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John Guillory is famous (in certain circles) for his use of the concepts “cultural capital” and “social capital” to take whacks at literary scholars and their pretensions. God knows pretensions always need a good whack, but it makes me nervous when people emphasize sociopolitical concepts like that at the expense of the esthetic (which is always in danger, because it has no obvious utility). At any rate, Dan Sinykin has a good Nation review (archived) of Guillory’s new book On Close Reading:

“What is close reading?” a professor asked us on the first day of a seminar on modern American poetry. I could see that he was needling us, deflating our presumptions. We all pretended that we knew what close reading meant. We not only talked about it but we did it. We knew it when we saw it, and we knew when it was done badly—but what it was, in the end, we couldn’t exactly say. You might think it strange for literature students to be incapable of describing a core practice of their field, but we weren’t alone.

In his slim new volume, On Close Reading, John Guillory sets out to explain what close reading is and “why it has been so difficult to define” by way of a fascinating anthropology of reading that makes available new arguments in defense of the practice. At first glance, the book might appear to be an addendum to Guillory’s 40-plus-year project to clarify what literary study achieves—and, pointedly, what it doesn’t. But On Close Reading is more than that: It helps to clarify the stakes involved in reading to begin with, even if we might quarrel with its conclusions.

After a summary of Guillory’s earlier work, Sinykin continues:

On Close Reading, then, reads like a postscript, a bit that Guillory couldn’t fit into his previous book. But though it is slim, On Close Reading is not slight. In it, Guillory situates close reading in a wide historical, political, and sociological context. Exegetes and interpreters have “read closely”—which is not the same, he argues, as “closely read”—for millennia, from biblical commentators to the “philological and textual” critics of the Renaissance to hermeneuts in the German tradition of Schleiermacher and Gadamer to French practitioners of explication de texte. But in the early 20th century, groups of scholars in England and the United States sought to provide a newly rigorous basis for interpretation, changing how professionals in the Anglophone world read (and still read) today.

(Note that no Russians are mentioned, and a Google Books search shows that Guillory ignores the formalists and their immensely influential version of close reading, but that is, sadly, only to be expected in the Anglophone world of walled-off scholarship. But to continue…)
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Joel Christensen’s substack on the Iliad is, I think, the only substack I’ve subscribed to, and I found this post particularly interesting:

This summer, I am working through two recent books that I think will become standard reading for Homerists and Hellenists: Charles Stocking’s Homer’s Iliad and the Problem of Force (Oxford, 2023) and Chiara Bozzone’s Homer’s Living Language: Formularity, Dialect, and Creativity in Oral Traditional Poetry (Cambridge, 2024). […]

Stocking’s Homer’s Iliad and the Problem of Force starts out by invoking both Simone Weil’s articulation of “force” as the subject of the Iliad rending Homeric poetry–in Stocking’s words–“a transhistorical monument to the singularity of force, which transforms the human subject into an object” (2023, 1) and Bruno Snell’s analysis of different forms of force in his famous Die Entdeckung des Geistes (The Discovery of the Mind). Where Weil sets up “force” thematically as a central concern of the epic (and ignores that there are many ways to talk about it), Snell sees the varied expressions for ‘force’ in Homer (menos, bie, sthenos, kratos, alke, (w)is, dynamis etc) as evidence of an externalization of motivation and agency in Homeric characters. For Snell, according to Stocking, “the plurality of forces parallels [Snell’s] other observations on the plurality of sight and cognition….[which] are symptomatic of a “primitive” form of “self-consciousness” which is not yet capable of unifying “self-conscious thought…[playing] a critical role in Snell’s overall argument that “Homeric man” is incapable of understanding himself as a single, unified individual, neither in body nor mind” (2023, 3).

What Stocking is getting at in his introduction, is that Snell uses the multiple words for force and their applications in epic to argue that Homer depicts people as subject to a number of external powers in a fragmentary way that implies they are incapable of imagining themselves as singular wholes. This argument–connected to a rather particular mid-century, European model of human development that is radically out of step with modern physical anthropology, human cognition, and more, was extremely influential in the 20th century. The most egregious–and amusing–example of an author taking Snell very, very seriously is Julian Jaynes in his The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind (his use of Greek material is not good).

