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.

Frequent commenter rozele wrote to me about the afterword to Janet Malcolm’s The Journalist and the Murderer, calling it “a pretty amazing example of the godawful things done to people’s words in the name (quite explicitly) of turning what we actually speak into True Language”:

in the course of a psychoanalytically-informed account of journalists’ writing processes, and what she describes as a defense of “the necessity for [journalistic] mediation” (by “showing how the literally true may actually be a kind of falsification of reality”), malcolm gives us a transcription of a section of a tape-recorded interview, and then what she asserts is the rendering that appeared in the main text of the book. the latter, she has already told us, is “English”; the former something she calls “tape-recorderese”, which she very clearly considers not to be language at all. “translating” the one into the other is, apparently, absolutely necessary for “trustworthy quotation”.

it’s fascinating on several levels. to my ear the rewrite (without altering its abstract factual content) quite thoroughly transforms the tone, emphasis, and impact of what malcolm’s interviewee says, rather than simply shortening the passage or cutting false starts or abandoned shifts of direction. on top of that, what she claims is the published rendering in fact omits the entire last sentence of what is actually printed in the book as a quotation – no trace of which appears in any form in the transcription excerpt she provides. and what comes through most strongly is her absolute contempt for what she denies is “English”: the language people actually speak and the ways we speak it.

it makes me wonder whether people whose conception of language is constrained to literary writing are even aware of the layers of meaning that they’re refusing to acknowledge. i get the impression that malcolm is not – that she thinks what she’s doing is adding, not destroying, meaning and complexity – though perhaps this is because i can’t picture taking pride in that endeavor, much less calling attention to it at length while discussing my working methods.

I haven’t read the book, but I certainly agree with rozele’s point. (We discussed Janet Malcolm and a different trial back in 2010.)

Guillermo Carvajal writes about what sounds like an interesting, if frustratingly limited, discovery:

Recent archaeological excavations have uncovered a basalt tablet with inscriptions in an unknown language near Lake Bashplemi, in the Dmanisi region of Georgia. The discovery is significant not only because of the rarity of the material found but also because it could reveal unknown aspects of the ancient civilizations that inhabited the Caucasus.

The finding, made in 2021, is a tablet the size of a book, on which 60 different symbols have been recorded, of which 39 have no exact equivalents in other known ancient writing systems. Archaeologists, based on the archaeological and geological context, believe that the tablet may date from the Late Bronze Age or the early Iron Age, around the first millennium BCE. […]

The basalt tablet contains 39 unique symbols arranged in seven horizontal lines or registers. Some of these symbols repeat, allowing for a total of 60 characters on the stone’s surface. The arrangement and frequency of some of the characters suggest that they may have been used to denote numbers or punctuation marks. Researchers have suggested that the writing system may have been used to record religious offerings, construction works, or military inventories, although these interpretations are preliminary.

By “preliminary” is meant, of course, “completely imaginary”; it’s possible that further examples may come to light, enabling us to understand it better, but it will probably remain yet another mysterious fragment of the past. You can see the tablet, an image labeled “The symbols of the tablet, highlighted and numbered,” and a photo of the place it was found at the link, and you can download the recent paper by Ramaz Shengelia, Levan Gordeziani, et al., here; the abstract:

In Georgia, numerous sites date back to the Bronze Age. Nearby Bashplemi Lake, the site of the discovery of a basalt tablet bearing an inscription with unknown characters, is the site where the skull of a 1.8-million-year-old hominin, the first European, was discovered. This tablet, which bears 60 signs, 39 of them different, raises the question of the origin of the Georgian script, proto-Georgian. While the basalt on which it is based is known to be of local origin, its meaning is unknown and there remains a long way to go to decipher it. An initial comparative analysis conducted with over 20 languages shows that the characters, which could belong to an aboriginal Caucasian population, beside proto-Georgian and Albanian writing signs, bear some similarities with Semitic, Brahmani, and North Iberian characters.

Thanks, Dmitry!

Adam Gopnik writes about crowds for the New Yorker (archived); the topic is interesting in general (and I really have to get around to reading Canetti), but this is the Hattic bit:

In his new book, “The Crowd in the Early Middle Ages” (Princeton), Shane Bobrycki, a medieval historian at the University of Iowa, describes a hinge moment in the way people have thought about crowds. It was a period when the rapid de-urbanization of society had reduced or eliminated the Roman vulgus, or mob, but when memories of Roman order and disorder lingered. Bobrycki has devoted himself to a blessedly old-fashioned kind of scholarship, digging through ever-finer shades of meaning, sifting through all the Latin terms that refer to crowds and mobs and gatherings. If you have long wanted to discern the subtle differences in medieval Europe between vulgus, plebs, turba, populus, and rustici, here at last is the book to assist you. And these differences do indeed have weight and significance. It’s fascinating to learn how, when the vulgus was forced out of the dying cities and into the countryside, it became the rustici—the peasants with pitchforks. Plebs, meaning, in classical Latin, “common folk,” came to mean, more neutrally, “the community.” Bobrycki assures us, “Even vulgus could be just another equivalent of the broad populus that was now the lodestar of all crowd words.”

I’m sure there are nits to be picked, so pick away!

Adam Neely has a YouTube channel containing “music theory, music cognition, jazz improvisation, musical performance technique, musicology and memes”; AntC sent me this example (11:14) in which he analyzes why “every pop singer of the past 20 years” sings the phrase “caught in the middle” in a particular way. It’s full of interesting phrases like prosodic dissonance, Picardy third, and Scotch snap, and he discusses the cot-caught merger, but I confess I’m posting it at least as much for the phonetic rendering I’ve used as the post title. I’m a sucker for fish puns.

(Oh, and if you’re thinking of the same half-century-old Stealers Wheel song that I was, impatiently waiting through the whole thing for it to get mentioned, he does so at the very end. He baited me, caught me, and reeled me in!)