There’s a lot to love about the Oxford English Dictionary, I mean a lot: We’re talking about twenty volumes of lexicographical bliss.
But there’s a lot not to love, too. Let me address the downsides first.
Initially, the book is really difficult to get into. The text is composed of short vignettes, each one a gem, but with no sense of theme or continuity. What on earth does ablation (the alchemical process of whitening chemicals) have to do with an albatross? One minute we’re talking about the verb shallop (to sail or row in a shallop), next minute we’re talking about a small oniony thing.
Every page is like this, filled with a confusing jumble of interesting but disparate thought pieces. Now, if like me you are a very clever reader, you may eventually discern an overarching motif. It is not apparent at first, but when you study all twenty volumes as a whole, you begin to see the deliberate structure of the book.
Actually, once you ken on to the underlying sense of order, you’ll start to get bored. You’ll begin to guess what’s coming next. I kept hoping for a change of pace, maybe an O’Henry plot twist at the very end, but no: There were no surprise endings, no unexpected detours. The plot is utterly predictable.
So the book is disjointed on the micro level and predictable on the macro level. The writing style is academic, and frankly the character development is just plain lousy.
And yet, despite these frustrations, I wholeheartedly recommend the OED to everyone. It has a… a certain something, a je ne sais quoi, that illuminates every other book I’ve ever read in my life. Things I didn’t understand before suddenly make sense. I can’t even begin to speculate why, but for some reason, the Oxford English Dictionary gives new meaning and context to the written word.
Readers new to the OED will want to start at the beginning, with Volume I, A – Bazouki.
Blogging for a Good Book 
Jessica,
I initially had the same thought about the OED seeming a “confusing jumble of interesting but disparate thought pieces.” But then the English major in me kicked in and I realized that it is more of a Joycean stream of conscious effort. You have to let yourself go and “feel” the flow of the words. Hope this helps.
Mack,
I’m not sure I agree with you about the stream-of-consciousness writing. There certainly is logic and order in the prose. Most of the sentences are written with a traditional subject-verb-object structure.
Instead, I would argue that the OED fits in more with a pre-Modernist tradition– only fitting, as it was first conceived in the mid-nineteenth century. I would liken the narrative to Conrad rather than Joyce: difficult to wade through and frequently dull, but nonetheless important.
There are several good readalikes for the OED. In style, any of the Victorian serialized works would be comparable, but of course this always returns to Dickens, in this case Martin Chuzzlewit is probably most apt.
But to really understand the OED, I would the random language experiments of William Burroughs.
Of course Faulkner’s A Fable serves as a post-ironic commentary on any of the language-focused works.
But I do have one philosophical problem with this work: Can one really say that a word can have a beginning or an end? Do all of these first uses of the word in print really matter when the word is everpresent as a sound, an idea, a transmogrified yawp in the great consciousness?
Hi Jessica!
Could you address the use of magnifying glasses? I know the OED can cause eyestrain, so I’d like to know what you recommend.
Thanks.
Nebuchadnezzar,
I was going to suggest Dickens, too, but I hesitated. Many consider Dickens to be the best storyteller ever. I’m afraid the compelling narrative and exciting adventures in Dickens might overwhelm fans of the more staid OED.
I appreciate your philosophical concerns, but I caution you against applying a post-Modernist lens to a Victorian work. Questions of identity, meaning, existence: These are all well and good, but perhaps you should save these criticisms for late-twentieth-century literature. I believe a close reading of the text would be in order, or perhaps a historical analysis.
Ruhama,
The OED can cause muscle strain, too. Picking up any one of those volumes can give you a workout, and then, as you say, the tiny print can make you cross-eyed. A Large Print (or even Not-Miniscule Print) version would be great, but then it would be so heavy that only professional weight lifters could use it. I think you’re on the right track by suggesting the use of magnifying glasses. You can borrow them from the reference desk, or– if you happen to be reading in the comfort of your own home– you can form a makeshift magnifier with a coke bottle or a wine glass.
Where is Jinker when you need him? You there Jinker?
…I’m here, I’m here. Looking up naughty words in the OED takes time, you know.
I would suggest that those of you so inclined use a post-Modernist magnifying lens.
I have enjoyed my OED but was really bummed to discover missing pages – and even more unhappy by their response. Basically they said I could buy a new version at half price . . .
http://gregpc.wordpress.com/2010/01/20/oxford-english-dictionary-fail/