Frequent correspondent Laurent sent me a most interesting advertisement, in which the letters of the word “Chevron” are made up of the words for ‘energy’ in a bunch of languages. I can identify most of them by using dictionaries and/or Google, but there are some I can’t. Here’s the image (click for large version):

And here’s what I’ve got so far, starting with the words making up the letter C; if anyone can fill in any blanks, I will be much obliged:

ŋsī – ?
ஆற்றல் [aatral] – Tamil
energy – English
ngolo – Kikongo? (according to this site, “NGOLO means energy, force, power. Moyo means life/spirit in the Kikongo language.”)
শক্তি [shokti] – Bengali
nukiorneq – Greenlandic
amaanda – a South African language
orka – Icelandic (I believe this is related to English work)
エネルギー [enérugii] – Japanese (obviously borrowed from German, because if it were from English it would be enaaji)
ພະລັງ? [pa:la:ng] – Lao
brændstof – Danish [actually means ‘fuel’ — tsk]
kawi – Swahili?
enerhiya – Hiligaynon (a language of the Philippines; a commenter adds that it could also be Tagalog or any other Philippine language)
енергия [energiya] – Bulgarian
enerģija – Latvian
pūngao – Maori
energji – Albanian
energie – Dutch, Afrikaans, Czech, Romanian
emandla – Swazi (Swati, siSwati)
fuinneamh – Irish (pronounced something like FWINN-ya, if you were wondering)
enerji – Turkish (j is as in French, like the s of leisure, and the word is borrowed from French, unless of course it’s from Sumerian)
bukola – ?
ऊर्जा [ūrjā] – Hindi
энергетика [energetika] – Russian
matla – Sotho (from googling I find it used in Southern Sotho and Tswana)
ენერგია [energia] – Georgian
توانائی [tavāna’i] – Persian (Many thanks to Tim May for providing the Unicode for me to copy; he adds: “Online dictionaries return “توانايي”, though, which gets a lot more hits, and so does “توانائي” and “توانايى”. The first one looks like it’s what it says in the advert, though.”)
قوت [quvat] – Pushtu? (also could represent Dari quvvat)
ឋាមពល [tha:ma’pɔl] – Khmer/Cambodian
Energie – German
能源 [néngyuán] – Chinese
күч [küch] – Kyrgyz (common Turkic word; cf Turkish güç)
energía – Spanish
شکتی [shakti] – Urdu
makasi – Lingala?
umfutho – ? (Obviously a language related to Zulu, but doesn’t mean ‘energy’ in Zulu as far as I can tell)
බලය [balaya] – Sinhala
эрчим хүч [erchim khüch] – Mongolian
에너지 [eneoji] – Korean
energia – Portuguese, Catalan, Polish, Finnish, Estonian, Hungarian, Basque
maatla – a South African language (Pedi?)
énergie – French
nishati – Swahili?
hinya – Kikuyu??
енергія [energiya] – Ukrainian
พลังงาน [phalaŋŋaan] – Thai
ingufu – Kinyarwanda
אנרגיה [energyah] – Hebrew
simba – ? (Unfortunately, the very well known Swahili word simba ‘lion’ pretty much makes Google useless here)
amandla – Zulu (It’s under -andla if you ever have to look it up in a Zulu dictionary)
energija – Lithuanian, Slovene, Croatian (or, if you’re old-fashioned, Serbo-Croatian)
ενέργεια [enéryia] – Greek
енергетски извор – Macedonian
inirjia – Aymara?
pachamamaq – Quechua
yana qori unun – ?? (I don’t even know if this is one, two, or three entries, but none of the words occurs separately)
energi – Norwegian, Swedish (also Danish, which is represented by brændstof)
pissens – Kreyol (Haitian Creole, from French puissance)
buka – ?
tenaga kerja – Indonesian
năng lượng – Vietnamese (a loan from Chinese 能量[nengliang])
daya – Malay
hery – Malagasy (Curiously, final i is always written y in Malagasy)
Ենէրգիա [energia] – Armenian
طاقه [Taaqa] – Arabic
enegiýa – Turkmen (?)
mbaretekue – Guarani
mphamvu – Chichewa
yemashala – ?
enerġija – Maltese
agbara – Yoruba

Update (May 2023). Alas, the image is no longer accessible, and the Internet Archive didn’t capture a snapshot of this post until a decade later, by which time it was already gone. Sic transit.

In my last entry the word theodolite cropped up in the OED’s definition of circumferentor; I got curious about its etymology and looked it up, only to find:

Origin unknown… The name, alike in the Latinized form theodelitus and the vernacular theodelite (subseq. –dolite), originated in England, and is not known in French and German until the 19th c. Its first user, and probable inventor, L. or T. Digges, has left no account of its composition, as to which various futile conjectures, incompatible with its early history and use, have been offered; such is the notion that it arose in some way out of alhidada or its corruption athelida occurring in Bourne’s Treasure for Travailers 1578, which an examination of the works of Digges and Bourne, where both words occur in their proper senses, shows to be absurd. Theodelite has the look of a formation from Greek; can it have been (like many modern names of inventions) an unscholarly formation from θεαομαι [theaomai] ‘I view’ or θεω [theo] ‘behold’ and δηλος [dēl-os] ‘visible, clear, manifest’, with a meaningless termination?

