di una corona votiva – avesse sostituito l’oro puro che il tiranno gli aveva dato all’uopo con una massa eguale d’argento placcato, e incaricò Archimede di scoprirlo. Poiché la corona era già stata dedicata agli dei, nessuno poteva più violarla, ad esempio saggiandola. Narra Vitruvio che Archimede trovò la soluzione mentre faceva il bagno alle terme: notò che più s’immergeva nella vasca, più acqua traboccava. Eccitato dalla scoperta della “legge di Archimede”, saltò fuori dalla vasca e corse a casa nudo gridando, appunto, “εὕρηκα! εὕρηκα!”

Scena di comicità irresistibile, soprattutto per chi si figura piuttosto le candide piume di Archimede Pitagorico.

http://physics.weber.edu/carroll/archimedes/crown.htm

Un aggettivo che quando ero adolescente si usava molto, e adesso mi sembra invece piuttosto in disuso.

Con 3 significati, secondo il Vocabolario Treccani online:

Che, per la mancanza di ogni caratteristica positiva, e per la presenza di aspetti negativi diversi, è in sé misero e triste e fonte di tristezza, desolante e deprimente.
1. a. Riferito a edifici e ambienti, zone e località: una casa, una stanza squallida, e una squallida camera d’albergo d’infimo ordine, trascurata, priva di comodità e tutt’altro che accogliente, triste e desolante a starvi; una squallida corsia d’ospedale, una squallida prigione, uno squallido casolare abbandonato; cercavo … i luoghi più tristi per i nostri convegni: i più desolati giardini pubblici, le più squallide latterie (N. Ginzburg); regioni squallide., una squallida landa, brulle e incolte, senza case e vegetazione, e comunque desolate; in usi lettererari: Alle squalide ripe d’Acheronte … Bestemmiando fuggì l’alma sdegnosa (Ariosto); indarno Sul tuo poeta, o Dea, preghi rugiade Dalla squallida notte (Foscolo).
1. b. Riferito a persone, al loro aspetto, a situazioni, a condizioni di vita: uno squallido mendicante, mal ridotto; vivere nella più s. miseria, senza poter soddisfare neppure le più elementari esigenze materiali; fare una vita squallida, povera e triste, grigia e monotona, priva di attese, di speranze, di soddisfazioni; in usi letterari, è spesso accentuata, in modo oggettivo o con tono di commiserazione, la miseria, l’abbandono, la trasandatezza o anche la macilenza della persona: capelli squallidi, incolti e spettinati; Con chiome irsute e con la barba squalida (Sannazzaro); Con la squallida prole e con la nuda Consorte a lato (Parini); quell’aspetto [di Lucia] reso ora più squallido, sbattuto, affannato dal patire prolungato e dal digiuno (Manzoni).
2. Con connotazione più chiaramente spregiativa, riferito a persone, manifestazioni e comportamenti, equivale spesso a spregevole, sordido, abietto, giudizî in cui la condanna morale è però attenuata talvolta da un senso di umano compatimento: uno squallido individuo che vive facendo prostituire la moglie; una squallida figura di ricattatore; uno squallido ambiente di pedofili; una squallida vicenda di sfruttamento di minori.

Dal lat. squalĭdus, derivato di squalere «essere aspro, squamoso; essere squallido». O forse no. Come sempre sulle questioni di etimologia gli studiosi si scannano per secoli (a me piace pensare che talora si sfidassero a duello per una di queste questioni). Secondo il Georges (quello del mio vecchio vocabolario di latino, suppongo), i romani lo usavano con riferimento alle caratteristiche del terreno: un suolo squamoso era chiaramente poco fertile, trascurato e dunque improduttivo. Se avesse ragione Georges, deriverebbe dai vocaboli greci skleròs (duro) e skèllein (disseccare), da cui ci viene anche scheletro. Ma secondo una folta schiera di altri studiosi (trovo citati Kuhn, Curtius e Micklosich) deriverebbe dalla radice proto-indoeuropea KAL- che in sanscrito ci ha dato kâla (nero), kalankas (macchia) e khalug (tenebre); in antico slavo kalu (fango) e kaljati (inquinare); in greco kelainòs (nero) e kêlis (macchia); in latino càligo (caligine): “onde i latini dissero squalida la veste del lutto.”

autotomìa s. f. [comp. di auto-1 e –tomia]. – In biologia, fenomeno che presentano alcuni animali, consistente nell’amputazione spontanea di alcune parti del corpo, che vengono in seguito rigenerate (per es., l’espulsione spontanea dei visceri di alcune oloturie e ascidie, la perdita di antenne, zampe e appendici boccali nei crostacei, negli insetti, ecc.). [Vocabolario Treccani]

Wikipedia

Chissà come mai, ma la parola mi è venuta in mente dopo aver sentito dell’esito delle primarie pugliesi.

