I recently read two very different essays that make useful companion pieces. The first is a talk by Allison Parrish, who says “I’m a poet and computer programmer and an Assistant Arts Professor at New York University’s Interactive Telecommunications Program/Interactive Media Arts program.” Her prose strikes me as more professorial than poetic; here’s a sample:

The prototypical example of a transcription is a “transcript”—a written artifact that records the “content” of a stretch of language that was spoken out loud. And indeed, I’ll be talking about transcripts of this kind in more detail later. But I think the term “transcription” usefully applies to adaptations of language between any two modalities. For example, producing a typewritten copy of a handwritten manuscript is a kind of transcription. Taking notes on a lecture is a kind of transcription. Under this definition, even my verbal performance of this talk (reading from my speaker notes) is a variety of transcription.

She contrasts a “folk theory of transcription,” which is that transcription is, for the most part, a transparent process that mostly “just works,” with a more complex view that takes into account all sorts of things that get lost in the process; in her conclusion she says:

So: nothing survives transcription, in the sense that no text makes it to the far side of the transcription process with its life intact. And also, nothing does not survive transcription: the empty parts of a text, the silent parts, the parts of the text that draw attention to its own materiality, specifically operate outside transcription’s capabilities. And all of us—whether as artists, poets, or everyday conversationalists—draw on the “nothing” that forms the gap between what can be transcribed and what cannot as a productive and creative resource.

But we can also look at this from the other direction and recognize that, although no transcript can be accurate, transcriptions are an important site for linguistic intervention. Transcriptions crack open ontologies. You could say that, in a sense, the very goal of making a transcription in the first place is to make an argument about what cannot be transcribed. Nothing survives transcription, and though we may be “lost” (as Jordan Magnuson fears), at least we’re all lost together in an flowering forest of collaborative interpretation.

I found it thought-provoking but, well, academic (“Transcriptions crack open ontologies”); it leaves the reader stroking their chin and saying “Hmm.” Immediately after finishing it, I read John Lee Clark’s fiery “Against Access” (from McSweeney’s 64), which begins with a baseball “bearing personalized inscriptions by two players on the Minnesota Twins, Chuck Knoblauch and Hall of Famer Kirby Puckett” that was given him by a staff writer for the Minneapolis Star Tribune when he could still see well enough to enjoy baseball, and continues:
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Dmitry Pruss writes:

I noticed that raw herring prep before salting it can be described in Russian by two very similar words, жабренная и зябреная. They turned out to be different, one is just removing gills [жабры], the other also taking out the part behind the gills known as калтычок or калтык. The latter word sounds Turkic but wiktionary gives no etymology. Жабры is common in several Slavic languages but no proto-Slavic form or etymology are given, too.

Any ideas?

From Science (20 Dec 2019, 3666.472: 1517-1522) comes “Emotion semantics show both cultural variation and universal structure, by Joshua Conrad Jackson, Joseph Watts, Teague R. Henry, et al.:

Abstract

Many human languages have words for emotions such as “anger” and “fear,” yet it is not clear whether these emotions have similar meanings across languages, or why their meanings might vary. We estimate emotion semantics across a sample of 2474 spoken languages using “colexification”—a phenomenon in which languages name semantically related concepts with the same word. Analyses show significant variation in networks of emotion concept colexification, which is predicted by the geographic proximity of language families. We also find evidence of universal structure in emotion colexification networks, with all families differentiating emotions primarily on the basis of hedonic valence and physiological activation. Our findings contribute to debates about universality and diversity in how humans understand and experience emotion.

The conclusion:

Questions about the meaning of human emotions are age-old, and debate about the nature of emotion persists in scientific literature. The colexification approach that we take here provides a new method and a set of metrics to answer these questions by creating vast networks of how people use words to name experiences. Analyzing these networks sheds light on the cultural and biological evolutionary mechanisms underlying how emotions are ascribed meaning in languages around the world. Although debates about the relationship between language and conscious experience are notoriously difficult to resolve (28), our findings also raise the intriguing possibility that emotion experiences vary systematically across cultural groups. More broadly, our study shows the value of combining large comparative linguistic databases with quantitative network methods. Analyzing the diverse ways that people use language promises to yield insights into human cognition on an unprecedented scale.

