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Trinity College Dublin reports World’s first film in ancient Sumerian released by Trinity filmmakers:

The world’s first film shot entirely in the ancient Sumerian language is today available to audiences worldwide to view on YouTube [4th December, 2025].

Dumuzi’s Dream and Dumuzi’s Demons, performed by Trinity students entirely in the dead language of Sumerian, tells the story of how Dumuzi, a Sumerian shepherd god, repeatedly escapes from underworld demons, until they finally catch him for good. The short film is a dramatization of the mythological poem known today as Dumuzi’s Dream. The script of the film follows, word for word, the text of this poem, which is preserved on cuneiform clay tablets excavated in modern-day Iraq and housed in Museums all over the world.

The 20-minute film stars Trinity students Olivia Romao (4th year Music) and Gwenhwyfar Ferch Rhys (4th year English/Classics) and was directed and produced by Professor Martin Worthington (School of Languages, Literatures and Cultural Studies). The film is now freely available on YouTube with subtitles in over twenty languages, including Irish, Arabic, Mandarin and Hungarian. […]

Gwenhwyfar Ferch Rhys, who played Dumuzi, said: “Viewers don’t need to feel too sorry for Dumuzi being led to the underworld. There is another Sumerian story where he gets to escape for part of every year—we might do that one next time! And people interested in the history of religion may be interested to learn that Sumerian culture included a god who died and came back to life.”

Now that’s what I call a movie! You can watch it at the link, and I hope ə de vivre will show up with a critique. (Via MetaFilter.)

Josie Giles has written what rozele, who sent me the link, calls “a nice punchy piece… among other things giving a critical counterpoint to the enthusiasm about the Scottish Languages”; it’s called Twenty Ways to Minoritise a National Language:

Yesterday, St Andrew’s Day – a date carefully chosen to signal national pride – the Scottish Languages Act came into force, enshrining Gaelic and Scots alongside each other as official national languages. It is a chiefly symbolic act, with remarkably few concrete measures to ensure that these national languages recover and thrive, and even less financial commitment. Despite consistent and well-researched campaigning from groups like Misneachd, communities where Gaelic is actually still the vernacular continue to lack strong statutory support, and there’s no consideration of language heartland policy for Scots at all. Without integrating language planning into socioeconomic policy – that is, without considering how the rural housing crisis or the lack of jobs within language communities shapes whether or not languages survive – I don’t really see a future for Scotland’s new national languages except their slow withering into national symbols.

Here in Edinburgh, in an urban cultural centre, it’s remarkable how little Gaelic and Scots I encounter. Gaelic exists as a small subculture, unheard unless you deliberately seek it out, which needs constant effort and forging of personal connections. Scots exists mostly as the occasional word dropped into well-spoken conversation. At arts festivals and centres, which are my main employers, they’re almost never spoken, and when they’re on the stage there’s only one or two special events, rarely well-attended. The places where these languages are still used fluidly and (for the most part) unselfconsciously are all distant geographically and economically from the cultural core: Shetland, Niddrie, Uist, Ayr.

And yet everyone I speak to in Scottish culture is enthusiastic about the survival of minority languages. “I’d love to learn Gaelic,” I hear once a week from someone who has had their whole life to start. When the sea-fog rolls in over Arthur’s Seat, we rush to name it haar. The era of deliberate and legislated language extermination as a matter of national policy in these islands has passed – we’ve now entered an era of managed decline, where everyone thinks that minority languages are important and fewer and fewer people use them. As I’ve been thinking about this, I’ve been collecting contemporary strategies of minoritisation, the ways we work to ensure that the languages are symbols rather than tools, ideas rather than communities. Here are twenty of them.

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Ella Archibald-Binge reports for the Guardian on an encouraging development in Australia:

There are several words for “morning” in the Gumbaynggirr language but bambuuda is Anne-Marie Briggs’ favourite. Drawn from bamburr, meaning soft and gentle, it speaks to the quiet moments before sunrise, literally translating as “in the softness”. “Doesn’t it just melt your heart?” says Anne-Marie, sitting at the kitchen table of the Coffs Harbour home she shares with her 12-year-old son, Darruy.