Spesso la parte eliminata per autotomia si rigenera: sarà così anche per il PD?

Ho trovato un chiarimento illuminante della differenza tra queste due parole nell’ultimo libro di Richard Dawkins, The Greatest Show on Earth, di cui parlerò più ampiamente quando avrò recuperato il disastroso ritardo (degno di Trenitalia in caso di precipitazioni intense) nelle mie recensioni.

Partiamo da quello che dice il dizionario (Sabatini-Coletti online):

Analogo: che presenta analogia con qualcosa. Sinonimi: affine, simile. Caso analogo.

Omologo: che è simile, che corrisponde a un altro, che ha caratteristiche identiche. Sinonimo: analogo. Casi analoghi.

Insomma, il dizionario non ci fa capire la differenza, o ci suggerisce che non ce n’è nessuna.

Dawkins ci spiega, invece, che analogo fa riferimento alla corrispondenza di una funzione, mentre omologo fa riferimento alla corrispondenza della forma, e più esattamente alla possibilità di trasformare una cosa in un’altra deformandola. L’esempio illuminante di Dawkins è questa: l’ala di un pipistrello e l’ala di un insetto sono analoghe (ma non omologhe), perché servono entrambe a volare. Ma l’ala di un pipistrello e la mano umana sono omologhe (ma non analoghe), perché si corrispondono osso per osso (anche se ogni osso ha o può avere una forma differente nei due arti: Dawkins si esprime diecndo, efficacemente, che hanno lo stesso scheletro ma ossa diverse!). L’ala di un pipistrello e l’ala di uno pterodattilo sono analoghe e omologhe.

Tornando al vocabolario, il Webster’s se la cava molto meglio:

Analogous:

1. Similar or correspondent in some respects though otherwise dissimilar; “brains and computers are often considered analogous”; “surimi is marketed as analogous to crabmeat”.
2. (biology) corresponding in function but not in evolutionary origin; “the wings of a bee and those of a hummingbird are analogous”.

Homologous:

1. (biology) having the same evolutionary origin but serving different functions; “the wing of a bat and the arm of a man are homologous”.
2. Corresponding or similar in position or structure or function or characteristics; especially derived from an organism of the same species; “a homologous tissue graft”.

L’astenosfera è una fascia superficiale del mantello terrestre, giacente sotto la litosfera, compresa tra i 100 e i 250 km (o forse fino a 400 km) di profondità, in cui le rocce sono parzialmente fuse.
La presenza di materiale che si comporta come un fluido ad altissima viscosità è provata dai movimenti isostatici della superficie terrestre. Si tratta di movimenti verticali conseguenti a variazioni di peso della crosta, interpretabili come fenomeni di galleggiamento.
L’astenosfera ha un ruolo essenziale nella tettonica globale della litosfera (tettonica a zolle).
A causa del gradiente termico interno alla Terra essa è infatti soggetta a moti convettivi. Le sue caratteristiche geometriche, termiche e meccaniche fanno sì che tali moti siano ordinati in celle convettive. L’energia dei moti convettivi viene trasferita alla litosfera producendo l’evoluzione delle placche che la costituiscono. [Wikipedia]

L’astenosfera è la parte arancione, numerata con 5 nella figura.

Ma non è questo che mi attrae, ma l’etimologia: dal greco asthenēs ‘debole’ (a sua volta composto dall’α- privativa + sthenos ‘forza’).

Benvenuti dunque nell’astenosfera, dove – spossato – dimoro.

Usàre: “Adoperare, impiegare qualcosa: usare l’automobile” (Il Sabatini-Coletti online).

Utilizzàre: “Usare qualcosa; renderlo utile o metterlo a profitto: utilizzare gli avanzi del pranzo per preparare la cena“.

Il Sabatini-Coletti propone utilizzare come sinonimo di usare, ma mi permetto di dissentire.

Intanto, utilizzare è chiaramente un derivato di usare, ed è molto più giovane (usare è attestato dal secolo XIV, utilizzare dal 1802).

