languagehat.com

From the home page:

“Starobulgarska Literatura” (“Medieval Bulgarian Literature”) is a specialized peer-reviewed journal dedicated to medieval Bulgarian literature and culture and their Byzantine and European contexts. Since Medieval Bulgarian literature constitutes an important segment of the European cultural heritage, our journal is addressed to an international audience and highlights the work of both Bulgarian and foreign scholars. The journal publishes original research in the fields of literary and interdisciplinary studies of medieval Slavic literatures, as well as editions of unpublished old Slavic literary works and their newly-discovered copies, critical reviews, surveys, information on national and international medievalist events, and current bibliography.

“Starobulgarska Literatura” is published in one issue per year. It contains materials in Bulgarian, Russian, English and German.

The current issue (Issue 71-72 [2025]) has some interesting-looking articles, like Dobriela Kotova’s “Constantine of Preslav as Translator and Preacher: Emotion and Reason in the Uchitel’noe Evangelie” and Lora Taseva’s “Old Bulgarian Translation Correlates of ἀμφιβάλλω ‘doubt; disagree, quarrel’.” Thanks, V!

A great site I recently learned about: Визуализация переписи населения Российской империи 1897 года [Visualization of the 1897 Russian Empire Census]. You can look up individual cities or guberniyas or see the overall imperial statistics. This is going to be a tremendous boon to anyone interested in Russia at the turn of the previous century.

1) Jeanna Smialek, “What French Romance Novels Could Tell Us About A.I. and Translation Jobs” (NY Times, Feb. 15, 2026; archived):

The European Union, with its 27 nations and two dozen official languages, is a center of the translation and interpretation industry. That is why, in Brussels and The Hague and Paris, a recent nugget of literary news has generated so much conversation.

Harlequin France — purveyor of titles like “Médecins et Célibataires” (“Doctors and Singles”) and “Passion Pour un Inconnu” (“Passion for a Stranger”) — recently confirmed that it would be running tests with Fluent Planet, a company that uses A.I. to make translation cheaper and faster. The move was met with both outrage and resignation within the industry. Translator groups called Harlequin’s decision to cut ties with some human translators “unacceptable.” Translators themselves posted about the “sad news.” […]

Harlequin France’s story is an example of how artificial intelligence is sweeping the translation field, rapidly improving machine translation, particularly for popular language pairs like English and French.

Reports of the death of human translation are exaggerated, as the piece goes on to say. But “outrage and resignation” about sums it up. Thanks, cuchuflete!

2) Kashmir Hill, “They Are in Love but Don’t Speak the Same Language” (NY Times, Feb. 14, 2026; archived):
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Hermione Lee’s NYRB review (February 12, 2026 issue; archived) of Francesca Wade’s new life of Gertrude Stein starts with a pleasing quotation:

As part of her account of how amazingly well-known Gertrude Stein had become in America by the mid-1930s, Francesca Wade refers to, but doesn’t quote, this exchange from Top Hat (1935) in which Ginger Rogers’s dressmaker is reading her a telegram:

“Come ahead Stop. Stop being a sap Stop… My husband is stopping at your hotel Stop. When do you start Stop.” I cannot understand who wrote this.

Rogers: Sounds like Gertrude Stein.

The review is admirably even-handed, and anyone interested in Stein and her shifting reputation might want to read it; I’ll post a couple more bits I liked. After mentioning Stein’s bullying father, she quotes this, from Everybody’s Autobiography (1937):

Fathers are depressing. There is too much fathering going on just now…. There is father Mussolini and father Hitler…and father Stalin…. Fathers are depressing.

Perhaps a touch overgeneralized, but one can sympathize. And this is a delicate skewering:

Sometimes the praise feels excessively solemn, as when Wade comments on Stein’s late-1920s essays on grammar: “She moved increasingly away from nouns, whose meanings were disappointingly preordained, and from punctuation, which she found didactic.”

From Laurence Anthony’s Website (“Welcome to AntLab! This site showcases my various software tools, publications, and presentations”) comes WordFamilyFinder: “Look up words in the 30 baseword lists (and 4 supplementary lists) to find all associated family members. Each list contains 1000 word families.” I got there via Anatoly Vorobey, who suggests trying to get a word in each successive baseword list. He found one in each of the first ten; I got the first five (plus one I didn’t expect to be as low as 33: “weekend”) and thought I’d post it before trying more, since it gobbles up time without your noticing. It’s a lot of fun, and I’ve discovered I don’t have a very good sense of relative frequency (“eagle” is 4 and “pigeon” is 5? really?).

Yiddish Empowerment Coach has an interesting Facebook post:

What if I told you that sometimes, transliteration is more authentic than using the alef-beys?

We’re often taught that “real” Yiddish lives in the alef-beys. And those who can’t read it yet? They often feel ashamed. Unskilled. Left out of classes and locked out of literature.

