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Dmitry Pruss wrote me in regard to the perplexing etymologies of Ghanaian royal titles:

“Zosimli Naa” is a title bestowed on outsiders who play such an honorary role in Ghanaian societies that the local tribal hierarchy steps in to elevate them to chiefs aka royals.

Traditionally “Zosimli Naa” were American educators in African studies programs. Dr. George Lee Johnson Jr., the acting chair of South Carolina State University’s Department of Education, is Zosimli Naa of Madina, and earlier on, Dr. Susan J. Herlin (University of Louisville) was Zosimli Naa of Tamale. After her death, Tamale enskinned (the North Ghanaian equivalent of anointing done with precious skins rather than myrrh) a travel agent from Detroit who runs a popular immersion-in-ancestral-West-Africa travel program (since her story involved DNA testing in search of ancestral African cultures, it came up in my feed). This lady, Kennedy Johnson, actually lives in her royal mansion in Tamale now!

But what is Zosimli Naa?

One source says that it means “Born on Saturday” but metaphorically, “one who brings people together” (presumably American and Ghanaian peoples). Another says that it means “Friendship Queen” but by extension, head of department of development. And Wikipedia says that Naa translates as King or Chief while Zosimli means: Cooperation, Alliance, Accord, Collaboration and Friendships, with the whole title meaning liaison for foreign cooperation (they apparently have separate chiefs for America and Europe).

Dmitry and I await Hattic enlightenment!

I was reading Casey Cep’s New Yorker review (archived) of Ingrained: The Making of a Craftsman, by the carpenter Callum Robinson, when I got to this:

Closer to home, he recalls his father toughening him up by sending him into the forest to turn on a water line. Carrying only a parang and a T-bar, Robinson falls into a stream, is spooked nearly to death by a deer, and returns home twice in defeat, only to triumph in his third attempt […]

I had no idea what a parang or a T-bar might be. I thought I’d seen or heard the latter, but it turned out to be in the context of skiing — to quote Merriam-Webster, a T-bar is “a ski lift having a series of T-shaped bars each of which pulls two skiers.” I don’t know what it means here and will welcome all enlightenment. As for parang, the OED (entry revised 2005) informs me that it is “A large heavy machete with a blade broader at the end than at the base and a concave cutting edge, used in Malaysia and Indonesia for clearing vegetation or as a weapon”:

1820 The wood-cutter..proceeds into the forest, without any other instrument than his parang or cleaver.
J. Crawfurd, History of Indian Archipelago vol. III. ix. v. 423

1882 Bakar..and a Malay boatman preceded us with parangs to clear the way of branches before us.
H. de Windt, On Equator 103

1925 It was quite fascinating to see Sahar deftly cutting slices off one end of the husk with his sharp parang.
C. Wells, Six Years in Malay Jungle vi. 60
[…]

2001 All six detainees are dangerous criminals who used weapons like knives and parangs to attack their victims while staging robberies.
Malaysia General News (Nexis) 18 December

The OED has the stress on the second syllable (British English /pəˈraŋ/ puh-RANG, U.S. English /pəˈræŋ/ puh-RANG), M-W on the first (ˈpär-ˌaŋ), which suggests sloppiness on someone’s part. I’m not sure why the word is used in the context of a scene set in the eastern Lowlands of Scotland, but I’m glad to know it; it is, as you might have guessed, a borrowing from Malay parang.

As it happens, there’s an entirely different word parang, this one meaning “A variety of Trinidadian folk music, traditionally played at Christmas by groups which travel from house to house serenading the occupants; a performance or tune in this style”; that one is said to be “< Spanish parranda outdoor celebration with music, party, revel,” which is phonetically a bit odd, but I guess the OED knows what they’re doing. In any case, it’s labeled “Caribbean (chiefly Trinidad and Tobago)” and pronounced with first-syllable stress (British English /ˈparaŋ/ PARR-ang, U.S. English /ˈpɛrænɡ/ PAIR-ang, Caribbean English /ˈparaŋ/).

I realized when I clicked on the link cuchuflete sent me that I had already posted Josh Tyra’s “I Am the Very Model of a Biblical Philologist,” but that was ten years ago (almost to the day), so many current Hatters won’t have seen it, and I enjoyed reexperiencing it so much I thought it was worth a repost. Thanks, cuchuflete!

And for those who have seen that one before, I offer Elle Cordova’s Grammarian vs Errorist – a supervillain showdown. She’s always good.

