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Martin Haspelmath has been working on a project he’s now put online:

The Grammaticon: Linking grammatical comparative concepts to typological databases

This blogpost introduces a new resource for general-comparative linguistics: the Grammaticon, a collection of hundreds of grammatical comparative concept terms (Haspelmath & Englisch 2026). Version 1.0 has just gone online:

https://grammaticon.clld.org/

Many of these terms are linked to typological features represented in database collections such as WALS, Grambank, or APiCS. Grammatical terminology is quite variable (and often somewhat confusing), so the Grammaticon offers some guidance: Each term has a standard definition, and definitions are typically linked to other terminological resources (such as Wikipedia), and for many of the typological features, the Grammaticon explains how their technical terms relate to the definitions in the Grammaticon.

The Grammaticon was first conceived of in 2017, and the idea was presented at the ALT conference in Canberra (Haspelmath & Forkel 2017). Version 1.0 is now public, and it is hoped that it will be extended and improved greatly over the coming months and years.

Click through for the FAQs; a sample:

The Grammaticon definitions use ordinary language (no abbreviations or other notational devices) and recognize that some terms cannot be defined – they are treated as “primitives”. Is it an accident that this approach is similar to Anna Wierzbicka‘s NSM approach (Natural Semantic Metalanguage, Wierzbicka 1996)?

It is not an accident – the Grammaticon has been inspired by Igor Mel‘čuk‘s approach to definitions of linguistic terms (e.g. Mel‘čuk 1982), and Mel‘čuk in turn inspired Wierzbicka in the 1960s. For the meanings of ordinary words, Wierzbicka‘s approach is compelling and almost without rivals, and it seems to me that technical terms of grammar are best treated in a similar way.

I’ve long been a fan of Gasan Guseinov (e.g., 2014, 2020), so I’m delighted he’s been showing up again in my RSS feed after a long absence. Today I read his RFI essay “Сладость и горечь языков, которых мы не знаем” [The Sweetness and Bitterness of Languages ​​We Don’t Know] (and listened to him read it in his wonderful gravelly voice), and I thought I’d bring a few paragraphs of it here and translate them; those who find them attractive can go to the link and use their favorite translation software if they don’t know Russian. He starts off talking about the pull of foreign languages, and continues:

I’m writing about this now for a particular reason: I’ve just gotten back from Parma, from a conference on the Russian language to which Maria Candida Ghidini and her colleagues gather hundreds of participants from dozens of countries where Russian speakers live. I thought I’d easily be able to make myself understood—at least in a trattoria. I somehow managed to do it, but it wasn’t easy. How can that be? I love Italian so much! I read it almost fluently, and I understand quite a bit. So why can’t I speak it as freely as I sense its sweetness?

I’m talking about languages ​​that are clearly foreign, but it can happen with native languages ​​as well. Today I want to fulfill a promise I made not long ago to tell the story of how my father and I failed to make Azerbaijani—his first native language—at least a second language for me.
[…]

I’ve touched on just one aspect—the linguistic one—of the tragic personal trajectory of the Dzhemal family, touched on it as someone who happened to witness conversations between our fathers—mine and Geydar’s—regarding their unsuccessful attempts to instill in their sons a command of their fathers’ native tongues. One complained that his son, having swallowed the bait of a foreign tongue, had contracted the virus of Islamism and rebellion. The other lamented that his son would be unable to appreciate his poems and novellas in Azerbaijani, having—as so often happens with cosmopolitans—succumbed to nostalgia for the foreign.

The original:

Пишу сейчас об этом не просто так: только что вернулся из Пармы, с конференции о русском языке, на которую Мария Кандида Гидини и ее коллеги собирают сотни участниц из десятков стран, где живут говорящие по-русски люди. Мне казалось, что я легко смогу объясниться хотя бы в траттории. Кое-как смог, но не легко. Как же так? Я ведь так люблю итальянский. Я почти свободно на нем читаю и кое-что понимаю. Почему же я не могу говорить на нем так же свободно, как я ощущаю его сладость?

