Etymology

The Word: From Incantation to Influence

Gianni Sarcone

In the beginning, whether real or invented, certain words—many from a distant past—formed a bridge between humans and the great Mystery. One such word that survived the ages, still cloaked in a strange aura of power, is Abracadabra. Even today, magicians use it to conjure effect, echoing its ancient weight.

Originally, Abracadabra wasn’t just theatrical. It was an apotropaic charm—spoken or inscribed to ward off harm. The earliest record, from the 2nd century CE in a medical treatise by Serenus Sammonicus, describes it as a remedy for fever. Written in a tapering triangle, the word visually dissolved with each line, symbolizing the illness retreating. Its origins are uncertain. Some link it to Aramaic or Hebrew—“I create as I speak” (אברא כדברא). Others see it as a coded sequence from the Greek alphabet (ΑΒΓΔ), or a variant of another potent name: Abraxas.

An incantation born of another—what a journey through a world woven in magic.

Abraxas (Greek: ἀβραξάς), central to the Gnostic teachings of Basilides, named a powerful being ruling over 365 heavens. Engraved on amulets, Abraxas was thought to hold innate power. These stones, often cited in magical texts, show a belief system where sound and symbol merged—where the right word could invoke protection, healing, or cosmic order. Its earlier spelling, Abrasax, likely morphed through transliteration. With seven letters, the name was also tied to the seven classical planets, deepening its cosmic charge. Whatever its true roots, one idea persists: properly arranged, words carry force.

Across time, this belief shifted but never vanished. Ancient incantations gave way to new forms of verbal power.

Antiphon of Athens (5th century BCE) stripped speech of ritual but kept its essence. Considered a forerunner of psychotherapy, he used dialogue to ease emotional suffering. His method wasn’t mystical—it was precise, rooted in rhetoric and clarity. Where once words summoned the divine, now they served insight and balance.

Language, even without the trappings of magic, remains transformative. In the 20th century, thinkers like Paul Watzlawick showed how communication doesn’t just reflect our world—it shapes it. A change in phrasing can shift perception. A word can open or close a mind.

From Abraxas to Abracadabra, from spell to speech, the thread continues: words influence, connect, heal. What began as incantation lives on as conversation—still crafting reality, still carrying power.

The Interrogation Mark: From Greek Semicolons to Spanish Twists

Gianni Sarcone

In ancient Greek, questions were marked by a semicolon (Ερωτηματικό) rather than a question mark. This practice faded over time, and no special punctuation indicated questions in antiquity. The modern question mark emerged in the Middle Ages when scribes used “qo” (from Latin quaestio). To avoid confusion, they stacked the letters, turning the Q into a curl and the O into a dot, creating the question mark (“?”). In Spanish, the question mark was placed only at the end until 1754, when the Ortografía de la Real Academia introduced the inverted opening question mark (¿), as in: ¿Qué edad tienes? (How old are you?).

The Many Flavors of Absence

Gianni Sarcone

A guy walks into a bar and asks for a coffee without cream. The bartender replies, “Sorry, we’re out of cream—how about a coffee without milk instead?” 

It’s a simple joke, but it highlights something curious: absence has weight. Psychologically, a coffee without cream doesn’t feel quite the same as a coffee without milk. 

Now, let’s take it a step further. Is the absence of a loved one the same as the absence of a random stranger? Of course not. Absence isn’t just a void—it carries the shape of what’s missing. 

The ancient Greeks had a word for this: steresis (στερήσις), the idea that everything is defined by both what is present and what is absent. Zen philosophy explores a similar concept with mu (無), suggesting that sometimes, absence is a kind of presence in itself. 

So next time you order a coffee without cream, pause for a second—what is it you really don’t want to be in there?

The Soul of Books: A Journey from Bark to Pages

Gianni Sarcone

I must have been born in a library, for the love I hold for books is immeasurable. A book awakens all the senses in me: the visual pleasure, the tactile warmth, the scent of cinnamon or vanilla from old pages, the soft rustle of turning leaves, and even the taste… To me, no digital book will ever replace the presence of a real one, with its soul and essence.

But the journey from tablet to scroll, to codex, and finally to the modern book spans millennia. The codex, the direct ancestor of today’s book, introduced a revolutionary format—pages bound along one edge—laying the foundation for how we read and store knowledge today.

Books, as we recognize them, became widespread during the Middle Ages, largely due to Gutenberg’s invention of the printing press. However, the codex itself dates back much further. It was made of sheets folded multiple times, often twice, to form a bifolio. These bifolia were sewn together into gatherings, allowing for binding and, when needed, rebinding. The most common structure consisted of four bifolia—eight sheets, totaling sixteen pages—known in Latin as quaternio. This term later gave rise to quaderno in Italian, cahier in French, and quire in English. Interestingly, the Latin word codex originally meant a block of wood, a nod to the materials once used for writing.

Even the word book has deep roots—its Old English form, bōc, likely stems from the Germanic root bōk-, meaning beech. This isn’t just a linguistic coincidence; early writings may have been carved into beech wood. In Slavic languages, the word for “letter,” буква (bukva), shares this origin. In Russian, Serbian, and Macedonian, букварь (bukvar’) or буквар (bukvar) refers to a child’s first reading textbook.

Similarly, the Latin word liber, which gave rise to libro in Italian and livre in French, originally meant “bark,” reinforcing the deep connection between books and trees. The Greek root biblio, is believed to be derived from βύβλος (búblos), meaning “papyrus,” named after the ancient Phoenician city of Byblos, a major hub of the papyrus trade.

From carved wood and tree bark to bound pages and printed volumes, books have always been deeply rooted in nature—both in language and in form.