Upon perusing the recent book regarding James Clarence Mangan, I stumbled upon an interesting revelation that his eponymous adjective and a scientific element bear the same label.
Authored by Bridget Hourican, she refers to Mangan’s unique personality and distinctive writing style as “Manganese”, not dissimilar to the 25th element on the periodic table.
The elemental Manganese was first achieved in a likely Swedish lab during the 1770s, whereas its literary counterpart was sculpted approximately four decades later in Dublin, near Fishamble Street – the location of the poet’s father’s pub.
The metallic Manganese and its literary equivalent share only their name, bar one possible attribute – the hardness yet brittleness of Manganese, a trait possibly mirrored in the author’s emotional state. The metal, over time, darkens when exposed to air – a metaphor, perhaps, for Mangan’s own life, being seen as an unpredictable element in his own right.
Mangan often found himself in conflict with his Dublin surroundings during the 1840s, with neither fresh air nor water suiting him. By 1849, he had succumbed to opium addiction and was discovered in a deplorable condition in a shack on Fishamble Street by Dr William Wilde. Not long after, Mangan fell victim to cholera.
It was conventional for Mangan’s related adjective to be “Manganesque”, but it is likely that ‘Manganese’, being more apt, will replace this. This may challenge the usual pattern of forming eponymous adjectives, such as Wildean (an), Homeric (ic), Stalinist (ist), or Thatcherite (ite). These examples can be found listed on Wikipedia, where words are constructed by suffixing the respective names.
Irregularities in some words, much like with verbs, seem to often stem from the complexities of the predominant English accent’s capacity to articulate specific phonemes. It was my previous understanding that this explained why the writing style of Evelyn Waugh, an author whose last name some Brits insist sounds the same as “war”, has come to be known as “Wavian”.
A similar reasoning applies to the term “Shavian”, referring to anything related to our country’s very own George Bernard Shaw. However, upon deeper digging, I discovered that Shaw himself initiated this trend via a jocular Latin comment. Nicholas Grene, in a letter to this publication years ago, outlined how Shaw informed his early biographer, Hesketh Pearson, that the term stemmed from a cryptic remark on a medieval manuscript authored by another Shaw, reading: “Sic Shavius, sed inepte” (“thus Shaw, but badly”).
Following the philosophy of the French Impressionists, Shaw saw fit to embrace the derogatory term as an individual identifier, thus solidifying it as convention. According to the same logic, I guess works produced by the second most renowned Irishman named Joyce – William, also known as Lord Haw Haw – given that ‘Joycean’ is already occupied, should be designated as “Haw-Havian”.
However, I’m at a loss as to why Charles, in reference to the regal title, transforms into “Carolingian” instead of ‘Carolinean’. Likewise, consider ‘maudlin’, a quirky English term also operating as an eponymous modifier. Its definition, “excessively sentimental”, traces its origins to Mary Magdalene, who is not popularly linked with the pronunciation ‘maudlin’, despite her association with the notorious laundries bearing her name. The Wordsworth Dictionary of Phrase and Fable describes Magdalene as being depicted by early artists “with a languishing face and eyes puffy from crying”.
Several eponymous adjectives are simply irreplaceable. For instance, one could almost imagine Alanis Morisette crooning the words: “Isn’t it Byronic?” and struggling to find suitable examples to justify her inquiry.
In contrast, according to the list on Wikipedia, the term “Eliotic” derived from T.S Eliot sounds somewhat off. This might be due to the suffix “otic” that is seemingly synonymous with a plethora of conditions insinuating a personality disorder, such as chaotic, psychotic, despotic, to mention a few.
An unexpected absence from the list is that of Jack Kerouac. His Breton moniker doesn’t easily adjust to the typical suffixes which, while not being the perfect mirroring for his style, I’d take the liberty to suggest Kerouacky.
Reverting back to the discussion about the Periodic Table, the closest equivalent Mangan might have to an Irish competitor in any profession could be George Berkeley. A bishop, philosopher, and a sporadic slave-owner, Berkeley is coincidentally remembered by Berkelium (Element 97 on the periodic table), named after the lab where it was found. This lab is situated in the hills of a Californian city bearing his name, an honour bestowed by the city’s founders, moved by the Bishop’s quote: “westward the course of empire takes its way.”
Nonetheless, the adjective derived from Berkeley is “Berkeleyan”, therefore Manganese retains its uniqueness. The closest thing I can find to it otherwise is a compound verb, not an adjective. This sits at number five on the table and could potentially be used for writers, politicians, pub philosophers, and perhaps the occasional newspaper writer who, might have the ability to ‘Boron’ all day and night.