Но то — языки заведомо иностранные, а ведь бывает такое и с родными языками. Сегодня я хочу исполнить данное не так давно обещание рассказать о том, как у меня самого и у моего отца не получилось сделать азербайджанский — первый родной язык моего отца — и моим хотя бы вторым языком.
[…]

А я коснулся сейчас только одного — языкового — аспекта трагической личной траектории семьи Джемалей, коснулся как человек, случайно бывший свидетелем разговоров наших с Гейдаром отцов о неудачном опыте приобщения сыновей к родному языку этих самых отцов. Один жаловался, что сын с наживкой языка проглотил вирус исламизма и бунтарства. Другой сокрушался, что сын не сможет оценить его стихов и новелл на азербайджанском языке, поскольку, как свойственно космополитам, предался ксенальгии.

I thought about translating the last word, ксенальгия, as “xenalgia,” but I think that’s even less a word in English than in Russian, so I expanded it. And the bit about speaking Italian resonated strongly with me: that’s exactly my experience with Russian. I read it so well, why can’t I speak it other than haltingly?

Nelson Goering posted on Facebook as follows (I’ve added links and italics):

Roan eats a lot of banana these days, and as is inevitable in such circumstances, we got to talking about the word “banana”. English Wiktionary claims it goes back either to Wolof banaana, or to a similar word in a related language, but goes no further. Le Trésor de la langue française informatisé says it’s probably from “le bantou de Guinée” (the Bantu of Guinea): since Guinea doesn’t, as far as I know, have any native Bantu languages, I guess this either means Equatorial Guinea, or is using “bantou” in a very broad sense to refer to the larger Atlantic-Congo family.

I’m curious if anyone I know here has any further light to shed, both whether the Wolof/Atlantic-Congo origin is regarded as likely, and if so, if there’s anything to say about the history of the word *within* Atlantic-Congo.

I responded “There are a number of Africanists at LH, so I’ll post this and see what they have to say,” and I am now so posting it. Thoughts? (Forget the OED — its entry is from 1885.)

I happened on this translation by Clare Cavanagh and Michał Rusinek of a Miron Białoszewski poem in the NYRB:

It’s Easy to Lose Faith

A horse and cart went past.
I see. I believe in them.

They grow dark.

The horse and cart went past.
But the horse had a horse.
The cart had a cart.

They led their own selves
large from shadows
along the acacias.

And now it’s hard for me to believe
in the horse and cart.

Here’s the original Polish:

Jak łatwo stracić wiarę

Przeszedł koń i fura.
Widzę. Wierzę w nich.

Ściemnia się.

Przeszedł koń i fura.
Ale koń miał konia.
Fura miała furę.
Prowadzili te swoje
wielkie z cieni
po akacjach

I już mi trudno uwierzyć
w konia i furę.

I like the poem and the translation; what I’m wondering is if Prowadzili te swoje wielkie z cieni necessarily implies they were leading “their own selves” or simply unspecified large things of theirs. I do not know Polish, I just triangulate from other Slavic. Also, doesn’t Ściemnia się mean “It’s getting dark” rather than “They grow dark”?

As for the title, the Polish literally translates to “How Easy It Is to Lose Faith”; I like that better than the abbreviated one Cavanagh and Rusinek chose, even though I realize “It’s Easy to Lose Faith” is snappier and probably more attractive to the English-language reader.

In Jé Wilson’s NYRB review (March 7, 2024; archived) of Barbara Comyns: A Savage Innocence by Avril Horner, there is a description of Comyns’ childhood that begins “She grew up as Barbara Bayley in Warwickshire, in a manor bordering the River Avon, a few miles from Stratford. The fourth of six children, five of whom were girls, she spent much of her time running wild outside with her siblings.” Later it says “In keeping with the general neglect, the Bayley girls were left to tumble up when it came to education.” I was unfamiliar with the phrase “tumble up,” and my wife said she was too, so I did some investigating. The OED (entry from 1915) has (s.v. tumble):

II.7.b. to tumble up: to make haste, originally (Nautical) from below deck. slang.

