languagehat.com

Reading Ian Buruma’s New Yorker review/essay (archived) on the history of ideas of European integration, I was struck by a couple of names that turned out to have interesting backgrounds. First came “the half Japanese Austro-Hungarian Count Richard von Coudenhove-Kalergi.” How could I not want to know more? The Wikipedia article made it even more impressive:

Richard Nikolaus Eijiro, Count of Coudenhove-Kalergi (German: Richard Nikolaus Eijiro Graf von Coudenhove-Kalergi; Japanese: リヒャルト・ニコラウス・栄次郎・クーデンホーフ＝カレルギー伯爵, romanized: Rihyaruto Nikorausu Eijirō Kūdenhōfu-Karerugī Hakushaku; 16 November 1894 – 27 July 1972), was a politician, philosopher, and count of Coudenhove-Kalergi. A pioneer of European integration, he served as the founding president of the Paneuropean Union for 49 years. His parents were Heinrich von Coudenhove-Kalergi, an Austro-Hungarian diplomat, and Mitsuko Aoyama, the daughter of an oil merchant, antiques-dealer and major landowner in Tokyo. His childhood name in Japan was Eijiro Aoyama (青山 栄次郎). Being a native Austrian-Hungarian citizen, he became a Czechoslovak citizen in 1919 and then took French citizenship from 1939 until his death.

From that Coudenhove-Kalergi link we learn that the family “is an Austro-Bohemian noble family of mixed Flemish and Cretan Greek descent, which was formed by the marriage of Count Franz Karl von Coudenhove (1825–1893) with Marie Kalergi (1840–1877) in 1857″; if you follow the Marie Kalergi link you will see that she was a fierce looking lady (as befits a Cretan Austro-Hungarian countess). And if you follow the earlier Aoyama link you will find that Mitsuko Thekla Maria, Countess of Coudenhove-Kalergi, born Mitsuko Aoyama (青山光子), “was one of the first Japanese people to immigrate to Europe, after becoming the wife of an Austro-Hungarian diplomat, Heinrich von Coudenhove-Kalergi, in Tokyo.” Her photo also depicts a formidable lady, though she looks reserved rather than fierce (as befits her background).

Later in the piece, Buruma says “In 1941, Italian antifascists produced the Ventotene Manifesto (named for a small island where they were interned), calling for a federal socialist Europe.” I looked up Ventotene and in the Italian Wikipedia article found this excursus on the name:

«… l’isola di Ventotiene (‘Ventotene’), chiamata nell’antichità greca e latina Πανδαταερíα e Πανδατερíα (‘colei che distribuisce tutto’), forse per la presenza di un tempietto dedicato a una perduta e così chiamata divinità locale, nome che fu poi trasformato in Bentitiene (‘isola dai fondali buoni tenitori’) o Bentitieni e anche Eutitieni, quest’ultimo in una singolare contaminazione tra greco e italiano…»

It’s sourced to Guglielmo Peirce, Gente di galera. La guerra nautica nel Mediterraneo tra Medioevo ed Evo Moderno, so I don’t know how reliable it is, but se non è vero…

I was scrolling down Facebook recently when I saw a post about scoring a copy of a book called Chamberpot and Motherfuck, and needless to say I dropped everything and investigated. I found a review by Nicholas Poole-Wilson (The Library, 19.1 [March 2018]: 94–96) of Chamberpot & Motherfuck: The Price-Codes of the Book Trade, by Exhumation [i.e. Ian Jackson], 2nd ed.; it’s behind a paywall, but the extract they allow you to read is worth posting on its own:

Every trade is also a tribe, booksellers no exception, and one way that a mercantile tribe signals membership is by language and price symbols, that is to say the cost or price code. Here are codes aplenty, 226 plus another eighteen in a sheet of Addenda, the total twice as many as the number in Ian Jackson’s earlier edition of 2010. The codes, ancient and modern, are presented with accompanying commentary in an attempt to combat the bibliographical neglect of their study. Roger Stoddard in his Marks in Books (Cambridge, Mass., 1985) ignores them; David Pearson’s Provenance Research in Book History (London, 1994) does not venture beyond the seventeenth century.

The orthodox cost code, scribbled on an endpaper, is a substitution code consisting of a series of non-repeating letters corresponding to certain numbers, usually either 1–9, or 1–10 if incorporating a zero. The bookseller will choose or coin an accommodating word or phrase according to taste (or lack of); sometimes the name of the bookseller in question, say ROSENTHAL; maybe a place, TUXEDO PARK; or the impossible dream, INTROUVABLE. Others may reflect a business attitude, from MY GOD HELPS to MONEY TALKS, even BANKRUPTCY.

One presumes CHAMBERPOT and MOTHERFUCK are two such codes, and it bespeaks an admirably raffish spirit to use them for the title. I confess I hadn’t been aware of what exactly a price code was; the OED (entry from 2007) is, as usual, helpful:
[Read more…]

Our Germany-dwelling Texas-bred friend Stuart Clayton alerted me to the existence of québecois faque, “eye dialect spelling of fait que,” which means “So, therefore, in that case.” Stu sez “Here’s a tie-up to France French ‘du coup’ which up until now I could never remember”:

The word “faque” (also spelled “fak”) is a very common colloquial abbreviation in Quebec French for the phrase “ça fait que” (which means something like “so,” “therefore,” or, in European French, “du coup”).