And yes — the alphabet matters. Standardization matters. It lets us teach, publish, and build a shared language in an ancient script dripping with heritage. But standardization also smooths. It evens out quirks. It blurs regional music into one correct, homogeneous voice.

Which is why I love a little joke book called Royte Pomerantsn.

In the early 1900s, the ethnographer Immanuel Olsvanger collected Jewish folk humor in Lithuanian shtetlekh — and published it in transliteration. Not neat, standardized YIVO transliteration. A quirky, phonetic system that captures the Litvish dialect of his storytellers. So you see:
– dar instead of der
– id instead of yid
– nit instead of nisht
– zakh instead of zikh

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Margherita Bassi reports for Smithsonian magazine on another remarkable development in decipherment:

A little more than a thousand years ago, monks at Saint Catherine’s Monastery in Egypt’s Sinai desert removed Western Palestinian Aramaic and Greek writing from animal-skin parchments. They replaced the words with a Syriac translation of writings by John Climacus, also known as Saint John of the Ladder. […]

The original text, however, might not be completely lost. That’s good news, because it seems to contain copied portions of a second-century B.C.E. star catalog with maps originally created by the Greek astronomer Hipparchus, known as the “father of scientific astronomy.” Researchers are now using a type of particle accelerator at the SLAC National Accelerator Laboratory to uncover the hidden words.

“X-ray beams from our synchrotron at SLAC are helping uncover the long-erased and overwritten star map by scanning for trace metals left behind by the original inks,” reads a social media post from SLAC.

Previous work has revealed that many pages of the Codex Climaci Rescriptus come from a fifth- or sixth-century C.E. book, which included a copy of an astronomical poem titled Phaenomena. It was originally written by the Greek poet Aratus in the third century B.C.E. Alongside the poem appear to be transcriptions from Hipparchus’ star catalog, which was completed around 129 B.C.E. The work represents the “earliest known attempt to record accurate coordinates of many celestial objects observable with the naked eye,” researchers wrote in a 2022 study investigating the Codex Climaci Rescriptus’ original writings. […]

Last month, researchers at SLAC began scanning 11 pages of the codex, which were sent to the laboratory in Menlo Park, California, by the Museum of the Bible in Washington, D.C., reports KQED’s Ayah Ali-Ahmad. The facility’s synchrotron lightsource instrument produces intense X-ray beams that can unveil the document’s hidden text based on the ink composition, which differs from that used by the monks. The work has already revealed the ancient Greek word for “Aquarius” and details about stars within the constellation, Victor Gysembergh, a historian of science at the French National Center for Scientific Research who is leading the project, tells the outlet.

More info, and images, at the link. Today Hipparchus, tomorrow the world Archilochus!

I was reading Noah Shachtman’s NY Times piece on Bad Bunny (archived) when I hit the following passage and had to pause:

The United States is different, and more complicated. It’s really multiple markets in one, each developing and growing side by side. Spanish speakers might be watching música Mexicana videos while Caribbean immigrants and their kids are listening to dancehall, and members of the African diaspora are streaming amapiano. “When you’re that big and that culturally diverse,” Mr. Page says, “it can all happen within your borders.”

Amapiano? It looked Zulu, but there was something odd about it. So I googled, and Wikipedia explained:

Amapiano is a genre of music from South Africa that became popular in the early 2020s. It is a hybrid of kwaito, deep house, gqom, jazz, soul, and lounge music characterized by synths and wide, percussive basslines. The word “amapiano” derives from the IsiZulu word for “pianos”.

Pianos! That’s what I call a fun etymology. (I may actually investigate the music one of these days…)

Natasha Wimmer’s lengthy NYRB review essay on Alejo Carpentier (February 22, 2024; archived) has some good Hattic material near the start:

The historical novels that make up most of his oeuvre favor the Enlightenment and its ideas, but there are also currents of mid-twentieth-century surrealism and existentialism, Afro-Caribbean legend, Hollywoodesque epic, and Victorian maximalism. His prose—revered and sometimes gently mocked in the Spanish-speaking world—is extravagant, bejeweled with rare words and majuscules (a rare word he would surely favor), and festooned with lists. The Chilean writer Alejandro Zambra describes his grammar school introduction to Carpentier’s verbiage in his affectionate foreword to Adrian Nathan West’s new translation of Explosion in a Cathedral (issued simultaneously with West’s translation of The Lost Steps, from 1953): “Was that how people in Cuba spoke? Or was it, rather, the writer’s language? Or were we the ones who, quite simply, were ignorant of our own language? But was that our language?”

