/KAWN-troh-nim/. noun. Words that have two opposite meanings. Coined in 1962 from the Latin contra- (against) with the Greek suffix -nym (used to indicate that something has the sense of a name).
Common, but commonly unnoticed, features of everyday speech are catnip for word nerds. And once we catch the scent of such a linguistic lagniappe, we start sniffing them out everywhere.
Such is the case with contronyms, or words that have two opposite meanings. I’ve mentioned them on this show before, such as the somewhat rare gob, which can refer to both the hole left over after a mining excavation and the material that was removed during the digging. But as you’ll learn, contronyms are both surprisingly common and surprisingly not a problem, despite their apparent inherent contradictions.
The word contronym was coined in 1962 from the Latin contra- (against) with the Greek suffix -nym N-Y-M, used to indicate that something has the sense of a name as in synonyms and homonyms, of course, but also cool words like demonyms, used to refer to people of a particular place, or retronyms, new words coined to differentiate an original form from a newer one, such as acoustic guitars, which were simply called guitars until the electric guitar came along causing many kinds of confusion and consternation.
Anyway, contronyms come in three (well, two and one-half) types:
- First, homographs – different words with the same spelling and usually the same pronunciation but with different etymologies. For instance, clip, which can mean to cut something or the things that have been cut, is essentially two different words with opposite meanings, one deriving from the Old Norse klippa and the other from the Old English clyppan.
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Second, words that are polysemic, where the same word has, over time, collected different — and in this case opposite — meanings. A common example of a polysemic contronym is dust, which can mean adding something, as in “dusting the doorbell for prints,” or removing something, as in “dusting the dining room table.”
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And the third, words that have different meanings due to dialect, such as dollop, which in British English usually means a large amount but in American English a small one, though both are likely derived from the Norwegian dolp (lump).
As you can already tell from the examples, contronyms aren’t uncommon and we rarely notice them at all. But there is literally one example which gets those prone to grammar peevery all heated up: the word literally.
You know the complaint (usually presented in a tone of whingeing, resentment or both): “Actually, that’s not what literally means. Literally means exactly. You mean figuratively.”
There are a few problems with with this particular bit of pedantry.
First, it’s factually—and ironically, in the popular sense of the term—incorrect. Literally’s literal meaning doesn’t mean “exactly” or “real” but “word for word” as in a “literal translation.” So one who objects to the contronymic use of literally to mean figuratively really needs to double-down on their nit-picking if they want to enjoy full membership in that tribe, the collective term of which has been said to be an “actually” of pedants.
Second, appeals to etymological authority and the “original” meaning of a word, aka falling prey to the etymological fallacy, are deeply double-edged. For every reference someone makes to the historical meaning of a word—usually cherry-picked to suit their argument—it is easy to find a counter in their own speech, which will necessarily be rife with use of words that rely on later meanings. I like to respond to this kind of selective justification by saying “that’s nice,” knowing that the word nice now means “vaguely agreeable,” but once meant silly and, before that, ignorant. Pedantic players choice!
This leads to the third, and most important, problem with insisting on the literal literally. It’s a form of ostriching about language change which does nothing to stop those changes and fills our ears and (perhaps thankfully) our mouths with resentful sand. I can tell you with the enthusiasm of the converted that it’s a heck of a lot more fun to enjoy and sometimes employ language changes than be annoyed by—and annoy others with our complaints about—them.
And the fact is, we all use contronyms all the time without a problem, and I don’t mean going all Shakespearean and raveling our sleeve of care. When was the last time you used fix, seed, fast, left, trim, rock or garnish, just to name a few common contronyms? These odd couples are all over and we are literally richer for the diversity and the possibilities of wordplay that come with them.
Incidentally, I’ve been referring to these curiosities as contronyms, but they are also known by many other names: the grammarian auto-antonym, the tongue-twisting enantiodrome, the Greek-hero sounding antilogy or the much more colorful terms I prefer: antagonyms or Janus words, the last named after the Roman god with two faces.
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