The pair have found an easy morning routine since moving to Coffs three years ago. On a bright spring day Darruy wolfs down his Weet-Bix before strolling across the road to the small independent school that has been making headlines for its unique approach to education on the New South Wales mid-north coast.

When the bell rings, the students converge on a shady sandpit. They stomp bare feet to the click of clapsticks, singing and dancing as the sun gathers warmth. By 9.30am, barely a word of English has been spoken. This is how each day begins at the Gumbaynggirr Giingana Freedom school, the state’s first Aboriginal bilingual school. GGFS opened three years ago amid a broader push to breathe new life into the critically endangered Gumbaynggirr language.

As Indigenous languages decline, Gumbaynggirr is experiencing a resurgence. What began with a handful of elders pooling their pensions to record a few words in the 1980s has led to its revival, to the point where it is once again being spoken in homes and learned by babies.

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Etymonline introduces me to a redolent word heretofore unknown to me:

”

SNIFTY was on etymonline’s list. The list is a file of hundreds of words and phrases that want more research. Snifty. It didn’t even have a squib entry on the site. But it led a splendid steeplechase. The Century Dictionary entry (above) turned out to be only the least third of it and the wrong end.

Snifty barked once and sprouted three heads, bounded through a thicket of nicknames in old newspapers, and wrapped itself around nifty. Then the blatant beast head-faked toward Scotland and doubled back to that impenetrable Germanic SN- forest. By this time the editors were trying to decide if we were looking at one word or two, or three, or something somehow in between.

Coincidentally a Reddit thread had got me curious about snooty/snotty. Snotty/snooty like nifty/snifty presents itself as more than one word, not quite two. And it goes to ground in that same SN- forest, the dunkle Tannen of pre-literate Germanic. The words taunt as they plunge, with grins suggestive of something in language deeper and wilder than we moderns guess. Something not comprehended in our tone-deaf train of “froms.” […]

Here’s how etymonline described [nifty]: “A slang word of uncertain origin, perhaps originating in California (used in the east by 1867) as more or less a deformed clip of magnificent. Bret Harte (1868) wrote that it was a shortened, altered form of Magnificat.” Looking at the new lay of the evidence, after the “snifty” hunt, nifty might turn out to be a clip of snifty. Imagine “that’s snifty” misheard, mis-divided. The scientifically accurate DNA of the word nifty in that event would not touch magnificent.

There follows much more speculation and thoughts about “picture-charts of etymologies,” and it ends with some personal ads, including one from Joe to Kitty saying “Send your ‘snifty’ friend a note.” Fun stuff. Oh, and if you’re curious about what the OED has for these words, it says snifty is from a verb snift ‘to sniff’ and nifty is “Of unknown origin.” (Thanks, Nick!)

Another interesting post by Anatoly Vorobey at Avva (again, I translate from his Russian); he shows a shop sign that says in Hebrew “Air conditioning / Please close the door” and says:

But the phrase ‘to close the door’ lacks the definite article ha and the direct object particle et: instead of “lisgor et hadelet,” it’s written “lisgor delet.” The effect is a bit comical, difficult to convey in Russian; it’s as if someone wrote, “We have air conditioning; please close a door somewhere.” Or if in English it was “Air conditioning inside, please close a door.” The sign was probably written by “Russians” [i.e., Russian immigrants to Israel].

This particle et is a strange thing; you can omit it (but leave the definite article) and then it looks sort of like high style: “na lisgor hadelet.” I searched the Hebrew Language Academy website and found an interesting note about it: it seems it’s not entirely clear why in Biblical Hebrew this particle is sometimes absent before an object with a definite article. And David Ben-Gurion, the founding father and first prime minister of modern Israel, couldn’t stand it, considered it harmful, and deliberately didn’t use it in writing.

But he failed to break the established et ha- tradition, and people generally continue to use et even more than in the past (for example, in phrases like “I have [something]”). And they usually ask visitors to close et ha-door. Not like in this sign.

I find that very intriguing, and I hope Hatters with more Hebrew than I will have things to say about it.