La comune radice (attraverso l’italiano uso e il latino usus) è dal verbo latino uti (servirsi), che a sua volta viene dal sanscrito utis (aiuto, soccorso) e al più antico verbo av-ati (godere, saziarsi, favorire).

Ma la cosa più importante è che i due verbi presentano un lieve scarto semantico: usare significa “impiegare qualcosa (o qualcuno) come un mezzo per fare qualcos’altro”; utilizzare significa piuttosto “usare qualcosa in modo appropriato, efficace, traendone pieno vantaggio”.

Due esempi mi aiuteranno (spero):

Se dico che Caio non ha usato il cacciavite per aprire la bottiglia, vuol dire che non ce l’aveva oppure che disponeva di uno strumento migliore. Ma se dico che non ha utilizzato il cacciavite, vuol dire che non ha trovato nessun modo per applicarlo a qualche compito e trarne vantaggio.

Succo del pippone: spesso usiamo “utilizzare” quando dovremmo usare “usare”. Augh!

Questa è una storia davvero strana.

Cominciamo da Wikipedia:

Gli albatri (Diomedeidae, G.R. Gray 1840) sono uccelli di mare della famiglia Diomedeidae nell’ordine delle Procellariiformes. Vivono negli oceani meridionali e nel nord Oceano Pacifico. Sono assenti nell’Atlantico settentrionale se non come fossili. Sono tra gli uccelli volatili più grandi al mondo e l’albatro urlatore (Diomedea exulans) è l’uccello vivente con l’apertura più grande al mondo. Sono molto efficienti in aria, sfruttando le correnti aeree e sono in grado di percorrere grandi distanze con poco sforzo.

La storia comincia dall’antico greco kàdos, botticella. La parola passa all’arabo e si trasforma in qadus, secchio, e con l’articolo in al-qadus. Gli arabi arrivano nella penisola iberica e portano con sé al-qadus, che però ora viene riferito anche al pellicano. Credevano infatti che il pellicano, grazie alla forma del suo becco, fosse in grado di affrontare lunghi viaggi nel deserto per raggiungere un oasi e poi tornare al nido, la parte inferiore colma d’acqua come un secchio, per dissetare i piccoli. E così alcaduz in spagnolo e alcatruz/alcatraz in portoghese denotano il pellicano.

Sì, avete indovinato, l’isola su cui si trova il famoso penitenziario di Alcatraz si chiama così perché ospitava una numerosa colonia di pellicani.

Passano gli anni ma – nonostante tutti i progressi della scienza – i marinai non vedono scemare né la loro ignoranza né la loro superstizione.

Quelli inglesi cominciano a storpiare il nome e a chiamare alcatras tutti gli uccelli di grandi dimensioni che incontrano in mare, e in particolare le fregate, in cui i maschi hanno una specie di gozzo rosso sotto il becco (non per portare acqua ai piccoli, ma per attrarre le femmine all’accoppiamento).

Ci siamo quasi. Le fregate sono grandi uccelli marini neri. Gli albatri grandi uccelli marini bianchi. OK, in latino bianco si dice albus? Ecco fatto, albatross.

E la leggenda del vecchio marinaio di Coleridge, che in molti abbiamo studiato a scuola?

L’albatros è un grande volatore (si dice che possa circumnavigare il globo senza posarsi mai), ma è così pesante che decollare gli è difficile, e l’operazione gli riesce più facilmente con un forte vento contrario. Di qui la credenza dei marinai inglesi (ancora loro!) che fosse l’albatros a favorire il vento, e non viceversa.Di qui la disgrazia in cui incorre il vecchio marinaio. Se volete rileggere la poesia, è qui sotto.

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER

IN SEVEN PARTS

By Samuel Taylor Coleridge

PART THE FIRST.

     It is an ancient Mariner,
     And he stoppeth one of three.
     "By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,
     Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?

     "The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide,
     And I am next of kin;
     The guests are met, the feast is set:
     May'st hear the merry din."

     He holds him with his skinny hand,
     "There was a ship," quoth he.
     "Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!"
     Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

     He holds him with his glittering eye--
     The Wedding-Guest stood still,
     And listens like a three years child:
     The Mariner hath his will.

     The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:
     He cannot chuse but hear;
     And thus spake on that ancient man,
     The bright-eyed Mariner.

     The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,
     Merrily did we drop
     Below the kirk, below the hill,
     Below the light-house top.

     The Sun came up upon the left,
     Out of the sea came he!
     And he shone bright, and on the right
     Went down into the sea.