Dammit, if people are going to invent words, the least they can do is let us know where they got the materials!

[Read more…]

Continuing on with Mason & Dixon, I have followed the Durham lad Jeremiah Dixon into the local “Ale-Grotto of terrible Reputation” the Cudgel and Throck, where he is reluctantly drinking with his old teacher William Emerson and the Jesuit Fr. Christopher Maire, who is trying to recruit him to work for the Society, perhaps in China. Here is a snippet of their conversation:

“Ye’d find nothing like this in China, Jeremiah, Lad,” cries Emerson.

“Mr. Dixon,” declares the Jesuit, “at present, owing to the pernicious Cult of Feng Shui, you would find it a Surveyor’s Bad Dream,— nowhere may a Geometer encounter an honest 360-Degree Circle,— rather, incomprehensibly and perversely, in willful denial of God’s Disposition of Time and Space, preferring 365 and a Quarter.”

“That being the number of Days in a year, what Human Surveyor, down here upon the Earth, would reject thah’,— each Day a single, perfect Chinese Degree,— were 360 not vastly more convenient, of course, to figure with? Surely God, being Omniscient, has little trouble with either…? all the Log Tables right there in His Nob, doesn’t he,—” Dixon, having been out tramping over the Fields and Fells for the past few weeks, with Table and Circumferentor, still enjoying a certain orthogonal Momentum, “and 365 and a quarter seems the sort of Division Jesuits might embrace,— the discomfort of all that extra calculation…? sort of mental Cilice, perhaps…?”

“Oh dear,” Emerson’s voice echoing within his Ale-can.

One of the pleasures of the book for me is looking up unknown words, and there are two of them in this passage. A circumferentor is, according to the OED: “Surveying. An instrument consisting of a flat brass bar with sights at the ends and a circular brass box in the middle, containing a magnetic needle, which plays over a graduated circle; the whole being supported on a staff or tripod. (Now commonly superseded by the THEODOLITE.)” And cilice (pronounced SILL-iss, from Latin cilicium ‘Cilician’) is “Hair-cloth; a rough garment made of hair-cloth, generally worn as a penitential robe.” Or so says the OED—but the Mason & Dixon glossary says “Jesuit chastity belt, a wire girdle with sharp metallic points to irritate the skin,” backing it up with a quotation from an anti-Opus Dei website, of whose trustworthiness I cannot judge, so I’ll stick with the OED for now.

Incidentally, you may be thinking (as I did) that the reference to Feng Shui is one of Pynchon’s beloved anachronisms, like having Dixon talk about Ley-Lines (the ley, “the supposed line of a prehistoric track in a straight line usually from hilltop to hilltop with identifying points such as ponds, mounds, etc., marking its route,” being a bit of lunacy invented in the 1920s), but no, it turns out the OED’s first citation is from as far back as 1797: “The greater part of the Chinese are of the opinion that all the happiness and misfortunes of life depend upon the fong-choui” (Encycl. Brit. IV. 679/1), so it’s not inconceivable a well-traveled Jesuit could have bandied the word about a generation earlier.

And this just for Eliza: a few paragraphs later Dixon refers to himself as an “old Geordie aslog thro’ the clarts”—clarts being, as I expect she knows, a northern dialect term for “sticky or claggy dirt, mud, filth.”

From SIL‘s LinguaLinks Library, the Glossary of linguistic terms: “This is a living glossary, and suggestions are welcome for additions or corrections.” Useful. (Via Incoming Signals.)

We’re all familiar with the expression “the crack of dawn“; I, for one, was not acquainted with the recent variant “the butt-crack of dawn,” and I can’t say I’m the better for having been introduced to it. But esthetics have no place in science, and if you wish to pursue an investigation of this phenomenon, you will direct yourself to Geoff Pullum’s initial announcement and Mark Liberman’s follow-up in Language Log.
Yes, I know esthetics do have a place in science—in fact, I believe some famous scientist said that the correct theory is always the most esthetically pleasing—but I needed a little inaccurate rhetoric for my sentence. These things happen.

Having touted George Oppen in my previous entry, I realized I’d never posted any of his poetry and decided to remedy the omission. Here’s the last poem in his great book Of Being Numerous (I presume the fifth line refers to Swan’s Island, Maine; the poem was originally published in Poetry, December 1967):

BALLAD

Astrolabes and lexicons
Once in the great houses—

A poor lobsterman

Met by chance
On Swan’s Island

Where he was born
We saw the old farmhouse

Propped and leaning on its hilltop
On that island
Where the ferry runs

A poor lobsterman

His teeth were bad

He drove us over that island
In an old car

A well-spoken man

Hardly real
As he knew in those rough fields

Lobster pots and their gear
Smelling of salt

The rocks outlived the classicists,
The rocks and the lobstermen’s huts

And the sights of the island
The ledges in the rough sea seen from the road

And the harbor
And the post office

Difficult to know what one means
—to be serious and to know what one means—

An island
Has a public quality

His wife in the front seat

In a soft dress
Such as poor women wear

She took it that we came—
I don’t know how to say, she said—

Not for anything we did, she said,
Mildly, ‘from God’. She said

What I like more than anything
Is to visit other islands…

The Academy of American Poets has selected “31 groundbreaking books of poetry“; I was looking down the list and nodding (yup, the usual suspects, all good stuff but no surprises here) when I hit Of Being Numerous by George Oppen (1968). Any list that includes the unjustly neglected Oppen is worth posting about, so here ’tis. (Via Ramage.)

