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If I were asked to name my all-time favourite crime-fiction writer, I would struggle to place anyone above Raymond Chandler. In contemporary literature the one who comes closest is Peter Temple, who, like Chandler, took up the practice in middle age. There’s a lot to be said for it.

A late entrant to the fiction-writing game, Chandler completed seven novels in his lifetime; another one was finished posthumously. For readers it’s a very manageable total. I read the novels in my twenties and reread a few in my thirties.

I was less systematic with Chandler’s shorter work, with the result that I recently picked up an unread – and unusual – collection, Killer in the Rain, first published in 1964. Philip Durham, who was a professor of American literature at University of California, introduces this Penguin edition:

During his lifetime Raymond Chandler published twenty-three short stories. Yet of this relatively small output only fifteen are generally known to the reading public. For a quarter of a century the remaining eight have lain buried in the crumbling pages of old pulp magazines. And these eight stories are among his finest.

Killer in the Rain collects those eight stories. Curiously, though I had never read them before, I had what I described elsewhere (Mastodon; Bluesky) as a recurring experience of déjà lu: half-familiar lines, characters, and scenarios.

It turns out that Chandler ‘cannibalized’ these eight stories for his novels – he once said in a letter that he ‘won’t discard anything’ – and for that reason excluded them from collections published during his lifetime. This textual cannibalization has its own short paragraph on Wikipedia.

Repurposing one’s writing is a common practice. But it made Chandler uneasy, Durham writes, and he was able to justify it ‘only by leaving such stories buried, virtually unknown in the pages of the rapidly disappearing pulp magazines’. I also feel that it’s trickier in fiction than nonfiction. Durham again:

Turning short stories into cohesive novels tested the extent of Chandler’s skill. It meant combining and enlarging plots, maintaining a thematic consistency, blowing up scenes, and adapting, fusing, and adding characters.

Primary among the characters, of course, was Philip Marlowe, one of the great fictional detectives. For this creation Chandler drew on earlier protagonists, Killer in the Rain making visible the progression from a nameless first-person narrator to Carmady, John Dalmas, and John Evans.

Things were more complicated for secondary figures:

Of the twenty-one characters in The Big Sleep, seven were drawn directly from ‘The Curtain’, six were taken from ‘Killer in the Rain’, four were composites from the two stories, and four were new creations.

Perhaps most interestingly, at least from this editor’s point of view, is the expansion of entire scenes. One passage in ‘The Curtain’, set in a greenhouse, is about 1,100 words; in The Big Sleep it’s about 2,500. Durham presents the change in miniature, from the following forty-two words:

The air steamed. The walls and ceiling of the glass house dripped. In the halflight enormous tropical plants spread their blooms and branches all over the place, and the smell of them was almost as overpowering as the smell of boiling alcohol.

to these eighty-two:

The air was thick, wet, steamy, and larded with the cloying smell of tropical orchids in bloom. The glass walls and roof were heavily misted and big drops of moisture splashed down on the plants. The light had an unreal greenish colour, like light filtered through an aquarium tank. The plants filled the place, a forest of them, with nasty meaty leaves and stalks like the newly washed fingers of dead men. They smelled as overpowering as boiling alcohol under a blanket.

He finds both passages ‘intense and vivid’ and notes how each achieves its effect: the first through terseness, the second through mood, hyperbole, and ‘striking similes’. Chandler assembled Farewell, My Lovely and The Lady in the Lake in similar fashion, with variations and twists on the original material.

After Chandler’s death in 1959, frequent calls for the publication of these ‘lost’ stories led eventually to Killer in the Rain, with Durham concluding that ‘there no longer seems any good reason why, provided their origin is clearly explained, they should be denied to the many thousands of Chandler’s readers’.

As well as being thoroughly enjoyable in their own right, the stories can be appreciated as raw material and inspiration for the better-known novels, and they offer a nice insight into an artful form of literary transmutation.