As a card-carrying AI hater, I feel it my duty to point out when it’s actually useful, and Dan Cohen presents such a case:

“All goes in the usual monotonous way.” That is the depressed sigh of George Boole in a letter to his sister Maryann in 1850. It was the spark for my book Equations from God: Pure Mathematics and Victorian Faith. Boole, the English mathematician who gave us the logic at the heart of the digital device you are reading this on, was teaching in Cork, Ireland at the time. On a cold December day, he wrote to Maryann about his feelings of profound loneliness. In a city that was on edge from religious strife and famine, he played piano at home to an empty room, and took long walks by himself. At the end of the day, he retreated to his equations, which seemed to transcend the petty differences of humanity.

But before developing my thesis about the fervent emotions behind Boole’s seemingly cold mathematical logic, I first had to read his damn handwriting. Talk about monotony! There were hundreds of letters and notebooks in his drifty scrawl. In retrospect, Boole’s handwriting is actually not that bad; I’ve encountered far worse since reading his in Cork. And it helped that I had taken a brief course on paleography, the art of deciphering handwritten historical documents. But it would have saved me a lot of time getting to the interesting interpretive phase of my research if a computer could have converted his handwriting into machine-readable text, as it already could for typeset text through a process called optical character recognition (OCR).

Since I wrote that book, university and industry labs have been trying to solve the incredibly difficult problem of handwritten text recognition (HTR). OCR quickly approached 99% accuracy for digitized books, whereas even the best HTR systems struggled to reach 80% — two incorrect words out of every ten. The issue is obvious: unlike the rigorous composition of books, handwriting is highly variable by author, and words are often indeterminate and irregularly arranged on a page.

He uses George’s letter to Maryann as a test, which most approaches fail; then he hits the jackpot:
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From Pablo Scheffer’s “Among the Rabble” (LRB, Vol. 47 No. 20 · 6 November 2025; archived), a review of The Crowd in the Early Middle Ages by Shane Bobrycki:

In Crowds and Power (1960), Elias Canetti drew a distinction between what he called ‘open’ and ‘closed’ crowds. Open crowds are what we tend to think of when we speak of crowds: spontaneous occasions where people come together with a shared if hazy purpose, temporarily suspending the normal order of things. Closed crowds, by contrast, are planned gatherings with a fixed motive. They solidify rather than disturb existing social hierarchies. One of the reasons the early Middle Ages tend not to feature in histories of the crowd, Bobrycki suggests, is that gatherings in this period were overwhelmingly closed. […]

Early​ medieval speakers of Latin inherited a trove of words to describe different types of crowd: populus, caterva, vulgus, conventio, tumultus, societas, contio, grex. Caterva and grex were both used to describe troops of men, but caterva originated as a military term referring to a band of barbarian soldiers, while grex, which had pejorative undertones, had been a word for a flock or herd of animals. In the early seventh century, Isidore of Seville expounded on the distinction between a ‘multitude’ (multitudo) and a ‘crowd’ or ‘rabble’ (turba). The former was defined by numbers, the latter by space: ‘For a few people can make up a turba in narrow confines.’ These nuances were being abandoned, however. Some writers were using turba not just for disorderly rabbles, but for hosts of angels and gatherings of monks; military terms such as legio and cohors lost their specificity and became synonyms for ‘many’. Even plebs came to be used simply as an alternative to populus.

As gatherings became more organised affairs, new words were needed. Germanic languages had inherited the word ‘thing’ (ding in German and þing in Old Norse), which originally referred to a local assembly – the kind where disputes were settled and collective decisions reached – but evolved to include the time or place of these assemblies, the discussions held and the agreements made. A thinghûs (‘thing house’) came to be anything from a legal court to a theatre; a thingâri (‘thing doer’) could just as easily be a preacher or a litigant. The noun thingatio even entered Latin through Lombard law, where it denoted public legitimisation.

Gotta love thingatio. (We discussed caterva in 2017; Y said “What an odd word, caterva. De Vaan’s dictionary doesn’t get very far with an etymology.”)

