The Court of Peeves, Crotchets & Irks resumes its winter assizes with a petition from Robert Moore of Chicago. He asks a declaratory judgment on “anymore.” In evidence he offers a statement attributed to the philosopher Yogi Berra: “Toots Shor’s is so crowded nobody goes there anymore.”

The court has addressed this cosmic matter off and on for the past 30 years, but the “any” words continue to attract questions. We may dispose quickly of one inquiry: Is “anymore” two words or one? Authorities agree that in the sense of “amount,” it takes two words, e.g., “Do you want any more gin?” And, as a declarative statement, “If he says any more about the Super Bowl, he’ll be eating dinner in the basement.” Otherwise, it’s one word: anymore.

Reader Moore’s question goes to the dialectal “anymore,” in the sense of “nowadays,” and here we turn first to DARE, the delightful Dictionary of American Regional English. Its researches found an angler in North Carolina who told them, “We all use night-crawlers anymore.” In Florida, “We put up quite a bit of hay here anymore.” In Tennessee, “He’s hard of hearing anymore.” In Oklahoma, “We use a gas stove anymore.”

Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary of English Usage quotes President Harry Truman, “It sometimes seems to me that all I do anymore is go to funerals.” Random House dates the usage from the 14th century and provides as an example, “Baker’s bread is all we eat anymore.” The New World Dictionary identifies such affirmative usage as “dialectal,” but who’s to object to dialectal speech? The court finds it a glorious part of American English.

The court is in its meandering mode. Practicing etymologists tell us that “any” appeared in written English before the 12th century. Over the years, our lovely language has spawned half a dozen “any” words that have gone through a kind of parthenogenesis. They go from one word to two. Adverbs morph into nouns and pronouns. “There isn’t any place for that kind of language!” “The gorilla may sit anyplace he chooses:” The 13th century gives us “anywise.” We get “anywheres” around 1775, and shorten it to “anywhere” in 1924. Early in the 18th century, some agnostics were “anythingarians.” The court is not making this up.

Back to the docket!

Gus Philpott of Woodstock, Ill., petitions the court for a ruling on the past tense of “sink.” R.W. Burchfield, editor of The New Fowler’s, asserted that the choice is “overwhelmingly” for “sank.” Lexicographer Bryan Garner concurs. The wizards at Merriam-Webster agree that “sank” is used more often than “sunk,” but they add that “sunk” is neither rare nor dialectal. They quote Robert Frost, “Then I sunk back, never again to blaze perhaps …”

The court waffles. Semantically speaking, there is not a penny’s worth of difference between “sank” and “sunk.” Either way, the Titanic went down. The choice largely rests within a writer’s ear, and writers march to different drummers. “The yacht sank like a stone.” “The Texans sunk a fortune into silver futures.” When there is no generally accepted “rule” – and here there is none – we are free to rhyme with bank, rank, clank, or with bunk, dunk and trunk. It’s your sentence.

Janet Hilderman of Shelton, Wash., asks the court for a declaratory judgment on “awesome.” She regards “awesome” as “the most misused word in America.” The court hesitates to accept the superlative. Granted, the adjective carries some baggage of chewing gum and bobby sox, but is it more abused than nouns such as “replica” and verbs such as “flaunt” and “flout”? The court requests advice amici curiae and promises friends of the court not to fall into Latin until the next assizes in the spring.

James Kilpatrick is a syndicated columnist.

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