*

An etymological note on cannibalize: The OED dates it to 1655, in the sense ‘To overwhelm, destroy, or eat away at, as if by cannibalism; to crush or manipulate (a person)’. The more literal sense came along two centuries later.

The figurative sense ‘To absorb or destroy (something of a similar kind)’, used especially in business contexts, emerged in 1920; not until World War II do we finally see the word as used in the current post, defined as:

To use (something) as a source of parts or content for another of a similar kind; to take (a part) from one thing to use in another.

The first item the OED records as being thus ‘cannibalized’ is a wrecked French plane (‘parts are stripped from it for use on damaged Allied ships’ —Stars & Stripes, London edition, 26 Nov. 1942, caption). Cannibal itself is borrowed from Latin canibales and Spanish caníbal.

Regular readers will be familiar with Strong Language, a group blog about swearing that I co-founded with James Harbeck in 2014. If you’re interested in swearing as a linguistic or cultural phenomenon, I recommend bookmarking or subscribing to it.

New posts by our excellent contributors are less frequent now, but that makes it easier to catch up if you haven’t visited before or feel like browsing the archives. The blog has over 400 posts: fascinating and colourful explorations of profanity for readers not averse to such material.

I also contribute to Strong Language now and then, and this post on Sentence first introduces the last few that I wrote. What follows below is not very sweary – there’s one reference to a strong swear – but if this type of language freaks you out like it does Ned Flanders, or just plain doesn’t interest you, you may prefer to bail out here.

From “Be-bop-a-Lisa” in Simpsons Comics no. 6 (1994). Script & pencils: Bill Morrison; Inks: Tim Bavington; Colours: Cindy Vance. Editor: Steve Vance

I’m interested in how people refer to swearing: as bad language, explicit language, dirty language, adult language, and so on. The adjectives form an intriguing set. ‘Strong bad mature filthy language’ examines the patterns that emerge and explains why I proposed Strong Language as the name for the blog.

The title of the present post, you may have twigged, alludes to Amy Winehouse and her song ‘Me & Mr Jones’, which contains a line I borrowed more directly for ‘What kind of “fuckery” is this?’. The post delves into that word’s meanings and use, originally literal but now usually (and variously) figurative.

Also in a pop-cultural vein, John Boorman’s 1987 drama film Hope and Glory has a scene that depicts swearing as a rite of passage for a group of boys in London during World War II. My short post puts the scene in context and discusses its effects.

Most recently, I wrote about a remarkably successful euphemism in ‘Another freaking f-word’. This use of freaking first appeared in 1928, as far as we know, so its centenary is just around the corner. In the post I look at why and where it has become so freaking popular.

I picked up Object Lessons (1995) by Eavan Boland (1944–2020) thinking it was a memoir, but it’s more focused than that: a meditation on the emergence of her identity as a poet, specifically a woman poet and an Irish poet.

This identity is further complicated by her emigration from Ireland as a five-year-old girl when her father, a diplomat, took up work in London in the mid-20th century:

Hardly anything else that happened to me as a child was as important as this: that I left one country and came to another. That an ordinary displacement made an extraordinary distance between the word place and the word mine.

In England, everyday words reinforced her sense of difference and lack: ‘They [the other children at school] could say “orchard” instead of “garden” with the offhand grace imparted by nine-tenths of the law. I could not.’ But it would be an Irish English word that crystallized her alienation:

The inevitable happened. One day my tongue betrayed me out of dream and counterfeit into cold truth. I was in the cloakroom at school in the middle of the afternoon. A winter darkness was already gathering through one of the stubborn fogs of the time. A teacher was marshaling children here and there, dividing those who were taking buses from those who were being collected. “I amn’t taking the bus,” I said. I was six or seven then, still within earshot of another way of speaking. But the English do not use that particular construction. It is an older usage. If they contract the verb and the negative, they say, “I’m not.”

Without knowing, I had used that thing for which the English reserve a visceral dislike: their language, loaded and aimed by the old enemy. The teacher whirled around. She corrected my grammar; her face set, her tone cold. “You’re not in Ireland now” was what she said.