     Higher and higher every day,
     Till over the mast at noon--
     The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast,
     For he heard the loud bassoon.

     The bride hath paced into the hall,
     Red as a rose is she;
     Nodding their heads before her goes
     The merry minstrelsy.

     The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast,
     Yet he cannot chuse but hear;
     And thus spake on that ancient man,
     The bright-eyed Mariner.

     And now the STORM-BLAST came, and he
     Was tyrannous and strong:
     He struck with his o'ertaking wings,
     And chased south along.

     With sloping masts and dipping prow,
     As who pursued with yell and blow
     Still treads the shadow of his foe
     And forward bends his head,
     The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,
     And southward aye we fled.

     And now there came both mist and snow,
     And it grew wondrous cold:
     And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
     As green as emerald.

     And through the drifts the snowy clifts
     Did send a dismal sheen:
     Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken--
     The ice was all between.

     The ice was here, the ice was there,
     The ice was all around:
     It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,
     Like noises in a swound!

     At length did cross an Albatross:
     Thorough the fog it came;
     As if it had been a Christian soul,
     We hailed it in God's name.

     It ate the food it ne'er had eat,
     And round and round it flew.
     The ice did split with a thunder-fit;
     The helmsman steered us through!

     And a good south wind sprung up behind;
     The Albatross did follow,
     And every day, for food or play,
     Came to the mariners' hollo!

     In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,
     It perched for vespers nine;
     Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,
     Glimmered the white Moon-shine.

     "God save thee, ancient Mariner!
     From the fiends, that plague thee thus!--
     Why look'st thou so?"--With my cross-bow
     I shot the ALBATROSS.

PART THE SECOND.

     The Sun now rose upon the right:
     Out of the sea came he,
     Still hid in mist, and on the left
     Went down into the sea.

     And the good south wind still blew behind
     But no sweet bird did follow,
     Nor any day for food or play
     Came to the mariners' hollo!

     And I had done an hellish thing,
     And it would work 'em woe:
     For all averred, I had killed the bird
     That made the breeze to blow.
     Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay
     That made the breeze to blow!

     Nor dim nor red, like God's own head,
     The glorious Sun uprist:
     Then all averred, I had killed the bird
     That brought the fog and mist.
     'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay,
     That bring the fog and mist.

     The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,
     The furrow followed free:
     We were the first that ever burst
     Into that silent sea.

     Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,
     'Twas sad as sad could be;
     And we did speak only to break
     The silence of the sea!

     All in a hot and copper sky,
     The bloody Sun, at noon,
     Right up above the mast did stand,
     No bigger than the Moon.

     Day after day, day after day,
     We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
     As idle as a painted ship
     Upon a painted ocean.

     Water, water, every where,
     And all the boards did shrink;
     Water, water, every where,
     Nor any drop to drink.

     The very deep did rot: O Christ!
     That ever this should be!
     Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs
     Upon the slimy sea.

     About, about, in reel and rout
     The death-fires danced at night;
     The water, like a witch's oils,
     Burnt green, and blue and white.

     And some in dreams assured were
     Of the spirit that plagued us so:
     Nine fathom deep he had followed us
     From the land of mist and snow.

     And every tongue, through utter drought,
     Was withered at the root;
     We could not speak, no more than if
     We had been choked with soot.

     Ah! well a-day! what evil looks
     Had I from old and young!
     Instead of the cross, the Albatross
     About my neck was hung.

PART THE THIRD.

     There passed a weary time.  Each throat
     Was parched, and glazed each eye.
     A weary time! a weary time!
     How glazed each weary eye,
     When looking westward, I beheld
     A something in the sky.

     At first it seemed a little speck,
     And then it seemed a mist:
     It moved and moved, and took at last
     A certain shape, I wist.

     A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!
     And still it neared and neared:
     As if it dodged a water-sprite,
     It plunged and tacked and veered.

     With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
     We could not laugh nor wail;
     Through utter drought all dumb we stood!
     I bit my arm, I sucked the blood,
     And cried, A sail! a sail!

     With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
     Agape they heard me call:
     Gramercy! they for joy did grin,
     And all at once their breath drew in,
     As they were drinking all.

     See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more!
     Hither to work us weal;
     Without a breeze, without a tide,
     She steadies with upright keel!

     The western wave was all a-flame
     The day was well nigh done!
     Almost upon the western wave
     Rested the broad bright Sun;
     When that strange shape drove suddenly
     Betwixt us and the Sun.