Another goodie via Derryl Murphy, “Expos’ move marks end of baseball era in French,” by Christopher J. Chipello of The Wall Street Journal:

For more than three decades, Jacques Doucet was the French-language radio voice of Major League Baseball.
Many Montreal baby boomers grew up listening to his mellifluous descriptions of lanceurs staring into home plate, frappeurs swinging for the fences and voltigeurs tracking down fly balls at la piste d’avertissement, or warning track.
But the Expos migrated south and started playing this spring as the Washington Nationals — the first move by a major-league team since the Washington Senators became the Texas Rangers 33 years earlier. That meant the disappearance of big-league baseball in French from North American airwaves.
Mr. Doucet and other announcers from the Expos’ early days were more than just broadcasters. They also helped hone modern French baseball lingo, polishing terminology that had been adapted from English over the course of a century.
A 1935 French-English lexicon put out by the Societe du Parler francais au Canada rendered the game, literally if awkwardly, as jeu de balle aux buts, and featured such quaint translations as batteur risque-tout (literally, daredevil batter) for “slugger” and gardien de but, (goalkeeper) for “baseman.”
In 1969, the Expos’ first season, the brewery sponsoring the team hosted a symposium for journalists and commentators to hash out terminology for le baseball. The recommendations included such colorful and enduring turns of phrase as balle papillon (butterfly ball) for “knuckleball” and vol-au-sol (theft at the ground) for “shoestring catch.”
But in a game of tactical nuance and long pauses, it often fell to the radio play-by-play men to figure out how best to paint word pictures in respectable French. Over the decades, Mr. Doucet, a former newspaper reporter who switched to broadcasting in 1972, became the acknowledged master of that art.
When Mr. Doucet described infielders moving to serrer les lignes de demarcation in the late innings of a close game, listeners would envision the players hugging the foul lines to guard against an extra-base hit. And if a frappeur de puissance (as sluggers are now known) hit a fleche (an “arrow,” or line drive) into the right-center field allee, listeners held their breath to hear whether the coureur (base-runner) would round third base and file vers le marbre (dash toward the “marble,” or home plate).
Mr. Doucet, “created the perfect words” to bring the action to life, says Jean Lapointe, a popular Quebec entertainer who is now a member of Canada’s Senate. “The quality of his language in French was incredible,” says Mr. Lapointe, who used to have aides record games during his stage performances so he could listen to them later…

A wonderful piece of nostalgia, both baseball and linguistic.

Incidentally, there’s a tornado watch over the Berkshires for the next hour, so if the house gets reduced to a pile of bricks, there may be a delay in posting…

Update. No tornado, just a rainstorm. And I was all prepared to blog from the cellar, too.

Back in April I took William Safire to task for peddling the nonexistent “Russian word” razbliuto (and I’m happy to report that that post is now the #1 Google hit for razbliuto, so seekers will find the information they need); his latest column ends with the following plangent paragraph:

In an article on the need to steal words from other languages to fill our vocabu-gap, I noted references to razbliuto, ”a feeling a person has for someone he or she once loved but no longer feels the same way about.” It came to me from some Russian speakers but generated a dozen letters from others who insist that the word does not exist. These nyet-sayers are joined by the two experts I consulted, Austin and Patera at McGill. Others write that the word my original sources must have had in mind is the verb razliubit, which means simply ”to stop loving.”

Now, I don’t believe for a second that “Russian speakers” told him this word exists (and in fact in his original column he said he got it from Christopher Moore’s book In Other Words), but it’s mildly impressive that he’s taking the trouble to correct himself. Two cheers for Bill!

You may or may not know that the verb atone comes from the phrase at one (it originally meant ‘to be reconciled’); now that you do (if you didn’t before), it may strike you as strange that the “one” part is pronounced so differently from the number. Well, that’s the “correct” pronunciation; the one for the number has undergone a dialectal shift that also produced /wət/ for oat, although the latter has stayed dialectal. And the OED says: “The orthoepist C. Cooper (Grammatica (1685)) draws attention to the latter development when he describes the pronunciations wun for ‘one’ and wuts for ‘oats’ as ‘barbarous speaking.’” So there you have it: those who dutifully obey the dicta of modern orthoepists of the Safire variety should immediately cease using the barbarous pronunciation that has so unfortunately overtaken the word one. What matter if no one understands you? A small price to pay for knowing your usage is unimpeachable!