And he provided this Instagram clip of a québecois dude explaining it in French. I confess I was unfamiliar with both faque and du coup; thanks, Stu!

David Hollingshead’s Humanists Have Done Nothing Wrong is basically a standard-issue defense of the humanities against the crazed attack of the modern-day right wing, but it starts from an interesting angle that I thought was worth investigating for its own sake:

For many years, I’ve held a pet theory that cultural consumers can be grouped into two broad categories: Primary Source People and Secondary Source People. The former are the book lovers, cinephiles, archive perusers, and history buffs who grew to love their areas of study because of the specific objects that constitute the field: the two women I overheard whispering about how they wanted to fuck Adam Bede, in one of my undergrad classes; the student of mine who disclosed that he loved The House of Mirth because “something similar happened to me recently” (????); or the guy who collects swords as a way into understanding the medieval period are examples of this type. You’ve certainly met these people or been taught by them; they are often motivated by personal attachments to specific works, and my hunch is that they represent the majority of those who care about art today.

Secondary Source People are different; they become obsessed with the discourse about the objects being studied. Professional critics, “theory bros” (gender neutral), Letterboxd reviewers who primarily read other Letterboxd reviews, the weirdly combative people in your seminars who know all about the different scholarly camps on a topic—this group prioritizes the conversations, contexts, and conflicts surrounding the works above and beyond the works themselves. Secondary Source People are the main contingent both producing and consuming academic writing. For them, the question of a text’s beauty or capacity to immerse is less important than how its ideas expand or contract as we engage with them.

[Read more…]

I have been alerted by a reader to an odd etymology: the word aspic, in the words of the OED “A savoury jelly made with meat stock; a cold dish consisting of such a jelly set in a mould and containing pieces of meat, seafood, or hard-boiled eggs,” is from French, and “Littré suggests its derivation < aspic asp, because it is ‘froid comme un aspic,’ a proverbial phrase in French.” The entry is from 1885; Wiktionary elaborates somewhat:

Borrowed from French aspic, from Latin aspis, and possibly influenced by French basilic (“basilisk”). The culinary sense may come from association with the snake due to the traditional colors and cold temperature of aspic, in addition to the fact that the gelatin was often molded in a shape similar to a coiled snake.

There is also an aspic “An asp (see asp n.2); used chiefly in poetry” (e.g. a1616 “This is an Aspickes traile,” W. Shakespeare, Antony and Cleopatra v. ii. 344), which is of course from Latin aspis, and yet another, “The Great Lavender or Spike (Lavandula Spica), a plant from which a volatile aromatic oil is obtained” (1604 “Oyle Of Aspicke, which the Physitians and Painters vse much, the one for plasters, the other to vernish their pictures,” E. Grimeston, translation of J. de Acosta, Naturall & Morall Historie Indies iv. xxix. 288), which has a different history:

< French aspic (in huile d’ aspic vulgar form of huile de spic) for spic, < Italian spigo the Great Lavender, originally Spikenard, = Old French espic < Latin spīcus (in medieval Latin) Spikenard, doublet of spīca spike.

A messy little cluster — thanks, david!

Nitsuh Abebe, the new NY Times On Language columnist (see this post), has a new column (archived) on the word scam. Most of it is about how the word is more popular than ever and has expanded its remit to cover “any system, however legitimate, that ends with somebody profiting at your expense”; while mildly interesting, this is just another example of language change at work, and you’d have to be a dedicated peever to work up much outrage about it. But he includes a section on etymology:

Part of Falcone’s interest in scamming comes from a remarkable place. His grandfather, he says, was a pitchman with traveling carnivals before settling in Atlantic City, where he’d work the piers selling decks of cards rigged for magic tricks. This happens to be the source of the word “scam” itself: All we know for sure, etymologically, is that as of the early 1960s, it was carnival slang for fleecing the public. Beyond that, speculation runs wild. Is it related to “scamp” or “scamper” or “sham?” Does it come from British dialects that used it for “the impurities in rocks and minerals?” From Irish American criminal slang? From the French “escamoter” — to evade, or to conjure away? No theory seems to come with any real evidence. Beyond 20th-century carnies, all is mystery.

So if you’re inclined to set a high bar of deception before calling things scams, you don’t have much history to appeal to; it’s a young word with obscure origins.

I didn’t know any of that — its carny origins, its recency, or its mysterious etymology. The OED (entry published 1982) cites it first from 1963 (“He..worked..as a carny huckster… ‘It was a full scam.’” Time 28 June 48/2) and says simply “Of unknown origin.”

