Malaise and Pooter.

Jennie Erin Smith‘s TLS review (freely accessible) of Frederik Sjöberg’s The Fly Trap, besides being fun to read (see excerpt below), taught me two new words. The review begins: “Malaise traps are tent-like contraptions that intercept flying insects with mesh and, taking advantage of their urge to fly up towards the light when faced with an obstacle, shuttle them upwards into a poison-filled chamber.” I thought malaise was a pretty euphemistic description of what the insects experienced as a result of the trap, but as I read on I saw that the word was consistently spelled with a capital M and realized it was a proper name — the name, in fact, of the book’s subject, René Malaise. (There’s a good illustration of the trap at the Wikipedia page.) And several sentences later Smith writes: “Sjöberg collected his hoverflies with a net and a pooter, a flexible tube used to suck up insects by mouth into a container.” Pooter! What a word! (Later on, she writes: “He has suffered ‘every conceivable insinuation and witticism’ with regard to his pooter, the portable insect-sucking tube, but even he will concede its resemblance to an opium pipe.”) The OED says:

Etymology: Apparently < the name of F. W. Poos (1891–1987), U.S. entomologist who first used the device + -er suffix, with insertion of -t-, apparently for euphony.
1939 Amateur Entomologist Sept. 33 A coleopterist’s sucking tube (a pooter) is useful when collecting large numbers.

So both words seem to be eponyms. As for Malaise, he had quite a life:

Malaise was born in 1892 in Stockholm, the son of a French chef, and, like naturalists everywhere, began collecting as a child – plants, then butterflies, then, as he got more serious, sawflies. After the end of the First World War, Malaise left his famous journalist girlfriend, Ester Blenda Nordström, and joined his zoologist friend Sten Bergman and three others on a lavishly funded collecting expedition to the Kamchatka Peninsula, the lobe of terrain in easternmost Russia that dangles over Japan. The Kamchatka expedition lasted three years, officially, and Bergman secured his fame with a dramatic account of it. Malaise, though, chose to stay in Kamchatka, inured to homesickness and civil war, surviving in the backwoods on a primitive bread boiled in bear fat while continuing to collect his flies. In 1923, he experienced a series of extraordinary earthquakes. The first came in the winter, while he was sleeping in a yurt in the woods. The trees bowed, there was a terrible roaring noise, and a tsunami drove a giant wall of ice inland, razing the coastal fringe of forest. The aftershocks continued for weeks. In August of that year, Malaise was making a supply run to Tokyo when the ground dropped out beneath him, collapsing the roof and floor of his hotel at once, and triggering deadly fires. It was the Great Kanto Earthquake, one of the worst in Japan’s history. Malaise sailed from Tokyo as the city burned. [...]

In Sweden, where he took refuge after the quakes, Malaise was reunited with Nordström, who was brilliant, charming and probably lesbian; she followed him back to Kamchatka, married him, and wrote a book about the place which never once mentioned her husband. Malaise returned to Stockholm again after the marriage dissolved, and developed a prototype of his trap, which he demonstrated there and in London. Oddly, few were impressed. Malaise himself was undeterred. He married again, this time an adventurous schoolteacher happy to accompany him on a dangerous expedition to Burma. In Rangoon with his new wife, he had his first traps sewn by tailors. The traps proved frighteningly effective: the Malaises returned with more than 100,000 insects, which museums were still sorting at the time of Sjöberg’s writing.

He went on to become an Atlantis crank, unfortunately, but he “never grew bitter and never lost his optimism, even in the face of ridicule.”

Languages of London.

18 Beautiful And Weird Maps That Will Change How You Think About London has a lot of interesting stuff (I love the first one, showing London around the turn of the first millennium: “Hamor Smydde, Fulanham, Brixges Tane: Sound familiar?”), but the one of LH relevance is 10, showing the non-English languages most commonly spoken in different parts of the city — it’s fascinating to me to see the huge swaths of Polish, Gujarati, Turkish, and Bengali, and the lesser realms of Urdu, Lithuanian, Somali, Arabic, and the rest.

Russian Culture in Landmarks.

Via Michael Webster, editor of SPRING: The Journal of the E. E. Cummings Society, I have discovered John Freedman’s amazing blog Russian Culture in Landmarks, “Russian literature, art, music and theater through architecture and monuments.” Cast your eye down the left-hand margin and you’ll see a tag list, with the most frequent names in larger type, running from “Actors House” to “Yury Trifonov”; the first post I read was this one, on the building at 12 Bryusov Lane in Moscow in which once lived Vsevolod Meyerhold and his wife Zinaida Raikh, and I’m still shuddering at Raikh’s fate (I knew about Meyerhold’s). Anyone interested in Russian literature and culture should bookmark it or subscribe to it.