It seems awfully short to be yielding insights into human cognition on an unprecedented scale, but what do I know? I await the decision of the jury. Thanks, Trevor!

Casting about for something to read, I glanced at my old Soviet collected works of Aleksandr Kuprin (which I have thanks to the generosity of jamessal) and realized that I’d hardly read anything by him, so I hauled down vol. 5 and decided to try his 1917 Звезда Соломона (translated, by one Maria K., as The Star of Solomon and originally published in the journal Zemlya as Каждое желание [Every desire]), which Dmitry Bykov called one of the main novellas of the period and Kuprin’s best (there’s an extended quote from him at the end of the Russian Wikipedia article).

The basic plot is easy to describe (and critics at the time thought it was simple-minded and a sign of Kuprin’s decline): petty clerk Ivan Tsvet meets a mysterious fellow who says he’s a lawyer named Mefodii Isaevich Toffel (Mef. Is. Toffel = Mephistopheles, as Tsvet eventually realizes). Toffel tells Tsvet a hitherto unknown uncle has died and left him his estate, which is in ruinous condition, but he has to hurry and claim it before potential rivals grab it, so he has to leave that very day — Toffel has already gotten Tsvet leave from his work and bought the necessary tickets. When he gets to the estate, it is deserted and, as advertised, in a state of near-collapse, but he decides to spend the night there anyway and winds up absorbed in a dusty old book of magick which contains a drawing of a star of Solomon with various letters inscribed in it. He tries various combinations (Tanorifogemas? Morfogenatasi?) before crying out in a sudden inspiration “Afro-Amestigon!” This is the secret name Toffel badly wants to know, but Tsvet forgets it for a long time, during which he becomes (thanks to Toffel’s supernatural intervention) rich and successful, his every desire fulfilled (sometimes to his dismay, as when he goes to the circus and has a momentary wish to see an acrobat fall, which immediately happens). He lives in a mansion and is invited everywhere in his provincial city, but turns out to have only the most modest desires, and when in the end Toffel reveals all (after Tsvet remembers the name and tells him), he says his modesty has saved both of them — anyone else would have gone for worldly power and been doomed. Tsvet then finds himself back in his old modest quarters, wondering if it was all a dream. Bykov sees this as an attempt to answer the great question of the 20th century: what’s better — omnipotence and genius, or an ordinary, simple human life? But that’s putting far too much weight on its shoulders; it’s more of an enjoyable picaresque based on a fantastic plot element. And that reminded me of some other writer; I eventually realized it was Alexei Slapovsky (see this post). Both men started as reporters, which doubtless gave them a knowing and cynical view of the world; their work isn’t Great Literature, but it’s enjoyable and can be thought-provoking.

My favorite element in the story is the woman he sees from a train window and falls in love with; naturally they meet up (thanks, Mef. Is. Toffel!), but they don’t wind up getting together. At the end, after he’s back in his old life, he runs into her at a racetrack and finds that she remembers him as well; they share their reminiscences (“Yes, you threw me a bouquet of lilacs, I remember!”)… but then she suddenly says “But you’re not him. That was a dream,” and bids him farewell. It’s a nice Gogolian touch that casts a melancholy light over the whole gauzy tale.

I ran across a reference to a bird called Rufous treepie and thought “What an odd name!” So I turned to the OED and found this entry, reproduced in its entirety:

tree-pie
noun

A tree-crow of the genus Dendrocitta, found in India, China, and neighbouring countries.

No citations, no pronunciation, no etymology, nothin’. It’s a 1914 entry, but I’m not sure that’s an excuse.