(Anybody who snarks about Julian Jaynes is a friend of mine!) He goes on to say:
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That fine poet and Hattic truffle-hunter Trevor Joyce sent me an image of “An ad from 1910, I gather,” adding:

Since you dealt with the chip hat recently, this caught my attention
in a FB group (Dublin in photos/memories past & present), and I’m
stopped short by the cluster of other terms. Putty is presumably just
a light greyish brown, and trimmed just means something hattish, but
the rest?

Alas, I don’t know how to share the image, but the text reads:

MILLINERY

Soft Flexible Chip, Trimmed Velvet. In all
 self colours and putty, and new burnt
  trimmed, all shades, 5/11

 MANSFIELD
  SISTERS
 THE RECOGNISED MILLINERS,
28 Wicklow Street.

Anybody know what that “self colours and putty, and new burnt” stuff means? (Amusingly, if you google “soft flexible chip” you get hits like “Professor George Malliaras, who worked on the soft, flexible chip from the University of Cambridge’s Department of Engineering…”)

I got another great word from Douchet’s Nouvelle Vague (see this post) — in Jean-Luc Godard’s knuckle-rapping 1958 review of Kubrick’s The Killing (“C’est le film d’un bon élève, sans plus”), he writes:

Et je ne citerais pas Ophuls, qui n’a rien à voir dans l’affaire, si Stanley Kubrick ne se réclamait de son influence par des agaçants mouvements d’appareil, tels que les aimait le metteur en scène du Plaisir. Mais ce qui chez Ophuls correspondait à une certaine vision du monde, chez Kubrick n’est qu’esbroufe gratuite.

I didn’t recall seeing the word esbroufe before; my big bilingual Larousse translates it as “bluff,” but that’s clearly inadequate, given Dictionnaires Le Robert’s definition “Étalage de manières prétentieuses et insolentes.” Wiktionary has “faff; jibber-jabber,” which is just silly, and doesn’t venture an etymology; Wiktionnaire says “(Familier) Manières fanfaronnes et bruyantes, hâbleries de gens qui veulent en imposer aux autres” and gives the etymology “De l’occitan provençal esbroufo / esbrofa (« s’ébrouer »). Lui-même de l’italien sbruffare (« asperger »).” That linked page on the Italian word calls it onomatopoeic, but I don’t believe it; the Dizionario Etimologico says it’s from Latin ex- + proflare, which may or may not be true, but at least they’re trying.

Oh, and right above esbroufe in that bilingual Larousse is esbigner, also a great word unknown to me; they render s’esbigner as “to skedaddle; to make ᴏᴜ to clear off,” and Wiktionnaire gives a bifurcated etymology:

De l’argot italien svignare (« décamper, sortir de la vigne ») de vigna mais « le passage de v à b fait cependant difficulté. »
Ou de l’occitan s’esbinhar (« se débiner, s’esquiver, s’évader, s’éclipser, décamper, détaler, déguerpir, prendre la fuite, s’enfuir, fuir; filer à l’anglaise; se dérober, se soustraire aux regards ») dérivé de binhar, avec le préfixe es- → voir ex- et bigner (« regarder »).

If only I thought I could remember these satisfying words!

I noticed that the Wikipedia article is under that spelling and thought that was very odd, since I’ve never seen it in English — Wiktionary has it under jujitsu and says:

Borrowed from Japanese 柔術 (jūjutsu). Popular spelling jitsu (instead of less popular jiutsu or jutsu) could reference to allophonic [d͡ʑɨ] or [d͡ʑi] (in Shitamachi dialect). First mentioned in The Japan Mail (1875, page 133), before the widespread use of the Hepburn system.