And speaking of Cummings, Vladimir Feshchenko alerted me to Aleksander Ulanov’s Znamya review (in Russian) of the translation Feshchenko did with Emily Wright of EIMI (see this post), Приключения нетоварища Кемминкза в Стране Советов: Э.Э. Каммингс и Россия [The Adventures of Untovarich Kem-min-kz in the Land of the Soviets: E. E. Cummings and Russia] (St. Petersburg: European University in St. Petersburg, 2013). It sounds like an excellent translation (accompanied by useful notes, essays, photos, and the like); it’s too bad they translated less than a quarter of Cummings’ text, but better a good translation of a part than a sloppy one of the whole.


No, not the river (whose name is French, from Latin Mosa); this is an English dialect word I just ran across, with an unexpected etymology (French < Celtic) I thought I’d share. OED (updated December 2001):

Pronunciation: Brit. /mjuːs/ , /mjuːz/ , U.S. /mjuz/

Etymology: < Middle French muce, musse, mouce hiding place, secret place (1190 in Old French as muce; only from 1561 in spec. sense 1a; French regional (central and western) musse hiding place, hole in a hedge) < mucier, mucer to hide, conceal oneself (second half of the 12th cent.; compare Anglo-Norman muscier, muscer, mucier, etc.; also Italian (regional) mucciare, muccire to flee) < an unidentified reflex of the Celtic base of Early Irish múch smoke, Welsh mwg smoke, which in turn is related to the Germanic base of smoke v. Compare mitch v., muset n.1 Compare slightly earlier maze n.2 and discussion at that entry.
Recorded in Eng. Dial. Dict. s.v. in very widespread English regional use.

Now Brit. regional.
A gap in a fence or hedge through which hares, rabbits, etc., pass, esp. as a means of escape; (also) a man-made track or tunnel for leading hares, rabbits, etc., into a trap. Cf. run n.2 12a.
1523 J. Skelton Goodly Garlande of Laurell 1384 He wrate of a muse [1568 mows] throw a mud wall; How a do cam trippyng in at the rere warde.
1575 G. Gascoigne Noble Arte Venerie lix. 164 She..will all the daye long holde the same wayes..and passe through the same muses untill hir death or escape.
1623 T. Scott High-waies of God 55 A Hare started before Greyhounds will haue her accustomed way and muse, or die for it.
1754 W. Cowper Epist. to R. Lloyd 52 The virtuoso..The gilded butterfly pursues O’er hedge and ditch, through gaps and mews.
1756 Gentleman’s Mag. 26 180 The most effectual method of destroying hares is by laying the muishes of hedges, dykes, and other fences.
1812 W. B. Daniel Rural Sports (new ed.) I. 587 The Tipe or trap..consists of a large pit or Cistern, covered with a floor, with a small trap door, nicely balanced, near its centre, into which the rabbits are led by a narrow Meuse.
1821 Blackwood’s Edinb. Mag. 8 531 It is doubted whether the stoutest March hare will have sufficient vivacity to carry him to his muese.
1884 R. Lawson Upton-on-Severn Words & Phrases at Muse, Them Welshmen [sc. Welsh sheep]‘d go through a rabbit run or a har’ muce.
1895 Athenæum 2 Mar. 285/3 In a stone-wall country you will not find a hare close to the lee side..because of the concentrated wind which whistles through every ‘meuse’.
1972 G. E. Evans & D. Thomson Leaping Hare vi. 75 An unusual method of catching hares..appears to have been extensively used by poachers in addition to the more common device of snaring or netting at the smiles or meuses.
2006 T. Williamson Archaeol. Rabbit Warrens vi. 54 (caption) A narrow wooden tunnel or muce runs through the wall and across the top of the pit; here there is a small trap-door in the tunnel floor.

b. In extended use: a means of escape; (a device affording) a way out of a difficulty. Obs.
1528 J. Skelton Honorificatissimo: Replycacion agaynst Yong Scolers sig. Avi, had..deuyllysshely deuysed The people to seduce And chase them thorowe the muse Of your noughty counsell.
1606 W. Warner Continuance Albions Eng. xvi. cii. 404 When desprate Ruffins fraught with faults finde readily a Meuse.
1647 N. Bacon Hist. Disc. Govt. 184 In this Tragedy the Pope observing how the English Bishops had forsaken their Archbishop, espied a muse through which all the game of the Popedome might soon escape.
1858 R. S. Surtees Ask Mamma xxix. 116 The Major, after trying every meuse, and every twist, and every turn..was at length obliged to whip off.