1) The 10th Annual Tucker Awards for Excellence in Swearing:

Let’s face it: 2024 was a shitshow on many levels. But if we compare the past year to the comparably shitty 2016 and 2020, the landscape of swearing was different in 2024. Whereas “fuck 2016” and “fuck 2020” were common refrains in those years, this time around we have far fewer fucks to give. […] So in the spirit of escapism from *gestures wildly at everything*, it’s fitting that for our overall Tucker Award winner we recognize a remarkable cinematic portrayal of swearing that dramatizes events from a century ago. The film Wicked Little Letters, which hit theaters and Netflix in 2024, tells the true story of two women who lived as neighbors in the 1920s in the southern England town of Littlehampton: the devout Edith Swan (Olivia Colman) and the rabble-rousing Irishwoman Rose Gooding (Jessie Buckley). When Edith starts receiving incredibly obscene and insulting letters, she blames Rose for sending them, leading to accusations of libel that land Rose in jail. Others in the town start receiving similarly abusive letters, but is Rose the true culprit? I’ll refrain from spoilers here — just watch the movie in all its profane glory. The red-band trailer has some of the choicest swears.

The winner for Best Fucking Swearing in Film was Anora, which I’m dying to see (pull quote: “Me go fuck myself!? Me fuck myself!? You go fuck yourself and your fucking mother, motherfucker!”). See link for much more sweary goodness, including Best Fucking Book about Swearing (The F-Word, natch) and Best Fucking Data Analysis (“Which Countries Swear the Most?”); here’s last year’s post.

2) Public Domain Day: Works from 1929 are open to all, as are sound recordings from 1924! The Sound and the Fury, A Farewell to Arms, A Room of One’s Own, Red Harvest and The Maltese Falcon… and that’s just the first few. They need to reform the copyright law, but this makes me happy for now.

3) A Wee Coak Sparrah – Duncan MacRae: From 1959 onwards, MacRae’s recitation of “The Wee Coak Sparrah” was a core ingredient of Scotland’s televised New Year celebrations. (A cock-sparrow is “A male sparrow; A quarrelsome, cocky person.”) Thanks, Trevor!

Today is Hogmanay, and when my wife asked me about the word I said confidently that I had once done a post on it and would refresh my memory and tell her. Imagine my surprise when I discovered I hadn’t! So I am remedying the omission now; happily, the OED updated their entry in 2010:

1. Scottish and English regional (northern). (The call used to demand) a New Year’s gift; esp. a gift of oatcakes, bread, fruit, etc., traditionally given to or demanded by children on the last day of the year. Now rare.

1443 Et solutum xxxj die decembris magn. hagnonayse xijd. et parv. hagnonayse viijd. xxd. Et solutum primo die mensis Januarij Pasy munstrallo ex precepto domini xijd. Et solutum iiijto die mensis Januarij instrionibus Thome Haryngton ex precepto domini xxd.
in Folklore (1984) vol. 95 253
[…]
1905 The visitors never failed to receive their Hogmanay which consisted usually of bun, shortbread, and wine or whisky.
Scottish Review 21 December

2. Originally and chiefly Scottish. The last day of the year, 31 December; New Year’s Eve; spec. the evening of this day, often marked with a celebration.
Recorded earliest in compounds.

1681 We renounce..old wives Fables and By words, as Palmsunday, Carlinsunday,..Peacesunday, Halloweven, Hogmynae night, Valenteins even.
W. Ker et al., Blasphemous & Treasonable Paper emitted by Phanatical Under-subscribers 3
[…]
1985 Hogmanay saw Frank and me delirious On five pernod and blackcurrants plus four cans Of special plus a snakebite We didny know how to make right.
L. Lochhead, True Confessions 103

2001 It’s Hogmanay, time to party and look bootylicious for the Bells.
Sunday Herald (Glasgow) 20 December (Magazine) 29 (caption)

(I like very much the title A blasphemous & treasonable paper emitted by the phanatical under-subscribers; you can see the “Hogmynae night” section at the bottom right on p. 3, in the paragraph starting “We renounce the Names of Moneths.” As for the 2001 citation, the Bells in question might be this or this or yet another.) The etymology is particularly interesting:
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Back in 2018 I posted about the Australian Aboriginal language Yanyuwa because “it’s one of the few languages in the world where men and women speak different dialects”; now I’m coming at it from a totally different angle, thanks to this Facebook post by Alex Foreman (I am quoting the entire text):

I made a joke about how if someone finds a language without any voiceless consonants I’d have to accept it as real, typology be damned, and then someone pointed out that yeah that’s actually a thing.

