I was reading along in Miri Rubin’s NYRB review of Christian Supremacy: Reckoning with the Roots of Antisemitism and Racism by Magda Teter (archived) when I got to this:

The promotion of “purity of blood” (limpieza de sangre)—first legally applied in 1449—introduced distinctions aimed at separating New Christians, or recent converts, from Old Christians in Castile and later across the Hispanic world. The Castilian word raça, meaning a defect in a gem or piece of cloth, came to describe an immutable human quality.

I thought “I never heard that,” and dashed to Wiktionary, where I found “via Middle French race from Italian razza (early 14th century), of uncertain origin.” That sounded familiar; the linked razza page says “The etymology of this word is uncertain, with a large number of controversially discussed suggestions,” and it lists a number of those suggestions, none of which involves Castilian raça.

So I went to the OED, where I found that the entry had been revised as recently as 2008; their etymology says:

< Middle French, French race group of people connected by common descent (c1480 as rasse), offspring, descendants (1496), subdivision of a species represented by a certain number of individuals with hereditary characteristics (c1500), […], subdivision of humankind which is distinguished from others by the relative frequency of certain hereditary traits (1684) < Italian razza kind, species (a1388; earlier as masculine noun razzo (c1300 in sense ‘descent, lineage’, with reference to a horse)), group of individuals of an animal or vegetable species which are differentiated from another group of the same species by one or more characteristics which are constant and hereditary (a1446), offspring, descendants (15th cent.), further etymology uncertain and disputed. Compare Old Occitan rassa gang (late 12th cent.; Occitan raça), plot, conspiracy (13th cent.). Compare also Catalan raça (c1400), Spanish raza (1438), Portuguese raça (1473).

Notes

Various explanations of the origin of Italian razza have been suggested. Two of the most popular of these suggest a Latin origin: one theory suggests a derivation < classical Latin ratiō ratio n., while the other sees the word as being shortened < classical Latin generātiō generation n. An alternative explanation (and one supported by modern dictionaries of Italian: see e.g. M. Cortelazzo and P. Zolli Dizionario etimologico della lingua italiana at razza) derives the Italian word < Old French haraz haras [An enclosure or establishment in which horses and mares are kept for breeding; hence, †a stud, breed, or race of horses] n. For a full discussion and summary of these and various other competing theories see Französisches etymol. Wörterbuch at ratiō.

Nobody mentions any raça ‘defect in a gem or piece of cloth,’ though I presume it’s the same as the Real Academia’s raza² ‘Grieta, hendidura’ (‘crack, fissure’), from Latin radius. As always, all thoughts are welcome.

Guillermo Carvajal writes for La Brújula Verde:

A team of archaeologists has discovered in Knossos, on the Greek island of Crete, the longest Linear A inscription found to date. The script appears on a circular ivory object with an attached handle, discovered in a context of clear religious significance within a Neopalatial building. Besides providing the longest inscription in this yet-to-be-deciphered system, the find offers new perspectives on the use of Minoan writing in ceremonial contexts.

The object was uncovered in one of the rooms of a Neopalatial-phase building (1700-1450 BCE) located in the Anetaki plot, an area of Knossos characterized by its religious use from the Protopalatial period through later times.

The inscription was found in the so-called Ivory Deposit, a semi-subterranean structure where fragments of pottery, bronze, and other offering-related items were also discovered. The ivory object, provisionally identified as a scepter or ritual staff, features an engraved inscription in the Linear A script on all its surfaces. According to specialists who have studied the find, the total length of the text reaches approximately 119 signs, surpassing in length all other known inscriptions in this writing system. […]

The text on the ring is distributed across four faces, each containing inscriptions carved with an unusually high degree of precision for Linear A writing. It is distinguished by its calligraphic refinement, which suggests a ceremonial rather than administrative use, unlike most clay tablets inscribed in this system. […]

A particularly significant aspect is the absence of numerals, a feature that distinguishes this inscription from administrative texts on clay tablets. This reinforces the hypothesis that Minoan writing was not limited to accounting but also played a role in religious and ceremonial contexts.

The paper is Kanta, A., Nakassis, D., Palaima, T. G., & Perna, M. (2025), “An archaeological and epigraphical overview of some inscriptions found in the Cult Center of the city of Knossos (Anetaki plot)” (Ariadne, 27–43, doi.org/10.26248/ariadne.vi.1841). Thanks, Trevor!