This account elaborates on Boland’s description of the incident in her poem ‘An Irish Childhood in England: 1951’, which I excerpted in a 2014 post about the Irish use of amn’t.

In her mid-teens Boland returned to live in Ireland and began to explore the inchoate sense of Irishness from which she felt semi-estranged:

Language. At first this was what I lacked. Not just the historic speech of my country. I lacked that too, but so did others. This was a deeper loss; I returned to find that my vocabulary of belonging was missing. The street names, the meeting places—it was not just that I did not know them. It was something more. I had never known them. I had lost not only a place but the past that goes with it and, with it, the clues from which to construct a present self.

I had to learn a new sensory idiom. A fog in the mouth, for example, which was different from the London one: less gritty, with more of an ocean aftertaste. An unkempt greenness on the streets. A drizzle which was interseasonal, constant. Different trees. Different birds.

Nurturing this idiom, she found, years later, that ‘language can reclaim location’, a beautifully concise expression of this insight.

It was not just Irish English with which Boland familiarized herself. In her final year in school she was struggling with Latin, resentful of its difficulty. Then came a turning point:

It was something about the economy of it all: the way the ablative absolute gathered and compressed time. One day, again figuratively, it was a burdensome piece of grammar. The next, with hardly any warning, it was a messenger with quick heels and a bright face. I hardly knew what had happened. I began to respect, however grudgingly, the systems of a language which could make such constructs that, although I had no such words for it, they stood against the disorders of love or history. They had left the mouth of the centurion and entered the mind of a Sicilian farm worker. They had forged alliances and named stars. And at that point of my adolescence, where the words I wrote on a page were nothing but inexact, the precision and force of these constructs began to seem both moving and healing.

As Boland developed her poetic ability and her confidence in its effect, she found herself entering a heavily male tradition. There were pivotal encounters with avatars of that tradition: with Padraic Colum at an elevator; with Patrick Kavanagh in a café in Dublin (his style of speech ‘shy and apocalyptic’).

But the constraints of history and structural intransigence pressed tight:

Gradually the anomaly of my poetic existence was clear to me. By luck, or its absence, I had been born in a country where and at a time when the word woman and the word poet inhabited two separate kingdoms of experience and expression. I could not, it seemed, live in both. As the author of poems I was an equal partner in Irish poetry. As a woman—about to set out on the life which was the passive object of many of those poems—I had no voice. It had been silenced, ironically enough, by the very powers of language I aspired to and honored.

Object Lessons abounds in eloquent, carefully honed ideas about womanhood and nationhood and the complications of a poetic self at their intersections. For this post I’ve selected just a few language-themed passages; if they appeal to you, you’ll enjoy Boland’s book.

An open linguistic question was raised recently on Bluesky by Darach Ó Séaghdha: What do we call those cutesie slang phrases that have become productive in the UK lately, like genny lec for ‘general election’ and menty b for ‘mental breakdown’?

In response I wrote a short thread, which I already disagree with. So I’ll pick up the discussion here on Sentence first, where there’s more room, it’s easier to find, and it’s probably less ephemeral than on social media.

We can show this linguistic fad as having two main stereotyped patterns or formulas, which overlap morphologically. For type 1, we take a word or short phrase, clip (i.e., truncate, abbreviate) the first stressed syllable, add a y-suffix, and reduce the next word or stressed syllable to its initial letter:

mental breakdown → menty b
nervous breakdown → nervy b
a hundred percent → hundy p
tomato ketchup → tommy k
sauvignon blanc → savvy b
ChatGPT → chatty g
lockdown → locky d
pandemic → panny d
Clapham Junction → Clappy J

For type 2, we clip the first stressed syllable, add a y-suffix (same as type 1 so far), clip the next word or stressed syllable, and, optionally, add an s-suffix:

general election → genny lec/lex
cost of living / cost-of-living crisis → cozzy/cozzie livs
platinum jubilee → platty jubes/joobs
king’s coronation → corrie nash
bank holiday → banny hols
state funeral → statey funes

You may not have seen or heard any of these. They’re still fairly restricted demographically, and are perhaps more spoken than written – and written only in very informal contexts – but if you search for them you’ll find examples.