     And straight the Sun was flecked with bars,
     (Heaven's Mother send us grace!)
     As if through a dungeon-grate he peered,
     With broad and burning face.

     Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)
     How fast she nears and nears!
     Are those her sails that glance in the Sun,
     Like restless gossameres!

     Are those her ribs through which the Sun
     Did peer, as through a grate?
     And is that Woman all her crew?
     Is that a DEATH? and are there two?
     Is DEATH that woman's mate?

     Her lips were red, her looks were free,
     Her locks were yellow as gold:
     Her skin was as white as leprosy,
     The Night-Mare LIFE-IN-DEATH was she,
     Who thicks man's blood with cold.

     The naked hulk alongside came,
     And the twain were casting dice;
     "The game is done!  I've won!  I've won!"
     Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

     The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out:
     At one stride comes the dark;
     With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea.
     Off shot the spectre-bark.

     We listened and looked sideways up!
     Fear at my heart, as at a cup,
     My life-blood seemed to sip!

     The stars were dim, and thick the night,
     The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white;
     From the sails the dew did drip--
     Till clombe above the eastern bar
     The horned Moon, with one bright star
     Within the nether tip.

     One after one, by the star-dogged Moon
     Too quick for groan or sigh,
     Each turned his face with a ghastly pang,
     And cursed me with his eye.

     Four times fifty living men,
     (And I heard nor sigh nor groan)
     With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,
     They dropped down one by one.

     The souls did from their bodies fly,--
     They fled to bliss or woe!
     And every soul, it passed me by,
     Like the whizz of my CROSS-BOW!

PART THE FOURTH.

     "I fear thee, ancient Mariner!
     I fear thy skinny hand!
     And thou art long, and lank, and brown,
     As is the ribbed sea-sand.

     "I fear thee and thy glittering eye,
     And thy skinny hand, so brown."--
     Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest!
     This body dropt not down.

     Alone, alone, all, all alone,
     Alone on a wide wide sea!
     And never a saint took pity on
     My soul in agony.

     The many men, so beautiful!
     And they all dead did lie:
     And a thousand thousand slimy things
     Lived on; and so did I.

     I looked upon the rotting sea,
     And drew my eyes away;
     I looked upon the rotting deck,
     And there the dead men lay.

     I looked to Heaven, and tried to pray:
     But or ever a prayer had gusht,
     A wicked whisper came, and made
     my heart as dry as dust.

     I closed my lids, and kept them close,
     And the balls like pulses beat;
     For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky
     Lay like a load on my weary eye,
     And the dead were at my feet.

     The cold sweat melted from their limbs,
     Nor rot nor reek did they:
     The look with which they looked on me
     Had never passed away.

     An orphan's curse would drag to Hell
     A spirit from on high;
     But oh! more horrible than that
     Is a curse in a dead man's eye!
     Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse,
     And yet I could not die.

     The moving Moon went up the sky,
     And no where did abide:
     Softly she was going up,
     And a star or two beside.

     Her beams bemocked the sultry main,
     Like April hoar-frost spread;
     But where the ship's huge shadow lay,
     The charmed water burnt alway
     A still and awful red.

     Beyond the shadow of the ship,
     I watched the water-snakes:
     They moved in tracks of shining white,
     And when they reared, the elfish light
     Fell off in hoary flakes.

     Within the shadow of the ship
     I watched their rich attire:
     Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,
     They coiled and swam; and every track
     Was a flash of golden fire.

     O happy living things! no tongue
     Their beauty might declare:
     A spring of love gushed from my heart,
     And I blessed them unaware:
     Sure my kind saint took pity on me,
     And I blessed them unaware.

     The self same moment I could pray;
     And from my neck so free
     The Albatross fell off, and sank
     Like lead into the sea.

PART THE FIFTH.

     Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing,
     Beloved from pole to pole!
     To Mary Queen the praise be given!
     She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven,
     That slid into my soul.

     The silly buckets on the deck,
     That had so long remained,
     I dreamt that they were filled with dew;
     And when I awoke, it rained.

     My lips were wet, my throat was cold,
     My garments all were dank;
     Sure I had drunken in my dreams,
     And still my body drank.

     I moved, and could not feel my limbs:
     I was so light--almost
     I thought that I had died in sleep,
     And was a blessed ghost.

     And soon I heard a roaring wind:
     It did not come anear;
     But with its sound it shook the sails,
     That were so thin and sere.