2. The form or lair of a hare; occas. with reference to other animals of the chase. Obs.
In 16th and 17th centuries freq. in proverbial sayings, as a hare without a meuse, every hare has its meuse, etc.
1585 S. Robson Choise of Change sig. Miii, Things very hard or not at all to be found. A hare without a muse…A whore without a skuse.
1598 G. Chapman tr. Homer Seauen Bks. Iliades vii. 123 As when a crew of gallantes watch, the wild muse of a bore.
1627 W. Hawkins Apollo Shroving v. iv. 86 Ludio The Nine Muses play at Nine-holes: euery Muse hath her hole. Thur. Yes, and euery Hare hath her Muse.
1788 W. Marshall Provincialisms E. Yorks. in Rural Econ. Yorks. II. 353 Smoot, a hare muce; or any small gap or hole in the bottom of a hedge.
1890 J. D. Robertson Gloss. Words County of Gloucester Mews, a hare’s form.

Note the odd form ‘lair of a hare,’ also new to me (it’s the OED’s sense 21); some citations:

a1300 Fragm. Pop. Sc. (Wright) 318 I-buyd as an hare Whan he in forme lyth.
c1386 Chaucer Shipman’s Tale 104 As in a fourme sitteth a wery hare.
1575 G. Gascoigne Noble Arte Venerie lviii. 161 When a Hare ryseth out of the forme.
1735 W. Somervile Chace ii. 38 In the dry crumbling Bank Their Forms they delve.
1845 C. Darwin Jrnl. (ed. 2) iii. 46 The Indians catch the Varying Hare by walking spirally round and round, it when on its form.
1952 R. Campbell tr. C. Baudelaire Poems 77 Whereon as in a fourm you would fill out And mould your hair.

I’m actually not sure the last one belongs here; it’s not at all clear to me what sense Campbell intended, since the line has little to do with Baudelaire’s French (“Qui, comme une guérite, enfermera tes charmes”). You can see the poem in the original with three translations here (William Aggeler and Lewis Piaget Shanks both render guérite accurately as “sentry-box”).

Addendum. It turns out I wrote about this word and its etymology less than three months ago. Sigh. At least it gets its own post here.

Cutthroat Compounds.

I just got around to Stan Carey’s post from last month on a fascinating corner of English morphology:

Editor and historical linguist Brianne Hughes studies a remarkable subset of exocentric compounds called agentive and instrumental exocentric verb-noun (V-N) compounds. Mercifully, and memorably, she calls them cutthroat compounds, or cutthroats for short. These are rare in English word-formation but have a long, colourful history and constitute a very interesting category.

Cutthroat compounds name things or people by describing what they do. A cutthroat cuts throats, a telltale tells tales, a wagtail wags its tail, a killjoy kills joy, a scarecrow scares crows, a turncoat turns their coat, rotgut rots the gut, a pickpocket picks pockets, a sawbones saws bones (one of the few plural by default), and breakfast – lest you miss its etymology, hidden in plain sight – breaks a fast. The verb is always transitive, the noun its direct object.

Despite the familiarity of these examples, only a few dozen are current in modern English. It’s because they conflict with the right-headedness of English, Brianne writes in her master’s thesis (‘From Turncoats To Backstabbers: How Headedness and Word Order Determine the Productivity of Agentive and Instrumental Compounding in English’), that cutthroats’ productivity will never surpass that of ‘backstabber’ compounds, which use the far more usual N-V-er pattern. We’re ‘book readers’, not ‘readbooks’; ‘word lovers’, not ‘lovewords’.

Cutthroats largely constitute ‘a treasury of nonce words’, having peaked centuries ago. Survivors tend to be peripheral, found in slang, regional dialects, and children’s short-lived innovations. But Brianne is on a mission to catalogue them and has recorded several hundred, including such malicious archaic marvels as want-wit (stupid person), spoil-paper (bad writer), whiparse (abusive teacher), eat-bee (bird), lacklooks (unattractive person), stretchgut (glutton), clutchfist (miser), and catch-fart (servant who walks behind their master).

There’s wonderful stuff there (whiparse! catch-fart!) and much more at the link, including the cutthroats spontaneously invented by kids before they grow out of it.