I’m sure a linguist could formulate them better, but you get the idea. There’s minor variation, but there are clear core patterns. And a phrase can sometimes fit either type: panny dems and platty j also work and indeed are in use. How fun or satisfying they are to say is likely also a factor.

When a phrase can’t go either way, it may be because the result is semantically opaque or ambiguous, e.g., menty breaks suggests mental break(s) more than mental breakdown. Type 1s seem not to favour initial letters with zero onset (i.e., starting with a vowel sound): no cozzy ells or statey effs. But the sample size is small, so that may not hold up.

So what exactly is this phenomenon?

It’s slang and wordplay, for starters – but of a specific kind. The repeated formula (multiple clipping + y– or s-suffixation) made me wonder at first if it’s a snowclone – a kind of phrasal template that’s customizable for reuse (X is the new Y; X 2.0). But a snowclone needs to be a cliché first, and that’s not the case here.

The formula is productive, though – you can coin these phrases at will, as @matthewcba does in a TikTok video with the comically improbable mitty circs ‘mitigating circumstances’. (The video also includes simple clippings like Ab Fab and profesh.)

In the UK Independent in August 2024, Madeline Sherratt referred to the pattern as ‘cringe lingua’ and cited slang expert Tony Thorne’s belief that it

derives from the online “hun” generation – a subculture lampooned on Mumsnet that runs rampant with the frivolous and facetious use of “gorg” and “mwah” when typing furiously on WhatsApp – an etymological by-product of the “live, laugh, love” philosophy.

It extends to the humble “jackie p” (jacket potato) with a squirt of “tommy k” (tomato ketchup) on top – a money-saving meal when everything is so “spenny” (expensive) . . .

Such phrases are attributed to this broadly millennial subculture, which involves making silly jokes online. Those who subscribe to it, Thorne says, tend to be white, young, and upper-working-class to lower-middle-class women.

He said: “The online phrases such as ‘platty jubes’ and ‘savvy b’ mock the formal language that oppresses us, and we see this with young people when they move into the world of work and professionalism.”

Hun culture is something I was only marginally aware of. But I’m not surprised the fashion is driven by young women, given their place at the vanguard of so much linguistic innovation. The examples I’ve listed are all relatively new, as far as I know, but there are plenty of forerunners from various domains, including personal names.

Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis was popularly known as Jackie O. Mickey D’s (Maccy D’s, etc.) for McDonald’s emerged in the 1970s as US Black and campus slang. An Aussie was reported on Bluesky to have called Christmas decorations ‘Chrissie Decs’ in the 1990s. Sunny Delight rebranded as SunnyD decades ago. Okey-doke has been dated to the 1930s. I’m sure you can think of others.

The recent wave of phrases are from a particular, interrelated set of sources, say the linguists who’ve researched them. Christian Ilbury confirmed to me that some are from or are associated with hun culture in the UK; his 2022 paper ‘U Ok Hun?: The digital commodification of white woman style’ includes examples of the type discussed here, including cocky t’s ‘cocktails’.

Pavel Iosad told me that his colleague Patrick Honeybone

has studied a version of pattern 2 in Liverpool (truncation + y-suffixation + some segmental effects, eg Sefton Park > Sevvy) and he dubbed it (Scouse) diddification, which I think is a glorious name that we should adopt.

Honeybone also refers to the process as ‘diddificating truncation’, alluding again to P. Diddy, and provides a one-page summary here [edit: see my update at the bottom]. At first I thought another rapper, Cardi B, fitted the pattern, but that name is a reworking of Bacardi.

The UK may be the hotspot of this slang, but Australians, as we’ve seen, are also on board. They do love their clippings and hypocorisms. Cozzie livs was Macquarie Dictionary’s word of the year in 2023, and I recently saw an Australian call the tennis player Elena Rybakina ‘Lenny Baks’, a great example that shows the name’s stress pattern.