Man just look at this feature grid. This is utterly deranged. This may be the most insane arrangement of contrasts I’ve ever seen, including Ubykh. This is like Danish vowels. We’re in whacky conlang territory.

He then has a screenshot of the Phonology section of the Wikipedia article, which is truly a thing of wonder. The intro says “Yanyuwa is extremely unusual in having 7 places of articulation for stops, compared to 3 for English and 4–6 for most other Australian languages. Also unusual is the fact that Yanyuwa has no voiceless phoneme […].” It also has 16 noun classes, not to mention the male and female dialects and the less unusual (though still striking) avoidance speech and ritual speech (“For example, a dingo is usually referred to as wardali, but during ritual occasions, the word used is yarrarriwira“). Languages are endlessly interesting!

Jan van Tienen writes for the ERB about European equivalents of The Onion:

Few joke-forms are so beguilingly efficient as the satirical news headline. Consider a well-wrought one: « Fetus aborted after too few likes for ultrasound ». I remember coming across this one in 2012 on Facebook (obviously) and feeling a wonderful shock. It’s a full ideological roller-coaster in under ten words. And then there’s the sub-joke — « should you saddle a child with prenatal unpopularity? » — skewering a genre (parental anxiety clickbait) that deserves to be skewered. So dark, but that’s part of the efficiency: bring the reader so quickly to the darkest place but also trust, just as quickly, that the reader will land at the ethical conclusion. […]

That joke article appeared in the Dutch platform De Speld, our version of The Onion. Pretty much every European country has an Onion — Germany’s Der Postillon (founded in 2008), France’s Le Gorafi (2012), Austria’s Die Tagespresse (2013), Ireland’s Waterford Whispers (2009), Italy’s Lercio (2012), Spain’s El Mundo Today (2009) — indeed somehow has to have an Onion. They feel almost like public utilities, which is to say that they’ve come to be taken for granted. Satirical news is as old as real news, to be sure, but it has taken a particular form in our time. The Onion started as a satirical print newspaper in 1988 in Madison, Wisconsin, and has served as a blueprint for satirical news media around the world. « The Dutch version of The Onion » rings a bell in a way that « The German version of Private Eye » would not. […]

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I have long realized that I will never understand the British class system, with its social and educational corollaries, any more than I will understand cricket, and this was driven home to me by Daisy Hildyard’s story “Revision” (archived) in last week’s New Yorker. My problems begin with the very title, which comes up in the story when Petra barges in on the protagonist, Gabriel, who is too distracted to pay close attention to her self-absorbed chatter:

His eyes went to his laptop screen.

Petra followed his gaze. “How is your revision going?”

“Fine,” he said. “Great.”

There was a long silence that didn’t seem to bother her. She drank deeply, then sighed comfortably, like a tired pet, and settled her back against the wall.

“Actually, it’s a disaster,” he said. “I know I’m close to doing well, but I have this one paper on medieval literature that I just don’t get. I can’t get a first if I don’t do well in that paper.”

I had a feeling that the word was used differently across the pond, and the OED (entry revised 2010) told me the following:

I.3. Education. The action or process of going over a subject or work already learnt or done with the aim of reinforcing it, typically in preparation for an examination; an instance of this.
Not in North American use: cf. review n. I.8.

So it’s “studying for exams,” but with extra pressure? I know things are very different at Oxford than at American educational institutions, but despite having read Anthony Powell and watched every episode of Inspector Morse and Endeavour, I only have a hazy idea of how it works.

However, that’s not what drove me to post. Here’s the passage that requires explication:
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