     The upper air burst into life!
     And a hundred fire-flags sheen,
     To and fro they were hurried about!
     And to and fro, and in and out,
     The wan stars danced between.

     And the coming wind did roar more loud,
     And the sails did sigh like sedge;
     And the rain poured down from one black cloud;
     The Moon was at its edge.

     The thick black cloud was cleft, and still
     The Moon was at its side:
     Like waters shot from some high crag,
     The lightning fell with never a jag,
     A river steep and wide.

     The loud wind never reached the ship,
     Yet now the ship moved on!
     Beneath the lightning and the Moon
     The dead men gave a groan.

     They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose,
     Nor spake, nor moved their eyes;
     It had been strange, even in a dream,
     To have seen those dead men rise.

     The helmsman steered, the ship moved on;
     Yet never a breeze up blew;
     The mariners all 'gan work the ropes,
     Where they were wont to do:
     They raised their limbs like lifeless tools--
     We were a ghastly crew.

     The body of my brother's son,
     Stood by me, knee to knee:
     The body and I pulled at one rope,
     But he said nought to me.

     "I fear thee, ancient Mariner!"
     Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest!
     'Twas not those souls that fled in pain,
     Which to their corses came again,
     But a troop of spirits blest:

     For when it dawned--they dropped their arms,
     And clustered round the mast;
     Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths,
     And from their bodies passed.

     Around, around, flew each sweet sound,
     Then darted to the Sun;
     Slowly the sounds came back again,
     Now mixed, now one by one.

     Sometimes a-dropping from the sky
     I heard the sky-lark sing;
     Sometimes all little birds that are,
     How they seemed to fill the sea and air
     With their sweet jargoning!

     And now 'twas like all instruments,
     Now like a lonely flute;
     And now it is an angel's song,
     That makes the Heavens be mute.

     It ceased; yet still the sails made on
     A pleasant noise till noon,
     A noise like of a hidden brook
     In the leafy month of June,
     That to the sleeping woods all night
     Singeth a quiet tune.

     Till noon we quietly sailed on,
     Yet never a breeze did breathe:
     Slowly and smoothly went the ship,
     Moved onward from beneath.

     Under the keel nine fathom deep,
     From the land of mist and snow,
     The spirit slid: and it was he
     That made the ship to go.
     The sails at noon left off their tune,
     And the ship stood still also.

     The Sun, right up above the mast,
     Had fixed her to the ocean:
     But in a minute she 'gan stir,
     With a short uneasy motion--
     Backwards and forwards half her length
     With a short uneasy motion.

     Then like a pawing horse let go,
     She made a sudden bound:
     It flung the blood into my head,
     And I fell down in a swound.

     How long in that same fit I lay,
     I have not to declare;
     But ere my living life returned,
     I heard and in my soul discerned
     Two VOICES in the air.

     "Is it he?" quoth one, "Is this the man?
     By him who died on cross,
     With his cruel bow he laid full low,
     The harmless Albatross.

     "The spirit who bideth by himself
     In the land of mist and snow,
     He loved the bird that loved the man
     Who shot him with his bow."

     The other was a softer voice,
     As soft as honey-dew:
     Quoth he, "The man hath penance done,
     And penance more will do."

PART THE SIXTH.

     FIRST VOICE.

     But tell me, tell me! speak again,
     Thy soft response renewing--
     What makes that ship drive on so fast?
     What is the OCEAN doing?

     SECOND VOICE.

     Still as a slave before his lord,
     The OCEAN hath no blast;
     His great bright eye most silently
     Up to the Moon is cast--

     If he may know which way to go;
     For she guides him smooth or grim
     See, brother, see! how graciously
     She looketh down on him.

     FIRST VOICE.

     But why drives on that ship so fast,
     Without or wave or wind?

     SECOND VOICE.

     The air is cut away before,
     And closes from behind.

     Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high
     Or we shall be belated:
     For slow and slow that ship will go,
     When the Mariner's trance is abated.

     I woke, and we were sailing on
     As in a gentle weather:
     'Twas night, calm night, the Moon was high;
     The dead men stood together.

     All stood together on the deck,
     For a charnel-dungeon fitter:
     All fixed on me their stony eyes,
     That in the Moon did glitter.

     The pang, the curse, with which they died,
     Had never passed away:
     I could not draw my eyes from theirs,
     Nor turn them up to pray.