Some people find these phrases twee, stupid, or insensitive. Even the Financial Times said that cozzie livs ‘only compounds the misery’ of the cost-of-living crisis. Some of the phrases may aim, in part, to make light of difficult or stressful subjects, to dull or reclaim their power. This is a specialty of slang. But they won’t win everyone over, and that, too, is as it should be.

In January 2023, Serena Smith’s ‘investy g’ for Dazed magazine tied them to a literary tradition of creative silliness, citing Edward Lear and Lewis Carroll. Sincere use of these phrases ‘misses a crucial element’, she wrote; ‘the cringiness, the tackiness, the ridiculousness is part of the fun’.

I neither love nor loathe them. I’d never used them, even ironically, until this blog post, this bloggy p, but I find them interesting as wordplay. I’d love to hear ideas for what to call them, how else they might be categorized, or how they relate to patterns already formally described or informally conceived (e.g., as a subset of hun lingo).

Suggestions in the replies to Gretchen McCulloch’s post on Bluesky include childish abbreviations or chilly abs, nicky Ns or nicky ens (for ‘nicknames’), clippy comps, and extended hypocoristics. Of these I like Erik Wennstrom’s clippy comps best. A clipped compound could be psyops or sitcom, but clippy comps shows more precisely (because self-referentially) what it refers to. Clippy c’s could be used for type 1.

Another route is to use a popular or prototypical example to refer synecdochically to the set, much as Brianne Hughes uses cutthroats or cutthroat compounds as shorthand for agentive and instrumental exocentric verb-noun (V-N) compounds. This would give us menty b compounds, genny lec phrases, or some such term.

Don’t have a nervy b about it, but if the slang sticks around and there’s a good term for it, it might eventually end up in an esteemed dictionary like Merry Dubs or the Oxy D.

A viral tweet in January 2023 from Depop Drama, now DM Drama, that helped popularize “cozzie livs”.

Update:

A few readers have pointed out that diddification is more likely a reference to Liverpool comedian and entertainer Ken Dodd and his Diddymen puppets, and (having read up on it) I agree. I’ve emailed Honeybone for confirmation and will edit this note when I hear back.

Diddy is a vernacular word for small, probably a nursery pronunciation of little. There’s no entry for this sense in the English Dialect Dictionary, but Wiktionary has a citation from a ballad in 1894 – comfortably antedating the OED’s first citation, from Dodd himself, in 1963.

In Doris Lessing’s story ‘A Road to the Big City’, published in her 1957 collection The Habit of Loving (my Penguin paperback edition, pictured, is from 1960), two young women, sisters, are travelling by train in Johannesburg.

Marie, the younger, and Lilla sit at a table with a middle-aged man and allow him to buy them drinks. Lilla, who considers her sister unworldly, chooses brandy for them both. It’s Marie’s first time drinking it.

The three get to talking about their plans and backgrounds:

‘Mom is old-fashioned,’ said Marie. She said the word old-fashioned carefully; it was not hers, but Lilla’s; she was tasting it, in the way she sipped at the brandy, trying it out, determined to like it.

It’s common knowledge that we can eat our words (they’re tasty!). It’s less well known that we can drink them too, sampling their flavour on our tongue, testing their effect on our sense of self.

Do you remember trying out a word like this for the first time, wanting to make it your own? What word will you be sipping like brandy today?

The recent death of the great Jane Goodall brought me back to an old post about the use of who-pronouns with non-human animals, as in ‘swallows who flew past her window’, as opposed to ‘swallows that/which flew past her window’.