So that answered (more or less) my question about why we spell it with -jit-, but left me to wonder why Wikipedia used that bizarre spelling. Never fear, there was a long and contentious Talk page discussion about it back in 2010! It starts off with the following exchange:

Isn’t the spelling jujitsu more common in English as found on thefreedictionary?. Unless I get any opposing views soon, I intend to rename the article with this spelling.–Chrono1084 (talk) 16:20, 11 April 2010 (UTC)

No, “jujitsu” is a common misspelling, and is incorrect. Interestingly, this mistake is currently only really made by non-Japanese practitioners of jujutsu. The kanji for “jutsu” is the same one used by every Japanese martial art like iaijutsu, kenjutsu, ninjutsu, etc. Asymnation (talk) 16:20, 1 June 2010 (UTC)

The rest of the discussion consists of various people supporting one or the other of these opposed views; the first is obviously correct (jujutsu is not a standard English spelling, end of story), but there were so many aggrieved proponents of the “incorrect misspelling” view that the final resolution was:

Since there seems to be a majority of users who opposes the renaming, the actual title will be kept.–Chrono1084 (talk) 00:51, 11 July 2010 (UTC)

I’m just glad I don’t bother my head about Wikisquabbles any more — I could easily have gotten sucked in and lost my temper.

Robert Cioffi’s LRB review (8 May 2025; archived) of The Red Sea Scrolls: How Ancient Papyri Reveal the Secrets of the Pyramids by Pierre Tallet and Mark Lehner describes the excavations at Wadi al-Jarf:

Wadi el-Jarf​ lies two hundred kilometres south-east of Cairo on a pristine stretch of the Red Sea coast. It dates from the time of the pharaoh Sneferu, the father of Khufu, builder of the Great Pyramid of Giza, who used it as a staging post for expeditions to the Sinai Peninsula in search of turquoise and copper ore. For the past 4500 years, it has lain dormant. To the untrained eye, the port is hardly visible: deep galleries carved out of limestone bluffs, the low walls of a few comb-like structures, a sandy beach, the rocky remnants of an ancient jetty. But on 12 March 2013, a team of French and Egyptian archaeologists led by Pierre Tallet discovered six fragments of papyrus in a depression near the limestone cliffs five kilometres from the shore. Hundreds of thousands of texts written on papyrus have been discovered in Egypt – ritual and religious instructions for the afterlife, works of literature, bills, contracts, tax receipts, lawsuits and orders for grain – but none as old as these. Over the next month, Tallet’s team uncovered more than a thousand fragments of papyrus. They had found, almost by accident, a first-hand account of the men who built the Great Pyramid of Giza. […]

The most enduring mystery of the pyramids is the fact of their existence. There has been serious scholarly disagreement over the number of workers, their status and how they went about their monumental task. Herodotus, who stands roughly equidistant between Khufu’s time and ours, writes that Khufu ‘drove [the Egyptians] into complete misery’, with teams of a hundred thousand men compelled to haul stones for three months at a time. As Herodotus has it, workers first built a set of steps and then used levers to fill in the gaps and produce the pyramid’s smooth sides. Four hundred years later, Diodorus Siculus, a Sicilian who wrote in Greek, proposed that the stones were moved on earthen ramps, so that the pyramid seemed ‘not the slow labour of humanity, but a sudden creation of some god, set down in the surrounding sand’. The whole project, Diodorus and Herodotus agree, took twenty years. Archaeologists have found evidence – ranging from the remains of ramps to modern trials with levers and ropes – for techniques similar to those they describe, but both accounts, written two thousand years after the fact, leave much to be desired.

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I’m reading Nouvelle Vague by Jean Douchet, who was around at the birth of the fabled New Wave in French cinema, knew everybody, and has excellent taste — I recommend it to anyone interested in the topic (there’s a translation if you don’t read French). Along with film history, I’m picking up a lot of vocabulary; here are a couple of examples.

1) Talking about the young future Nouvelle Vague directors, Douchet writes “Ils savent donc qu’il leur faut affronter directement les règles du système pour le pénétrer … par effraction de préférence.” The word I’ve bolded was completely opaque to me; it turns out to mean ‘breaking and entering, burglary,’ but what surprised me was that it also exists in English! OED (1891 entry):

Breaking open (a house); burglary.