Hebrew Slang.

Fred Skolnik (editor in chief of the Encyclopaedia Judaica) has a great piece in the Ilanot Review about Hebrew slang. There are also some absurd generalizations sprinkled here and there (British English is “calcified and effete,” journalists “speak and write in platitudes”), but ignore them and enjoy the lively descriptions of Hebrew and its slang. A couple of excerpts:

Also “fuck,” which becomes fack (rhymes with sock), is regularly exclaimed without any real sense of what is being said, though focking is perceived as somewhat strong even if one does not grasp the full force or resonance of the word. At the same time, a word like manyak with its independent Arabic (cocksucker) and English (maniac) origins became totally confused in Hebrew speech and has been used in both senses, sometimes with the (inexplicable) force that the British “bloody” had fifty years ago and therefore not heard in polite society, and sometimes with far less sting for someone acting in a crazy or outrageous way. I would guess that the word was first used in the Arabic sense by Oriental Jews and then picked up by Ashkenazi Jews in the mistaken belief that it derived from the English word. [...]

It is also not surprising that the mass immigration from the Former Soviet Union in the 1990s has had no impact on Hebrew slang, or on the face of the country as such. The old Russian standbys remain in place (kibinimat, yoptfoyomat) but there is no interaction between the two languages. Like American immigrants, the Russians consider their own culture superior to Israeli culture so that while assimilating economically they are less interested in assimilating culturally and socially. On the other hand, their Israeli-born children, though retaining the Russian language and some of the culture, aspire to, and succeed in, assimilating totally in the Israeli milieu, like the second generation of Jews in America. (What is almost comical, by the way, is that Ethiopian children living in mixed immigrant neighborhoods, as in Petach Tikva, now curse in Russian.)

I love the double origin of manyak, and the fact that Ethiopian children curse in Russian. Thanks, Andy!

Bibliographia Iranica.

Paul Ogden sent me a link to Arash Zeini: A predominantly bibliographic blog for Iranian Studies, and I was pleased to see accounts of publications like Greater Khorasan: History, Geography, Archaeology and Material Culture and Orality and textuality in the Iranian world: Patterns of interaction across the centuries; the latest post announces a move to a new location at Bibliographia Iranica, and that site is just as rich — I particularly enjoyed the post on Ruse and Wit: The Humorous in Arabic, Persian, and Turkish Narrative, which reproduces a table of contents with such appetizing titles as “Have you heard the one about the man from Qazvin? Regionalist humor in the works of Ubayd-i Zakani,” by Dominic Parviz Brookshaw, and “Playful figures of script in Persian and Chinese,” by Paul Sprachman. I’m bookmarking it, as I would expect anyone interested in the Iranian world to do; thanks, Paul!

Shalost II.

My last post was about the literary side of the Russian word шалость [shalost']; this one is about the linguistic side. Further on in Peschio’s book, in chapter 1, he describes three episodes that got Mikhail Dmitrievich Buturlin, a distant relative and childhood friend of Pushkin’s, kicked out of Odessa by its governor Mikhail Vorontsov (who had previously expelled Pushkin for similar shalosti) — arranging for a mass catcalling of a vaudeville singer, running one of Vorontsov’s prize geldings to death at a hunt, and causing a scandal that nearly ended in a duel — and continues:

That Buturlin uses this single word, shalosti, to describe such a broad range of behaviors is typical of nineteenth-century usage. And beyond the simple homonymy of the wide-ranging meanings of the word shalost’, there was also a peculiar kind of polysemy at the level of the morpheme. The Russian language boasts a remarkably productive lexical cluster centered on the root shal-. For example: shalit’ (to misbehave or caper), shalovlivost’ (mischievousness or prankishness), shal’noi (stray or wild), oshalet’ (to be overwhelmed or go mad). This root is a descendant of the Common Slavic roots *shal- and *khal-. In other Slavic languages these roots have shed all but one or two meanings, trending toward monosemy. The Russian root shal-, however, had yielded an exceedingly cohesive polysemous cluster by 1800. This often resulted in the conflation of behaviors as disparate as childish misbehavior (Deti shaliat) and highway robbery (Shaliat po bol’shim dorogam). Thus, in Golden Age Russia, play could be perceived as an act of defiance because the most fearful violence could be perceived as a kind of play. And a combination and conflation of play, violence, and rebellion was exceedingly common. [...]