I recently came across one of those lexicographical gaps that drive me crazy. There is a bird called the grandala (Grandala coelicolor); as that Wikipedia article suggests, that is its only name in English, and yet it is not in any dictionary I can find — not even the OED, which has no entry for it, just a lone citation using it (s.v. fire-tailed: “There are two birds of striking colour, the beautiful little Fire-tailed Mixornis..and Hodgson’s Grandala”). It has a Wiktionary stub, but that has only a definition and a photo. All of which means that I have no idea of its etymology, and the only help I have gotten for how to pronounce it is this video, whose narrator says /grənˈdɑːlə/; she’s probably right, but I’d like to have an official source. Does anybody know more?

Last year I posted Kathleen Maris Paltrineri’s LARB interview with Damion Searls, the translator of Jon Fosse (see also this recent post); now the New Yorker has Max Norman’s take on Searls and his work (archived), from which I excerpt some bits I thought might be of interest:

Searls, who translates from German, Dutch, and French in addition to Norwegian, gives neither an apology nor a theory nor a history but, rather, a “philosophy” of translation. More precisely, he offers a “phenomenology” of translation, borrowing a term popularized by the French philosopher Maurice Merleau-Ponty. Phenomenology is the study not of how the world might be perceived in the abstract—think of how René Descartes theorized an absolute gap between the mind and the body—but of our actual experience of the world. For Searls, translation is phenomenological because it is fundamentally about experience: the translator’s experience of reading the original, which is then re-created for a new reader. Translation is “something like moving through the world, not anything like choosing from a list of options.” “There are no rules,” Searls writes, “only decisions.”

“Translation” wasn’t always how you said translation. In Latin, the first Western language into which translations were made wholesale, you might “turn” (vertere) a text, or “render word for word” (verbum pro verbo reddere). The noun translatio referred primarily to a physical transfer, as we still use it to refer to the “translation” of human remains. The modern Latin term traductio, the origin of the French traduction, Italian traduzione, and Spansh traducción, seems to have been given its current meaning by Leonardo Bruni, the author of an influential 1424 treatise on translation. A story has it that the Italian humanist gently misunderstood the meaning of the verb traducere, which, in the ancient Roman text he was reading, signifies something more like “to derive from.” The irony, though fitting, is probably too good to be true.

Norman goes into the history of translation in antiquity and the Renaissance, then continues:
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I was enjoying this two-decade-old post about life as a printer’s devil and chuckling at dungbeattle’s comment “Never ever eat a printers pi, you may em, en or be a pica, otherwise you will be hot leaden it” when I wondered “what’s the origin of that sense of pie, anyway?” A visit to the OED (entry revised 2006) informed me that nobody knows:

Origin uncertain; probably transferred use of pie n.² [A baked pastry dish], with reference to its miscellaneous contents. Compare French pâté mass of confused type (1690), spec. use of pâté pâté n.³ [A pie or pasty usually filled with finely minced meat, fish, vegetables, etc.; A rich paste or spread made from finely minced and seasoned meat, fish, or vegetables, usually cooked in a terrine and served cold.]

But the citations are fun:
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The Fortsas Club announces a fascinating exhibit:

Livres Imaginaires, Reid Byers’ exhibition of Imaginary Books, is a collection of volumes that live only in other books: lost, unwritten, or fictitious books that have no physical existence. Its exhibition at the Fortsas Club has been extended until the end of 2024, when it will move to the Grolier Club in New York. In April of that year, the collection will be exhibited at the Book Club of California in San Francisco.

The difficulties associated with exhibiting a non-existent collection cannot easily be overstated. In addition to the purely ontological considerations involved, the mechanics of presenting to the public a series of objects that cannot possibly be on show present a broad spectrum of curatorial challenges, only some of which have been completely overcome.

There are three kinds of imaginary books. Lost books once really existed but have now disappeared completely. […] Unwritten Books are books that authors tried unsuccessfully to write […] Fictional Books are books that appear only in stories. […]

And sealed forever in a Wells Fargo strong box is John Dee’s copy of the Necronomicon (HPL 5), on permanent loan from the library of Miskatonic University.

See the link for examples and some enticing images, and see Sophie Haigney’s NYT story (archived) for more background; if you reach the end of the latter, you will be rewarded with some perhaps significant information about the Club Fortsas. And there are more links at the MetaFilter post that hipped me to this happening.

Sumana Roy’s LARB essay How Does the Writer Say Etcetera? is one of those pieces that could have benefited from merciless editing — the writer flies off in all sorts of only vaguely relevant directions — but that has some interesting things to say. It begins:

The first sign of my little nephew’s moving closer to adulthood wasn’t when he used a cuss word for the first time—he still hasn’t, I must hasten to add—but when he said “etcetera.” I think he was around six years old. Records of his height and weight were being maintained by his parents and pediatrician, but it was his growing into language—lisping, mispronouncing, and, most of all, his daily acquisition of words—that excited me. Suddenly, without any kind of preparation or announcement, he had used the word: etcetera, a word that could hold the entire world in it. It could mean only one thing—he had grown aware of the world, and he had grown up.