1840 The dwelling-place where the effraction was perpetrated.
New Monthly Magazine vol. 58 277

1868 A riot, with effraction and murder.
H. H. Milman, Annals of St. Paul’s Cathedral iv. 80

1881 Such efficient instruments of effraction that no bolts or locks could resist them.
J. Payne in translation of F. Villon, Poems (new edition) Introduction 54

The etymology is “< French effraction, as if < Latin *effractiōn-em, formed as effracted adj.”

2) Describing the period before the founding of Cahiers du cinéma, he says: “Après la disparition de La Revue du cinéma (et de son fondateur Jean Georges Auriol) et de L’Écran français, il y avait véritablement disette en la matière.” Again, the bolded word was new to me; it means ‘scarcity, shortage, dearth,’ and the etymology is a tangle — TLFi says:
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I’m reading Sinclair Lewis’s It Can’t Happen Here, which I’ve had for decades but for some reason decided was appropriate reading now, and I came across this sentence describing a picnic in 1936:

But for the parked motorcars, the scene might have been New England in 1885, and you could see the women in chip hats and tight-bodiced, high-necked frocks with bustles; the men in straw boaters with dangling ribbons and adorned with side-whiskers—Doremus’s beard not clipped, but flowing like a bridal veil.

I asked my wife if she knew what a chip hat might be, but she had no more clue than I did, so I looked it up in the OED (entry revised 2021):

chip hat

Now chiefly historical.

A light hat woven or plaited from thin strips of wood, palm leaf, etc.

1723 Wears a mix’d Orange Coloured Gown, and a Chip Hat.
Stamford Mercury 2 May 211/2

1859 The wood of the White Willow has been extensively used in the manufacture of chip-hats.
W. S. Coleman, Our Woodlands 65

1966 A debonair young man..with a broad-brimmed chip hat of the kind the prisoners wove from strips of maple wood.
T. H. Raddall, Hangman’s Beach i. iv. 55

2015 This combination of chip hat, cap, light-patterned gown, and white apron..would have been typical morning dress.
Crit. Inq. vol. 41 634

Once again I am dismayed by the OED’s casual approach to crediting authors; that last citation is from Steve Hindle’s “Representing Rural Society: Labor, Leisure, and the Landscape in an Eighteenth-Century Conversation Piece” (Critical Inquiry 41:3 [Spring 2015]: 615-54). Furthermore, the full sentence reads:

As John Styles points out, this combination of chip hat, cap, light-patterned gown, and white apron over petticoat, shift, and stays would have been typical morning dress even for a duchess walking in St James’s Park in 1744, so the basic constituents of the female wardrobe portrayed in miniature by Haytley actually serve to conceal rather than convey social distinction, which would only be revealed at close quarters in the quality of the fabrics and the accessorizing.

You’d think it would have been useful to include the phrase “in 1744,” which seems important context. At any rate, now we all know what a chip hat is, and I’ve fulfilled my contractual obligation as regards the inclusion of hat-related material.

My wife and I are hopelessly addicted to Shetland; we’re currently gobbling up the ninth season and are glad that a tenth is promised. I have, of course, been following the action on my Ordnance Survey Motoring Atlas of Great Britain, and just as in this 2011 post, which focused on Dorset in the south of England, I am bowled over by the concentration of wondrous place names that strike the eye on what Wikipedia calls the eponymous archipelago off the very northern tip of Scotland. I’ll start at the southern edge of the largest island, quaintly called the Mainland: moving clockwise from Blovid, we find Geo of the Uln, Troswick Ness, Stack of the Brough, Lambhoga Head, Milburn Geo, The Taing, Pool of Virkle, Grutness, Sumburgh, Lady’s Holm, Scat Ness, Toab, Garths Ness, Siggar Ness, Fitful Head, The Nev, Wick of Shunni, Stack o’ da Noup, and Fora Ness. Further north are Mousa, Lamba Taing, Okrequoy, Bay of Fladdabister, and (my very favorite) East Voe of Quarff; westward are Fugla Stack, Ukna Skerry, West Burra, and Biargar (unknown to Google Maps). Further north are Gildarump and Quilva Taing and Papa Stour and North Nestling and Rumble; on the northernmost island Unst are Snerravoe, Spoo Ness, Orknagable, Grunka Hellier, Karne of Flouravoug, Burrafirth, Rumblings, and off the coast the famous Muckle Flugga. I’ve just scratched the surface, and I urge all aficionados of memorable toponyms to do a deep dive into Google Maps (or your preferred alternative).