This sense of marvel and puzzlement is alive in West’s translations, which reintroduce English-language readers to this giant of Latin American fiction. The original 1963 English translation of Explosion in a Cathedral by John Sturrock is mostly sure-footed and highly readable (for better and worse), but West lovingly restores the eccentric sweep and florid detail of the novel, better conveying the grandness of Carpentier’s vision.* That’s only part of the task, though, because for all his ornamentation, Carpentier is not a forbidding writer. West’s translation is sensitive to his humor and irony, and the reader is borne happily along through the thickets.

To begin with, West reverses the decision made by Sturrock (or Sturrock’s editors) to break the text into digestible paragraphs, restoring Carpentier’s monumental slabs of text and thereby the novel’s unconventional pacing. He also takes care not to dispel mysteries unnecessarily. Take the first sentence of the novel: “Last night, I saw the Machine rise up again” (West) versus “I saw them erect the guillotine again tonight” (Sturrock). (In Spanish, Esta noche he visto alzarse la Máquina nuevamente.) Sturrock introduces a prosaic “them,” shifts the ringing Esta noche (“tonight” in his translation) to a weaker position at the end of the sentence, and—most critically—decodes the sinister “Machine,” leaching the text of its cryptic force. (Carpentier never uses the word “guillotine” in this opening section.)

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I found Wouter J. Hanegraaff’s Facebook post extraordinarily depressing; I’ll reproduce it here (apart from the photos, which show lots of empty shelves) so you can be depressed too (or not, depending on your attitude toward these things):

Empty shelves. What used to be the literature collection of the University of Amsterdam in the PC Hooft building now feels like a ghostly place. Yesterday I happened to pass by and noticed that the doors were open, so I went inside and found myself wandering for half an hour through what used to be a buzzing place full of students, academics and, of course, books.

They are gone. After the summer last year, the UvA opened its (splendid!) new humanities library at the heart of the university quarter in the old city. The new building is beautiful, a great place for students and staff to come and study, and at first sight it looks like a true library, including many study places lined with books. I very much appreciate this new building, and yet the impression is deceptive, for most of the physical books have actually vanished from the library’s collection, replaced by digital copies. The heart is gone. What’s left is essentially an empty shell.

I had a conversation with a colleague who works in the UvA’s library context, and who told me how few books are actually left in the collection. When I expressed my feelings of malaise about this development, she asked me “but how often do you yourself still order a physical older book?” And I had to admit it: rarely. I buy books that I want to read. But like almost every other academic these days, I use digital copies of books that I just need to consult.

I understand the cold financial logic of getting rid of enormous collections of books that are never used (a previous librarian could tell me the exact housing costs for each square meter of books, in a city like Amsterdam where space it extremely expensive). But even apart from the well-established fact that digital books are much more vulnerable than physical ones and may simply not survive the future development of technology (take a moment to imagine what that means!), some unquantifiable quality gets lost forever if one can no longer smell and turn the yellowed pages in a book that was published a hundred years ago. They have an aura.

Most of all, I’m saddened by the managerial “presentist” mentality of not being worried all too much about the destruction of cultural and intellectual heritage. I’ll never forget a small exchange I once had in a café, when somebody asked me what I did for a living and I told her that I was a historian. For several seconds she looked at me with a stunned expression on her face, and finally managed to blurt out: “but… but… it’s over!” She just couldn’t fathom that somebody would be interested in the past.

In fairness, here’s a response from a librarian:
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I have always vaguely wondered how far back that famous phrase goes, and Dave Wilton has done the relevant spadework at Wordorigins:

The phrase take me to your leader is a science fiction cliché, so much so that in the 2007 “Voyage of the Damned” Christmas episode of Doctor Who the time-traveling, title character said, “Take me to your leader! I’ve always wanted to say that!” (Another phrase in that episode that the good doctor always wanted to say was “Allons-y Alonso!”)

The current popularity of the phrase and its application to extraterrestrials and flying saucers dates to the 1950s, but the phrase itself is considerably older. The first known application of a variant of the phrase to first contact with extraterrestrials dates to 21 March 1953 and a cartoon by Alex Graham that appeared in the New Yorker (shown here). The cartoon depicts a flying saucer that has landed in a field and two aliens talking to a horse, saying, “Kindly take us to your President!”

We see the phrase in its familiar form in an Associated Press article from 21 August 1956 that reported on the Republican National Convention in San Francisco:

One delegate, intrigued by an outer-space type of portable transmitter in the hands of a network reporter, walked up and demanded, “Take me to your leader.”

But the 10 October 1956 issue of Variety also reports on this incident, calling it “the old space-man gag,” indicating that the catchphrase was already well associated with UFOs.

And before the extraterrestrial invasion of our popular culture, the phrase appears quite often in adventure fiction dating back to the nineteenth century.

Click through for the 19th-century quotes, and of course for the cartoon. My curiosity is now satisfied. (For a related joke, see Dan Milton’s joke here; I quoted “Allons-y, Alonso!” in 2022.)