Via chavenet’s MetaFilter post, Daiz’s indignant Crunchyroll is destroying its subtitles for no good reason:

Since the beginning of the Fall 2025 anime season, a major change has started taking place on the anime streaming service Crunchyroll: the presentation quality for translations of on-screen text has taken a total nosedive compared to what has been on offer for many years, all the way up until the previous Summer 2025 season. […]

In these new subtitles, translations for dialogue and on-screen text aren’t even separated to different sides of the screen – everything is just bunched up together at either the top or the bottom with only capitalization to distinguish what’s what, leading to poor readability. In addition, lots of on-screen text is just left straight up untranslated.

If you care about these things, you’ll want to click through for the details and the very enlightening screenshots; I agree with the MeFi commenter who said “The Kill la Kill fan subs shown in the article are both amazing from a technical point of view, and beautiful to look at.” (We discussed fansubbing in 2021 and earlier this year.)

And happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate it! I’ll be away feasting at my sister-in-law’s for much of the day, so try not to wreck the furniture while I’m gone.

Anatoly at Avva has an interesting post; I’ll translate from his Russian:

1. Why exactly is it “часовые любви” (‘the sentries of love’ [title of a Bulat Okudzhava song]) but “квартира Любови Павловны” (‘the apartment of Lyubov Pavlovna’)? What caused this difference in declension [genitive lyubvi vs. Lyubovi], how did it develop?

2. Is there a name for this phenomenon (what is initially the same word gets declined/conjugated differently depending on the meaning), and what other interesting examples are there?

One of his commenters says that the word Любовь as a female name must somehow be distinguished from любовь as a feeling, but this of course is simply a rationalization parallel to “we have to spell its and it’s differently to avoid ambiguity.” At any rate, I thought the question about other examples (in languages that decline their words) was worth thinking about.

My grandson James, who has the family trait of insatiable curiosity and knows where to turn for inquiries about linguistic matters, asked me why poaching an egg is called “poaching.” The answer is interesting enough I thought I’d share it here. The OED (entry revised 2006) defines it as “To cook (an egg) without the shell in simmering, or over boiling, water; to simmer or steam (an egg) in a poacher” (first citation c1450 “Pocched egges,” earlier than I would have guessed); the etymology:

< Middle French pocher to cook (an egg) without the shell in simmering, or over boiling, water (1393; earlier in Old French as past participial adjective pochié: see poached adj.¹) < poche (see poke n.¹).

Notes
French pocher, in sense 1a, is usually explained as referring to the enclosure of the yolk in the white as in a bag.

The “put yolks in the pockets formed by the whites” derivation is plausible and satisfying, and if you know French (poche ‘pocket’) is easy to remember. And poke ‘bag’ (from Anglo-Norman poke, northern Old French poque, pouque) is a nice doublet. As for the other poach (‘to steal game’), well, it’s complicated; OED (entry revised 2006) says:

Origin uncertain. It is also uncertain whether the material below shows the development of a single word or of two or more, and whether (if a single origin is assumed) the original meaning should be taken to be ‘to shove’, ‘to poke’, ‘to thrust’, ‘to trample’, or ‘to thrust into a bag’. Branch I [‘shove, poke, thrust’] perhaps shows a variant (with palatalized consonant) of poke v.¹, but if so sense I.1b [‘thrust at or poke out (the eyes)’] must be of independent origin, < Middle French, French pocher to poke out (an eye) (1223 in Old French; specific use of pocher poach v.¹, perhaps arising originally from an analogy between the empty eye socket and a bag or pocket); with the early uses at sense I.1a, and perhaps also with branch III [‘take game, etc., unlawfully’], perhaps compare also French pocher poach v.¹ in the sense ‘to put in a bag’, although this sense (although apparently a primary one) is not recorded in French until later (1660, unless implied slightly earlier by the idiom recorded by Cotgrave in quot. 1611 at sense III.8a) and is apparently rare at all times. Perhaps alternatively compare poke v.² [‘put in a bag or pocket’], of which the present word could perhaps show a variant (perhaps compare early forms at pouch n.).

I had just assumed that the ‘steal’ sense was straightforwardly from ‘put in your pocket,’ but the history of words is rarely straightforward.