As for Shetland itself, Wikipedia provides its usual farrago of factoids:

The name Shetland may derive from the Old Norse words hjalt (‘hilt’), and land (‘land’), the popular and traditional claim. Another possibility is that the first syllable is derived from the name of an ancient Celtic tribe. […]

The oldest known version of the modern name Shetland is Hetland; this may represent “Catland”, the Germanic language softening the C- to H- according to Grimm’s law […]. It occurs in a letter written by Harald, earl of Orkney, Shetland and Caithness, in ca. 1190. By 1431, the islands were being referred to as Hetland, after various intermediate transformations. It is possible that the Pictish “cat” sound contributed to this Norse name. In the 16th century, Shetland was referred to as Hjaltland.

Gradually, the Scandinavian Norn language previously spoken by the inhabitants of the islands was replaced by the Shetland dialect of Scots and Hjaltland became Ȝetland. The initial letter is the Middle Scots letter, yogh, the pronunciation of which is almost identical to the original Norn sound, /hj/. When the use of the letter yogh was discontinued, it was often replaced by the similar-looking letter z (which at the time was usually rendered with a curled tail: ⟨ʒ⟩) hence Zetland, the form used in the name of the pre-1975 county council. This is the source of the ZE postcode used for Shetland.

The Shetland dialect has its own article; you hardly hear any of it on the show, but I presume that accurately reflects the current situation, where most people speak a more generalized form of Scots.

That’s what Laura Spinney asks in the Graun, and Betteridge’s law applies as per usual — of course anything and everything can and will die, including the human species, the Earth, and the universe, but the implication of the question is “in the foreseeable future,” and the question is thus pretty silly. Happily, Spinney knows that, and the piece is for the most part a sensible discussion of more general issues:

The fact is, though, that no language has yet proved eternal. Subjects of the Roman or Egyptian empires might once have assumed that their languages would last for ever, like their hegemony, but they were wrong. Latin and Egyptian were eventually transformed into languages that would have been unintelligible to Augustus or Ramses the Great. “English could of course die, just as Egyptian died,” says linguist Martin Haspelmath, of the Max Planck Institute for Evolutionary Anthropology in Leipzig, Germany. The more interesting questions are: when and how?

Predicting the future of any language is, most linguists will tell you, an exercise in speculation. The code by which we communicate is subject to so many complex and interacting forces that – until AI helps find patterns in the morass of data – we can’t do much more than guess. It doesn’t help that we can’t look very far back for precedents: Homo sapiens has been nattering for tens if not hundreds of thousands of years, but we only thought of recording our pearls of wisdom about 5,000 years ago, when the Sumerians invented writing.

Still, most experts would agree on a few guiding principles. Migration is a major driver of language change, as is technology – though the two can counteract as well as amplify each other. Some predict that international migration will rise as the climate crisis intensifies, and technological renewal is speeding up, but they aren’t the only factors in the mix. Widespread literacy and schooling – both only a few hundred years old – act as brakes on linguistic evolution, by imposing common standards.

As if that wasn’t unhelpful enough, experts judge that the configuration of the linguistic landscape is terribly susceptible to black swan events – those defined by their unpredictability. The Egyptian language survived the arrival of the Greeks, the Romans and Christianity, but not that of Arabic and Islam in the seventh century AD. No one quite knows why. […]

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