     And now this spell was snapt: once more
     I viewed the ocean green.
     And looked far forth, yet little saw
     Of what had else been seen--

     Like one that on a lonesome road
     Doth walk in fear and dread,
     And having once turned round walks on,
     And turns no more his head;
     Because he knows, a frightful fiend
     Doth close behind him tread.

     But soon there breathed a wind on me,
     Nor sound nor motion made:
     Its path was not upon the sea,
     In ripple or in shade.

     It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek
     Like a meadow-gale of spring--
     It mingled strangely with my fears,
     Yet it felt like a welcoming.

     Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,
     Yet she sailed softly too:
     Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze--
     On me alone it blew.

     Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed
     The light-house top I see?
     Is this the hill? is this the kirk?
     Is this mine own countree!

     We drifted o'er the harbour-bar,
     And I with sobs did pray--
     O let me be awake, my God!
     Or let me sleep alway.

     The harbour-bay was clear as glass,
     So smoothly it was strewn!
     And on the bay the moonlight lay,
     And the shadow of the moon.

     The rock shone bright, the kirk no less,
     That stands above the rock:
     The moonlight steeped in silentness
     The steady weathercock.

     And the bay was white with silent light,
     Till rising from the same,
     Full many shapes, that shadows were,
     In crimson colours came.

     A little distance from the prow
     Those crimson shadows were:
     I turned my eyes upon the deck--
     Oh, Christ! what saw I there!

     Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat,
     And, by the holy rood!
     A man all light, a seraph-man,
     On every corse there stood.

     This seraph band, each waved his hand:
     It was a heavenly sight!
     They stood as signals to the land,
     Each one a lovely light:

     This seraph-band, each waved his hand,
     No voice did they impart--
     No voice; but oh! the silence sank
     Like music on my heart.

     But soon I heard the dash of oars;
     I heard the Pilot's cheer;
     My head was turned perforce away,
     And I saw a boat appear.

     The Pilot, and the Pilot's boy,
     I heard them coming fast:
     Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy
     The dead men could not blast.

     I saw a third--I heard his voice:
     It is the Hermit good!
     He singeth loud his godly hymns
     That he makes in the wood.
     He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away
     The Albatross's blood.

PART THE SEVENTH.

     This Hermit good lives in that wood
     Which slopes down to the sea.
     How loudly his sweet voice he rears!
     He loves to talk with marineres
     That come from a far countree.

     He kneels at morn and noon and eve--
     He hath a cushion plump:
     It is the moss that wholly hides
     The rotted old oak-stump.

     The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk,
     "Why this is strange, I trow!
     Where are those lights so many and fair,
     That signal made but now?"

     "Strange, by my faith!" the Hermit said--
     "And they answered not our cheer!
     The planks looked warped! and see those sails,
     How thin they are and sere!
     I never saw aught like to them,
     Unless perchance it were

     "Brown skeletons of leaves that lag
     My forest-brook along;
     When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow,
     And the owlet whoops to the wolf below,
     That eats the she-wolf's young."

     "Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look--
     (The Pilot made reply)
     I am a-feared"--"Push on, push on!"
     Said the Hermit cheerily.

     The boat came closer to the ship,
     But I nor spake nor stirred;
     The boat came close beneath the ship,
     And straight a sound was heard.

     Under the water it rumbled on,
     Still louder and more dread:
     It reached the ship, it split the bay;
     The ship went down like lead.

     Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound,
     Which sky and ocean smote,
     Like one that hath been seven days drowned
     My body lay afloat;
     But swift as dreams, myself I found
     Within the Pilot's boat.

     Upon the whirl, where sank the ship,
     The boat spun round and round;
     And all was still, save that the hill
     Was telling of the sound.

     I moved my lips--the Pilot shrieked
     And fell down in a fit;
     The holy Hermit raised his eyes,
     And prayed where he did sit.

     I took the oars: the Pilot's boy,
     Who now doth crazy go,
     Laughed loud and long, and all the while
     His eyes went to and fro.
     "Ha! ha!" quoth he, "full plain I see,
     The Devil knows how to row."

     And now, all in my own countree,
     I stood on the firm land!
     The Hermit stepped forth from the boat,
     And scarcely he could stand.

     "O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!"
     The Hermit crossed his brow.
     "Say quick," quoth he, "I bid thee say--
     What manner of man art thou?"

     Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched
     With a woeful agony,
     Which forced me to begin my tale;
     And then it left me free.

     Since then, at an uncertain hour,
     That agony returns;
     And till my ghastly tale is told,
     This heart within me burns.