1826 The command was repeated by the boatswain and his mates, who were piping and roaring down the hatchways—‘Tumble up, tumble up from below.’
W. N. Glascock, Naval Sketch-book 1st Series vol. I. 8

1832 Tumble up smartly, my lads.
F. Marryat, Newton Forster vol. II. iv. 48
[…]

And Green’s has it in two senses:

1. to rush, to hurry.
[…]
2. to rise from bed.

But these senses don’t appear to correspond to the use in the context of the quoted sentence, where it seems to mean something like ‘make do as best they could.’ Is anyone familiar with this sense? Is it too recent to be in the dictionaries? (Incidentally, Comyns is pronounced as if spelled Cummins; it’s historically the same Irish name as Cummings.)

Songdog was over here today and mentioned a Turkish-American friend whose given name was Ebru; intrigued, I looked it up and discovered that it means ‘ebru (marbled paper, handmade in a variety of styles by artisans using traditional techniques),’ with this surprising etymology:

From Ottoman Turkish ابرو (ebru), a clipping of Classical Persian ابر و باد (abr-u-bād, literally “cloud and wind”); earlier texts employ the simpler ابری (abri, literally “cloudy”), a term that is still in use.

I hope it’s true, because it’s very charming indeed. (You can see an example of the marbled paper at the link.)

This is about as niche as niche gets, but I’m always up for an obsessive investigation into some terminally obscure phenomenon, especially when it involves type, and I figure I’m not the only one, so I hereby present Jonathan Chan’s search for the origin and meaning of ⍼:

1. Apr. 2022 U+237C ⍼ RIGHT ANGLE WITH DOWNWARDS ZIGZAG ARROW (“Known as right angle with downwards zigzag arrow, angle with down zig-zag arrow, \rangledownzigzagarrow, and ⍼, no one knows what ⍼ is meant to represent or where it originated from.”)
2. June 2023 update: U+237C ⍼ ⍼ (“Our glyph comes from Monotype under the matrix serial number S16139.”)
3. Jan. 2024 Monotype Mathematical Sorts (“And finally, here we have once again the 1972 list of mathematical characters, including series L231 containing ⍼, which is bound together with the original list rather than collected alongside as looseleaf.”)
4. Aug. 2024 U+237C ⍼ is (also) S9576 ⍼ (“The earliest verifiable appearance of ⍼ is then January 1963, and must have been created in the eight-year period between then and December 1954.”)
5. Feb. 2026 U+237C ⍼ is Azimuth

Very satisfying to finally get a solution! I have to say I was shocked by this passing remark in the 2023 update: “I requested a digital scan of that page, which cost 18£.” Eighteen pounds for a scan of one page?! But good for him for coughing up. (Via MeFi.)

Yosef Treller has a very interesting Facebook post (in Russian) that starts:

Я – то, что называлось в советское время “книголюб”, 60 лет покупаю, собираю, меняю, а в последние годы – продаю книги (чтобы купить другие, соответствующие моим нынешним вкусам)

I am what was known in the Soviet era as a “booklover”; for sixty years I have been buying, collecting, and trading books — and in recent years, selling them (in order to buy others that suit my current tastes).

He says that now, of course, you can get pretty much anything you want: “Хочешь Платона, Костанеду, Стругацких, Пастернака, Даниэлу Стил или, прости Господи, Армалинского – только плати” [you can get Plato, Castaneda, the Strugatskys, Pasternak, Danielle Steel, or — God forgive me — Armalinsky, you just have to pay]. But back in the day, from the ’60s through the ’80s, things were more interesting — booklovers had to go to a lot of trouble to find what they wanted, and those who had access to the desired books through connections could charge what the market would bear. He goes on to list the “white whales” that were in particular demand:
[Read more…]

Rhiannon Lucy Cosslett’s Guardian piece is one of those news stories that leave me filled with rage and wanting to smash things:

“All you need is a five-minute spot on a morning TV show,” a colleague told me recently. “Then everyone will buy your novel.” I tried to picture myself, with my horror of being filmed, in thick orange makeup, perched on a sofa in a brightly lit studio while trying to talk about how the French critic Hélène Cixous inspired me to want to write the first great ovulation novel. It sounded ridiculous for all involved.