To say that the root “shal-” is productive in Russian would be an understatement. In the pages of this book alone, I quote dozens of usages of words from this cluster. Just in this small sample, we observe a tremendously broad array of meanings and associations. To name a few: practical jokes, mutiny, unauthorized sex, deception, a verse genre, insubordination, insignificance, violent crime, ritual humiliation, inside jokes, mischievousness, a blunder, vandalism, a faux pas … the list goes on.

Despite such diversity, all these usages have in common a single concept, from which (in etymological thinking, at least) all their many, disparate connotations must have derived: defying expectation — not doing what is expected of one. This single, core concept can be broken down into three useful semantic categories: play, dysfunction, and rebellion. [...]

Vasmer says that the shal- root has no clear cognates outside of Slavic. I’ll be sorry when the free sample ends, and I may have to spring for the book.


A few days ago, Erik at XIX век posted some quotes from what sounded like a very interesting book, Joe Peschio’s The Poetics of Impudence and Intimacy in the Age of Pushkin. I took Amazon up on their offer to send a sample of the book to my Kindle, and I thought I’d quote this passage on a heretofore little noticed, but according to Peschio vitally important, genre of early-19th-century Russian literary activity, which might be labeled “insignificant.” He says:

My case for the significance of the insignificant, so to speak, relies heavily on a concept for which I have been forced to borrow a term from the formalists that has long since fallen into disuse: “domesticity.” This is a rough calque from Boris Eikhenbaum, who describes the role of “literary domesticity” (literaturnaia domashnost’) in the early nineteenth century as part of the shift of authorial ethos from the court to high society. A fairly rare word, domashnost’ is used by the formalists in a sense peculiar to the early twentieth century. Only Ushakov’s dictionary defines this usage: “A familial, unofficial attitude toward something. Domesticity cannot be allowed in public work.” [...]

As Eikhenbaum notes, domesticity became an increasingly important social context for Russian poetry of the early nineteenth century, and it was, in many respects, the period’s most important “laboratory” for the creation of new forms. In particular, domesticity served as the pragmatic setting for the development of the light genres, from which the new Russian poetry of the 1820s and 1830s, in large part, emerged. These were all, in one way or another, intensely personal genres, and much of the poetry was produced not for public consumption but, as Zhukovskii liked to put it, für wenige (for the few). This is especially true of a little-known genre called the shalost’, which has been all but ignored in Russian literary history, and which lies at the conceptual heart of this book. With Igor Pil’shchikov, I have described shalosti as a peculiar but stable verse genre practiced by the poets of the Lyceum Circle, the Green Lamp, and Arzamas. The word shalost’ is usually translated into English as “prank,” “caper,” “mischief,” or “naughtiness.” In the early nineteenth century, as I discuss at length in chapter 1, an even broader range of behaviors was associated with the word, including deception, practical jokes, assault, mutiny, vandalism, rape, and kidnapping. Lacking a single English equivalent, I am compelled to use the Russian throughout. As a verse genre, the shalost’ is defined not by formal characteristics but by behavioral ones. In other words, it was called thus because it was defined by what it did rather than what it was: whether a long poem or just a couple of lines in the context of a longer work, a shalost’ in one respect or another flaunts [sic] the prescriptions of literary propriety, adhering instead to the behavioral codes and semantics of domesticity.

This might seem harmless to us, but the tsar took it very seriously indeed; in fact, the book begins with a description of Alexander Polezhayev being arrested for his 1825 satirical poem “Sashka” (based on student life and probably a parody of Eugene Onegin) and not only sent to the Caucasus with the army but persecuted relentlessly until his wretched death in 1838. Peschio connects his theme to my own hobbyhorse when he says that “prankishness was still associated with writers and writing well into the 1830s, when it became an embattled political discourse. By the late 1830s, prankishness was on the wane. In the early 1840s it was supplanted by a new ‘serious’ political activism in literature that arose in reaction to what was perceived as the aristocratic frivolity of prankishness. It continued to exist on the margins of Russian literature … before undergoing a metamorphosis and a revival in the early twentieth century.” Long live frivolity! Down with “serious” discourse!

OMG! American English.

Victor Mair has a post at the Log on a remarkable American woman in China; it begins: “The star of this popular Voice of America program is Jessica Beinecke (Bái Jié 白洁). Her Mandarin is quite amazing; indeed, I would say that it is nothing short of phenomenal.” Having listened to a fair amount of Mandarin from English-speakers (including myself, back when I lived in Taiwan), I too find it phenomenal, and encourage you to check out the sample videos he posts. There is, as usual, a good discussion in the comment thread.