     I pass, like night, from land to land;
     I have strange power of speech;
     That moment that his face I see,
     I know the man that must hear me:
     To him my tale I teach.

     What loud uproar bursts from that door!
     The wedding-guests are there:
     But in the garden-bower the bride
     And bride-maids singing are:
     And hark the little vesper bell,
     Which biddeth me to prayer!

     O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been
     Alone on a wide wide sea:
     So lonely 'twas, that God himself
     Scarce seemed there to be.

     O sweeter than the marriage-feast,
     'Tis sweeter far to me,
     To walk together to the kirk
     With a goodly company!--

     To walk together to the kirk,
     And all together pray,
     While each to his great Father bends,
     Old men, and babes, and loving friends,
     And youths and maidens gay!

     Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
     To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!
     He prayeth well, who loveth well
     Both man and bird and beast.

     He prayeth best, who loveth best
     All things both great and small;
     For the dear God who loveth us
     He made and loveth all.

     The Mariner, whose eye is bright,
     Whose beard with age is hoar,
     Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest
     Turned from the bridegroom's door.

     He went like one that hath been stunned,
     And is of sense forlorn:
     A sadder and a wiser man,
     He rose the morrow morn.

Cominciamo lamentando la prematura dipartita del De Mauro online, che tante volte abbiamo utilizzato (anche perché c’era un comodo plugin per Firefox!). Il sito annuncia laconicamente:

La versione online del dizionario italiano De Mauro Paravia non è più attiva. Siamo rammaricati ma dobbiamo porre termine al servizio, essendo l’opera fuori catalogo.

Comprensibilmente, e giustamente, fioccano le proteste.

Ci consoliamo con il Sabatini Coletti:

Tralice [tra-lì-ce o trà-li-ce]: usato solo nella locuzione “in tralice” (meno comunemente: “di tralice”) → secondo una linea obliqua, di traverso: tagliare una stoffa in tralice | guardare qualcuno in tralice → di sbieco, di sottecchi.

Attestata dal secolo XVII, deriva dal latino licium (filo) con il prefisso tra- (al di qua), e dunque “fuor di filo”, “fuori squadra”, “di traverso”, “obliquamente”.

Chi dimostra una religiosità eccessiva e puramente esteriore: lo pensavo sincero credente, ma è solo un bigotto [De Mauro online].

Etimologia controversa. Secondo alcuni è di origine francese (bigot) e affine a cagot, “falso devoto”.

Secondo altri (e a me pare verosimile) deriverebbe dal tedesco Bei Gott, “per dio, in nome di dio” che pare fosse spesso sulla bocca dei devoti, un po’ come noi diciamo “mamma mia!”. A questa ipotesi è collegata una storia carina, anche se non del tutto verosimile: Rollo il Camminatore (era così grasso che non poteva montare a cavallo), invasore vichingo della Normandia, l’ebbe concessa dal legittimo sovrano, Carlo III il Semplice, a patto che gli altri vichinghi fossero tenuti fuori dal regno. Per suggellare il patto, Rollo dovette baciare il piede calzato di Carlo, ma poiché non intendeva mantenere l’impegno bofonchiò, in una lingua composita e incerta, “Ne se, bi got” (“Non so, per dio”). Mah.

Altra ipotesi. Deriverebbe per contrazione da visigoto (i visigoti erano eretici ariani, i francesi cattolici): anche cagot, di cui abbiamo detto sopra, avrebbe origine simile (ca got = “cane di un goto”, in provenzale). Allo stesso modo, pare, i Merovingi chiamavano i musulmani e gli eretici, arabi o goti che fossero, che nei Pirenei si fingevano devoti cristiani per sfuggire alla persecuzioni, e per estensione il nome fu applicato genericamente alle popolazioni del bearnese e dai paesi baschi.

Ma secondo altri, cagot deriverebbe dal bretone (cacadd significa “lebbroso”) e avrebbe attratto bigot nella sua orbita.

Altra ipotesi: da bigio, che era il colore dell’abito delle persone dedicate a pratiche di penitenza religiosa, deriverebbero, oltre che bigotto, anche beghina, bizzoco e pinzochero.

Ultime 3 proposte: dall’italiano baco, nella variante beco/bico, usato in senso spregiativo (come in bighellone); dal francese bigote, “borsa portata alla cintola”; dallo spagnolo bigote, “baffone”.

Fate voi: a me piace Rollo il Camminatore!