Goodall’s first scientific paper was returned to her with who replaced by which, and he or she replaced by it, in reference to chimpanzees. Goodall promptly reinstated her choice of pronouns, presumably seeing them as markers of the animals’ intrinsic value, and their substitution as an unwarranted moral demotion.1

Since then I’ve made note of other examples of animals who that I’ve read in books.2 This post compiles them in one place, where they form a kind of homemade menagerie of zoolinguistic solidarity. It extends, as we have seen, to swallows:

She watched the sudden, fast shadows of swallows who flew past her window in fleeting pairs, subtracting light from her room, and marvelled how living things could suspend themselves in mid-air. (Claire Keegan, ‘Men and Women’, in Antarctica)

And, from the same writer, sheep:

I sit by the window and keep an eye on the sheep who stare, bewildered, from the car.

Ducks:

‘At the place [. . .] where timid ducks, who must have been through some experiences in the ugly little gravel pool of the never-completed excavation, flew away from me . . . (Werner Herzog, Every Man for Himself and God Against All)

Cows:

I do not care for animals, except for cows, who combine supreme usefulness with a rustic kind of beauty. (Maeve Kelly, ‘The Sentimentalist’, in Orange Horses)

Cows and other animals throughout a book about their inner lives, explained with this explicit note:

I have deliberately used personal pronouns when talking about the cows because that is how I think of them. (Rosamund Young, The Secret Life of Cows)

Kingfishers and otters:

In now distant days Iris used to return to Steeple Aston or Hartley Road full of her visit to them, and of what they had told her about their Welsh cottage, a converted schoolhouse. They told her of the pool they had built in the field behind it, the kingfishers and otters who came to visit there. (John Bayley, Iris: A Memoir of Iris Murdoch)

Rabbits:

Who was the more frightened between them? (Nicola Barker, Wide Open, when a woman is startled to meet a rabbit in a kitchen)

Tadpoles (first which, then who):

And we presented her with gallons of frogspawn which duly turned into tadpoles, which ate each other until there were just a few fat cannibal monsters left, all black belly and no sign of legs, who got poured down the sink. (Lorna Sage, Bad Blood)

Bonobos:

The researchers’ most spectacular success has been with Kanzi, a bonobo (a species closely related to chimpanzees) who apparently learned lexigrams spontaneously as an infant while watching his mother being trained. (Abby Kaplan, Women Talk More than Men: …And Other Myths about Language Explained)

Chimpanzees:

In the study by Hirata and Fuwa (2006), for example, chimpanzees who did not solicit other chimpanzees to engage in a group activity quite readily solicited a presumably more helpful human. (Michael Tomasello, Origins of Human Communication)

I make piles, like the chimp who thought he was a human. (Sara Baume, A Line Made by Walking)

Foxes:

And I look out for the fox, the fox who dropped me a rat. (Baume again)

Aardwolves and aasvogels (that’s right, aardwolves and aasvogels):

The aardvark is a peculiar African mammal whose equally peculiar double-A name has earned it its prestigious position as the first animal in the dictionary. Spare a thought, then, for its alphabetical next-door neighbours, the aardwolf and aasvogel, who are pipped into second and third place . . . (Paul Anthony Jones, Word Drops)

Horses:

But still they did not stop the mare, who cantered gaily onward. (Mary Lavin, ‘The Joy-Ride’, in In a Café)

It’s not just stallions who can become aggressive if they’re raised alone. (Temple Grandin and Catherine Johnson, Animals in Translation: Using the Mysteries of Autism to Decode Animal Behaviour)

Pigs:

The sides of the pen are solid, so the other pigs can’t reach their snouts inside and bite the tail or rear end of the pig who’s eating. (Grandin and Johnson again)

Animals generally:

All animals who live in groups – and that is most mammals – form dominance hierarchies. (Grandin and Johnson)

Consider, he [Michael Trestman] says, the category of animals who have complex active bodies. These are animals who can move quickly, and who can seize and manipulate objects. (Peter Godfrey-Smith, Other Minds: The Octopus and the Evolution of Intelligent Life)

If it is a number of animals who are being chased, and if the pack succeeds in surrounding them, then their mass flight turns into a panic, each of the hunted animals will try to escape on its own from the circle of its enemies. (Elias Canetti, Crowds and Power, translated from the German by Carol Stewart)

Wolves:

Wolves vary their hunting techniques, share food with the old who so not hunt, and give gifts to each other. (Barry Lopez, Of Wolves and Men)

A wolf who remains with his or her parents and helps raise their next litter is an alloparent. (Jeffrey Moussaieff Masson and Susan McCarthy’s When Elephants Weep: The Emotional Lives of Animals)

(Many different animals are treated thus in Moussaieff Masson and McCarthy’s book, but I neglected to keep track, aside from the example above.)