Yet when you’re a writer, you are supposed to take every opportunity you can get. That was the attitude to news that Helen DeWitt had turned down the $175,000 (£129,000) Windham-Campbell prize on the basis of being unable to fulfil its promotional obligations, which included six to eight hours of filming. The prize, which this year was given to eight writers in recognition of their life’s work, is intended to give recipients time and space to work independently of financial concerns.

DeWitt is a critically acclaimed author, and her debut novel, The Last Samurai – published 26 years ago – is widely regarded as a work of innovative genius. Opinions on her recent stance are strongly divided: some have praised her principled refusal to play the self-promotion game that takes so much out of writers, while others have called her a spoilt, entitled nightmare. […]

Reading through DeWitt’s posts, a picture of a supremely talented writer emerges, one who has faced long periods of living hand to mouth, being out of print, tricky paths to publication causing untold stress, struggles with depression and executive dysfunction, and caring responsibilities. Many authors can empathise.

Unable to commit to the promotional work required, DeWitt says she asked the prize organisers for adjustments that they ultimately refused. According to the novelist Daisy Lafarge, this revealed an attitude to disability and chronic illness that is “impoverished and embarrassingly outdated”. “The prize’s refusal to meet her halfway exposes something I’ve found to be endemic in the book world,” says Lafarge, who adds that the art world is way ahead on facilitating the access and assistance needs of artists. In publishing “if you’re not able-bodied, your choices are to drop out or just grit your teeth”. Both are costly. […]

Yet this controversy doesn’t only highlight inclusivity issues in publishing. It’s also that writing no longer feels like the main job. Many writers are oddballs, and some are geniuses whose giftedness is arguably a form of neurodivergence. Artists such as that can be sensitive and difficult. They need uninterrupted time to create. They do not fit easily into the world of professionalised self-promotion that constitutes modern publishing. As DeWitt wrote in a blog post: “We can think of so many writers we admire for whom the whole thing would be unthinkable – off the top of my head, Dickinson, Proust, Kafka, Beckett, Pessoa, Salinger, Harper Lee, Pynchon, DeLillo, Cormac McCarthy, Ferrante.”

Why on earth would you dangle a large wad of money in front of someone you claim to believe is an important writer but make it contingent on their doing things no writer should be asked to do (though some, of course, are willing to)? Publicity is the business of publishers and salespeople; a writer’s job is to write. I’ve been a DeWitt fan since 2003 and have long been furious that she hasn’t gotten the support that should go along with the universal respect she commands; happily, as the end of the linked piece reveals, a “conservative university thinktank” has offered her a grant of $175,000 with no strings attached, and good for them, I say, even if they’re just trying to score points off the libs. (You can read DeWitt’s own detailed account at her blog.) Thanks, Eric!

My wife asked me about the word plan — was it related to plane? I had a vague idea that it was, that they were both from Latin plānus ‘level, flat,’ but I wasn’t at all sure, so I looked it up, and it turns out to be more complicated and interesting. The OED revised its entry in 2006, and the top sense is “An organized (and usually detailed) proposal according to which something is to be done; a scheme of action; a strategy; a programme, schedule” (first cite 1635 “In marshalling of our armies, and Battels, our moderne plans jump almost with those of the Ancient; yet our Sieges, beleaguring of townes, and instrumentes of war doe far exceede theirs”), while almost as early is “A drawing, sketch, or diagram of any object made by projection on a horizontal plane; esp. one showing the layout of a building or one floor of a building” (1664 “Andrea Palladio, to whom we are oblig’d for a very rare Collection of antique Plans and Profiles of all sorts of Buildings, design’d after a most excellent manner”); the etymology:

Partly < French plan drawing, sketch, or diagram made by projection on a horizontal plane showing the layout of a building, city, area, etc. (1547 in Middle French; 1545 as plant), drawing guiding the establishment of a building, or of a work which is to be realized (1563; 1538 as plant), set of measures adopted in order to accomplish something (1627) (< planter: see plant v.), and partly < French plan plane surface (1553 in Middle French), use as noun of plan, adjective (see plane adj.). Compare Italian pianta (a1529), Spanish planta (1600).

So it’s half plane and half plant. I like messy word histories.