My local classical station played a piece featuring the once famous harpsichordist Igor Kipnis; my first thought, on hearing the ID, was “He died quite a while back — I wonder if anybody much below my age knows his name any more?” Then came the second thought: “Where’s the name Kipnis from, anyhow?” A Ukrainian Wikipedia page describes several hypotheses:

1) from an alleged Yiddish kypin (given in the Ukrainian spelling кипін) ‘boiling water’ — I can find no evidence of this as a Yiddish word, and it would seem to represent Ukrainian кипіння ‘boiling/seething’ (= Russian кипение)
2) from an alleged Lithuanian ciepes ‘soap,’ but they apparently mean Latvian ziepes (from MLG sepe or Middle Dutch zepe)
3) a Hebraicized form of the Ukrainian surname Кирпоніс [Kirponis] ‘flat-nose’; this is the only suggestion in English Wikipedia

They also compare the surnames Tsipnis and Tsipis, which come from the female name Tsip(pora) – Sepphora; I don’t know if this is supposed to be an alternative etymology. None of that is especially convincing, and I wondered if any learned Hatters had a better idea.

I’m reading Kate Kelley’s Proto-Elamite: Writing and Society in Early Iran (see this post), and I thought this passage (pp. 15ff.) was of enough general interest to post:

Throughout the twentieth century, the archaeology of early Iran has often been analysed through a filter of its western neighbour Mesopotamia (Petrie 2013; Alizadeh 2021). The invention of proto-Elamite and its spread across Iran are no exceptions, having been described as an echo of the cultural model of the Uruk Phenomenon, a ‘social experiment’ (Lamberg-Karlovsky 1989: x) which may have, like the model proposed for Uruk, involved administrators (from Susa?) establishing a presence at strategic locations with an eye to securing trade. The mid fourth-millennium connections just described remain a crucial piece of the puzzle, but this should be paired with research into regional developments in their own terms. The state of decipherment of proto-Elamite has made it difficult so far to dive broadly into differences in the way writing was used in the proto-cuneiform and proto-Elamite worlds, but this is a research area with much future potential.

Although most of the numerical systems in proto-cuneiform and proto-Elamite are shared (Section 5.3), only a few dozen of the many hundreds of non-numerical signs in each system can be shown to be related. […]

If we were dealing with a fully developed writing system – that is,
heavily invested in communicating through recording the sounds of language – it would be natural to think that the writing system differences at Uruk and Susa were stimulated by different dominant languages. But in the case of proto-writing we may look to a more general divergence in culture that made the sharing of a socially embedded symbol system unacceptable, such as differences in religion, political expression, and social and economic organisation. The varied geographic settings at which proto-Elamite has been found (Section 3) contrast with the lowland distribution of proto-cuneiform. Moreover, the (as yet contentious) possibility that mobile groups were a significant social force in the proto-Elamite world may set the Iranian invention of writing apart (Section 2.4.1). Daneshmand (2024) introduced another important possibility, that the phenomenon of schismogenesis – intentional cultural differentiation from one’s neighbours – may also have shaped the use of writing in Iran from the proto-Elamite period and onwards. The history of writing in Iran for the next 3,000 years was very different from its western neighbours.

[Read more…]

As regular readers will know, I am a sucker for old-fashioned printing — one of the best parts of my job as a proofreader in a printing and design department in the 1980s (do such entities still exist?) was hanging out with printers and listening to them talk about the old days. PrintingFilms.com is a great resource; the About page says:

PrintingFilms.com is a collection of vintage films that showcase the technologies and processes of printing, journalism, and typography. It was established by Doug Wilson in 2012 after his work as director of Linotype: The Film.

The collection started when Doug was given a box of 16mm Linotype promotional films in 2011 by Dave Seat for digitization.

In 2013, Carl Schlesinger (a former Linotype operator at The New York Times) donated his extensive collection of films to the Museum of Printing, which assisted with preservation in 2015.

I recommend, as a starter, Type Speaks (1948, 25:27):

Created by the American Type Founders Company, this film features the appearance and narration of Ben Grauer, a famous NBC radio personality explaining his love of books and modern printing. The history of printing is briefly shown followed by showing the in-depth process of matrix and punch making.

The film shows the most in-depth and visually easy-to-understand process of making type. It follows the entire process of type making from original design (showcasing Lydian by Warren Chappell) to pattern making, punch cutting, matrix making, and the use of the Benton engraving machine.

I was struck by the pronunciation of vagaries as vuh-GARE-eez, which I don’t think I’d heard before — but then, how often do you hear the word at all?

Mark Liberman’s Log post inspired me to discuss the very interesting word solidus ‘slash (mark).’ It developed from the name of a gold coin of the Roman Empire, which gave rise to the Latin name for a variety of medieval coins, mostly made of silver: Byzantine, Carolingian, Italian, and — the one which concerns us here — the English shilling. The word shilling was, understandably, shortened to its first letter, for which they used the “long s”: ſ. This was frequently written as a simple slash mark, so, to quote the OED s.v. solidus (sense 2):

A sloping line used to separate shillings from pence, as 12/6, in writing fractions, and for other separations of figures and letters; a shilling-mark.

(Their first citation is “1891 in Century Dictionary, which can presumably be antedated — the entry is from 1913.) As Wiktionary tells us, it is a doublet of sol, sold, soldo, solid, sou, and xu (a hundredth of a dong).