Dogs, of course, are often so honoured – the most frequently so of all the animals in Gilquin and Jacobs’s data set (footnote 1):

They could care less that I once had a dog named Woodsprite who was crushed by a backhoe. (George Saunders, ‘The 400-Pound CEO’, in CivilWarLand in Bad Decline)

The same thing applied to the first three time dogs, two of whom had actually been the favourites. (James Kelman, ‘A wide runner’, in Not Not While the Giro)

Most senses require two of things – eyes, ears, hands. But we only have one nose. This is, again, to stop us smelling dogs so much, who stink. (Philomena Cunk, Cunk on Everything: The Encyclopedia Philomena)

Molly Keane explicitly calls dogs people, in both The Rising Tide:

The only people to whom she was a little kind were her dogs and Diana.

and Loving and Giving:

The dogs loved him as he loved them. They flew to his beautiful whistle, even when on the hot line of a rabbit. Nettle, the Killer, a fierce opinionated person who would have been hero of a rat-pit had Silly Willie been sweeping chimneys, was, of the three, his favourite.

Nuala Ní Chonchúir, similarly, uses someone in reference to a dog in You:

Sinbad goes banana-boats when he sees you through the balcony door. [. . .] You kneel down on the rug and let him lick your nose with his smelly tongue. That’s how dogs kiss each other. Then you remember that they also lick each other’s bums, so you don’t let him do it any more. Still, at least someone’s glad to see you.

Even an ant can be ‘someone’:

Last week my little nephew said to his father: “Look, someone is walking under the table.” The father, thinking that his son had had a hallucination, looked under the table and saw – an ant! For the child, an ant was “someone.” I, too, have never doubted that I am one animal among others. (from ‘A Talk with Konrad Lorenz’, in In the Modern Idiom: An Introduction to Literature, ed. Leo Hamalian & Arthur Zeiger)

Rats:

The worst thing about rats, says Steve, ‘is waiting for that big wet slap on your back’. ‘No,’ says Kevin, ‘it’s knowing you’re being watched but not knowing who’s watching and from where.’ London’s sewer rats generally run away from humans. New York’s don’t. (Rose George, The Big Necessity: Adventures in the World of Human Waste)

If you thought rats were unexpected, try trees:

Mycorrhizal fungi have coevolved with trees, with whom they’ve worked out a mutually beneficial relationship in which they trade the products of their very different metabolisms. (Michael Pollan, The Omnivore’s Dilemma)

As soon as the bright sunlight increases the rate of photosynthesis and stimulates growth, the buds of those who have shot up receive more sugar. (The Hidden Life of Trees by Peter Wohlleben, translated from the German by Jane Billinghurst)

And rivers: I’ve yet to read Robert Macfarlane’s book Is a River Alive?, but I saw an excerpt that referred to meeting ‘a living, threatened river who flows from the roadless boreal forest to the sea’. These non-human, non-animal examples align with a movement to grant living systems legal rights – chiefly to protect them from destructive human action.

The menagerie could be greatly enlarged by adding examples from other sources: conversations, letters and emails, social media, the internet generally, language corpora, etc. But this thin slice is based solely on offline reading because that’s how I often pattern my notes.

Using who or personal pronouns is not something I do automatically when referring to animals. Sometimes which, that, or it seems more apt, or I could go either way, depending on context. In footnote 2 I instinctively used which in reference to sharks and decided to leave it be.

I’m sure my usage is inconsistent – it’s one of those grey areas in language that I find interesting. Maybe it’s something you’ve noticed in your own usage. In any case, it’s fun to see new animals join the who club (or the very important person club). All it needs now is some fungi and microbes.