A few years later, preparing for a Bangla test, he was writing answers to a quiz that his mother had set up for him. It was an exercise from Bangla grammar—“shondhi bichhed”; he would have to break up a word to reveal the two words that had come together, poetically, sometimes by design, sometimes almost accidentally, to form it. It was fun, even though I still struggle to accept his growing at this pace, to see him breaking up words as he had once broken toy cars. One of the words in the test was “ityadi.” Tuku, as I call my nephew, wrote the answer quickly, without patience: “iti + adi.”

Ityadi—“iti” and “adi,” the end and the beginning, from the end to the beginning.

Etcetera—“et,” meaning “and,” and “cetera,” “the rest.” This has the sense of leftovers.

What does this difference in name for a similar concept—one having the sense of including everything, the other the sense of remainder—imply for those who live in these languages? How do the two concepts affect creative practice? When do we feel compelled to say “etcetera” or “ityadi” or even “blah blah,” not just literally or in a manner of speaking but in the way we experience and create the world?

Later (much later) we get:
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This post is one of a series “books I read that pissed me off enough that I felt the need to chastise them publicly” (cf. Travelling Heroes), but there will be a bit of language-related material at the end, if you persevere. The book to be soundly whipped is Philip Glazebrook’s Journey to Kars, about a journey to eastern Turkey he made in 1980; the relevant section in his obit in The Times gives a good idea of it:

His most praised work was Journey to Kars (1984), an account of a lone journey in the early 1980s through the Balkans to Greenmantle country in eastern Turkey. Influenced by the accounts of Victorian travellers such as Austen Layard, the excavator of Nimrud, and Glazebrook’s fellow Old Etonian Alexander Kinglake, author of Eothen (1844), it was in part a quest for what it was in the Orient that induced such men to abandon the comforts of home.

Glazebrook’s conclusion, couched in prose often as picaresque as those of his inspirations, was that in the East they found an outlet for their romantic notions, fuelled by Malory and Tennyson, of a knight errantry increasingly absent from their ever more mercantile homeland.

For Glazebrook, too, the romanticised past often seemed another, and better, country. He never pretended to be a professional travel writer, one immersed in the culture and language of the place he was visiting – he spent only a fortnight in Turkey. Instead, he approached the East mentally in the company of those earlier authors, and the reality of his encounters with back-packers and modern Turks seemed to provoke disappointment and melancholia in equal measure.

He did bring a novelist’s observational skills to bear, and wrote well about the frustrations and muddles of travel. There was, however, always a sense in his books of a lofty detachment, that of a connoisseur writing more for his own pleasure than from any vulgar need to please a readership.

Now, I have nothing against amateur travel writing in general, and I am drawn to descriptions of that part of the world, which is why I picked up the book in the first place. But Glazebrook seems to want not only to understand the mental world of Layard, Kinglake, et al., he wants to be one of them — except that, lacking their specialized knowledge and interests, he contents himself with their attitude, that of a Victorian Englishman, utterly complacent in his confidence in the superiority of his own “race” (as he would have said) and civilization and contemptuous of the lesser breeds he encounters. And he exhibits a truly bizarre refusal to acquire any information about the places he finds himself in, preferring to be guided by his own random impressions of (say) the bus station where he is dropped off. This produces especially ludicrous results about halfway through the book:
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Good news for those of us who are indiscriminate fans of ancient languages; I quote the Altorientalisches Institut – Universität Leipzig’s Facebook post:

We are delighted to announce the launch of a new long-term dictionary project!
The Leipzig Akkadian Dictionary (LAD) at the Saxon Academy of Sciences and Humanities in Leipzig will start in January 2025. The 17-year project aims to create a new, up-to-date digital online dictionary of Akkadian.
The existing major Akkadian dictionaries, the Chicago Assyrian Dictionary and von Soden’s Akkadisches Handwörterbuch, are outdated. Numerous cuneiform texts have been published since their completion, containing new words and facilitating more detailed and precise descriptions of known words.
The LAD will collect the vocabulary of Akkadian in its entirety. It is a reference dictionary that not only translates the words into English, German, French, and Arabic, but also documents their contexts, uses, and etymologies. The existing print dictionaries will be digitized and integrated into LAD. Links will lead to glossaries and indices of other online projects. The digital publication is based on a database structure and allows the vocabulary to be analyzed one corpus at a time rather than alphabetically. The first intermediate objective is to analyze the vocabulary of Akkadian literary texts (including royal inscriptions).
The project is headed by Michael P. Streck at the Institute of Ancient Near Eastern Studies at Leipzig University.

The full press release (in German) is here.