Updates:

Catching up on online reading after the Christmas break, I find that Language Hat has followed up on this post and added his own thoughts: “I’m pretty sure I’ve come to use who for non-humans more and more in recent decades, and I think it’s a good development. (Not sure about the fungi, though.)” The comments, too, are characteristically excellent.

Elmore Leonard’s Split Images has an unusual instance of it applied to an adult human. The speaker, as it happens, is a homicidal sociopath:

“It was a witness,” Robbie said. Will you get it in your goddamn head? Come on—I want you to shoot it, whoever it is”—slipping as he started off in the sand—”shoot it, goddamn it!”

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1 I learned about this incident from Gaëtanelle Gilquin and George M. Jacobs’s paper ‘Elephants Who Marry Mice are Very Unusual: The Use of the Relative Pronoun Who with Nonhuman Animals’. It has lots of data-informed commentary and is well worth reading if this topic interests you.

2 Examples do occur in films and other media, naturally. There’s a fun one in Batman: The Movie (1966) when Batman, after being attacked by a shark, which then explodes, says at a press conference: ‘That was an unfortunate animal who chanced to swallow a floating mine.’ The DVD subtitles change the line, or I’d have included an image.

The conversion of nouns to verbs (to impact, to medal, to leverage, to architect) is a continual object of criticism and word rage. But language has been verbing for as long as it has languaged. In fact, there’s nothing that can’t be verbed if you put your mind to it.

‘What about someone’s name?’ you might ask. ‘What about Agatha Christie?’

I’m glad you picked that example. Because the new FX series Alien: Earth offers this great line in its second episode, ‘Mr. October’ (a mild swear word follows):

Context, with a tiny spoiler in the first line:

In the year 2120, a military search-and-rescue team are investigating a spaceship that has crashed to Earth. When a grisly but intriguing discovery threatens to detain them unduly, Siberian (played by Diêm Camille) makes the call to keep moving:

Okay, come on. We’re search and rescue. Let forensics Agatha Christie this shit.

To Agatha Christie something, then, is to figure it out; to investigate and solve a puzzling problem in the manner of Miss Marple or Hercule Poirot, Christie’s fictional detectives.

I like this verbing because it reads like improvised slang. There’s no suggestion that the phrase has currency as a verbal eponym, whether broadly in-world or more specifically in Siberian’s own usage or that of one of her speech communities. Rather, it’s an impromptu linguistic innovation that’s both playful and bookish.

It also celebrates Christie’s enduring popularity as a mystery author. What other name could fit in this semantic slot? Only a fictional one, I think: Sherlock Holmes, Philip Marlowe, or Sam Spade – but not Arthur Conan Doyle, Raymond Chandler, or Dashiell Hammett.

Other contenders include Jessica Fletcher, Perry Mason, Columbo, Jules Maigret, Nancy Drew, Inspector Morse, and Special Agent Dale Cooper. But it’s more of a stretch to imagine them being so culturally salient in a century’s time.

Alien: Earth was created by Noah Hawley, who also has the writing credit on the episode. He’s probably not even the first person to verb Agatha Christie, but for once I didn’t bother trying to Agatha Christie it.

Updates:

A couple of nice examples from Bluesky: @iucounu tells me his wife uses Poirot as a verb: ‘”Don’t worry, I’ll Poirot that,” she says, when she’s going to ferret out some bit of gossip’.

And Jesse Sheidlower sent me this verbing of Agatha Christie in Ryan Rayston’s novel The Quiet Sound of Disappearing (2011):

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Further reading:

In my A–Z of English usage myths, I wrote that peevers hate verbing, but only when they think it’s new – they constantly use verbings that were established earlier. Who remembers all the yelling and wailing over contact (v.)? Who would believe there even was such a controversy?

See also: ‘Verb all the things’; ‘Verbing weirds language – but in a good way’; and ‘Verbing and nouning are fine and here’s a quiz‘. And a few other posts about detective fiction.