It’s time once again to crowd-source my confusion! In Nathan Heller’s New Yorker review of the new memoir by Graydon Carter (archived), he writes:

Spy, which Carter launched, in 1986, with his former Time colleague Kurt Andersen, strove for a tone he calls “bemused detachment, but witheringly judgmental,” and was almost instantly a hit. Comic magazines like Mad and National Lampoon were zany, gag-filled, world-inside-your-head parodies, but Spy was a reported fact-and-trend magazine—closer, in some ways, to Time or Life. It had columns, features, sidebars, spreads, and crosswords, but in mischievously ironized forms.

Try as I might, I can’t grasp what’s meant by “world-inside-your-head parodies,” and I’m hoping someone can enlighten me.

Incidentally, I’m gobsmacked by the lifestyle of Timesters back in the day:

In the late seventies, when Carter arrived at Time, in a mid-level writing job, he was pleased to find that he never had to use his oven. Staffers charged restaurant dinners and even some family vacations to the magazine, often at their superiors’ urging. Time had a reputation as an apiary for buzzing young Ivy League types. “The general feeling was that everybody else could be making more elsewhere—a theory I did not subscribe to—but the expense account life made up for some of the shortage,” Carter writes. Every Friday, as the upcoming issue was put to bed, carts rolled through the hallways with hot dinner and wine, after which company cars took staffers home—or, in the summer, out to Long Island, where they rented houses in Sag Harbor. For Carter, who had his first Savile Row suit made during those years, Time was where the good going began.

A reader wrote to share the Merriam-Webster Word History of posthaste:

As an adverb, posthaste means “with all possible speed.” It’s found in contemporary writing, but we might think of it as an archaic expression, or at least one that cleverly alludes to days of yore, like on The Simpsons when Mr. Burns, making a rare venture out into the world in his horseless carriage without Smithers, commands to Marge: “You there, fill it up with petroleum distillate, and re-vulcanize my tires, posthaste!” […]

If you didn’t already know the etymology of posthaste, you might see the post at the beginning of the word and assume that it’s functioning as a prefix meaning “after,” the way it does in Latin words like postmortem, or in English words like postgame or postgraduate, or in movements of art or critical theory like postmodernism or post-structuralism.

Not quite. The post in posthaste is the same as in post office: it has to do with the mail. In Middle English, post haste was a noun for the speed with which a person delivering mail was pressed to do their job.

In the 16th century “haste, post, haste” was used to inform couriers (also called posts) that a letter was urgent. Post-haste later came to refer to great promptness and speed for any purpose, and was used in phrases like in post-haste and in all post-haste.

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J. Mark Bertrand writes for Lectio about a gorgeous new edition of the Bible:

When 2014’s Kickstarter sensation Bibliotheca finally delivered at the end of last year, I called its creator, Adam Lewis Greene. […] The longer you have to wait, the more your expectations build. And the higher your expectations, the greater the risk of disappointment. The unexpected popularity of the Bibliotheca project on Kickstarter brought a whole genre of Bibles — the multi-volume, reader-friendly kind — out of the archive of past ideas. Before, the conventional wisdom had been that nobody wanted a beautifully designed and produced edition of Scripture separated into volumes so as to do away with the necessity for super-thin pages and super-small print. (Or at least, nobody wanted to pay for it.) When Bibliotheca raised nearly $1.5 million for exactly such an edition, the conventional wisdom was quickly revised. […]

Bibliotheca turned out even better than I expected. And Adam’s interest in typography proved to be much more than a hipster affection (as more than one cultural commentator had opined): the level of care taken in every aspect of the page design and typesetting was breathtaking to observe.

For example, the first thing I saw when I opened the first volume at random was an example of hanging punctuation, a quotation mark sitting just outside the edge of the column so as not to disturb the visual flow. It’s a gorgeous detail. […] To understand the spirit of Bibliotheca’s design, you have to recognize first and foremost the kind of reader-friendly book it is. This is not a mass market paperback. Not a thriller off the bestseller list. Bibliotheca is designed like an art book. (Not surprisingly, it is also printed by a firm in Germany that prints art books.) Where one kind of design strives for populist accessibility, another aims for the kind of minimalist purity that exalts its content — or rather, signals that its content is meant to be exalted. The designer doesn’t presume to make it beautiful; rather, the designer recognizes its inherent beauty and designs accordingly. That’s what Bibliotheca does.

But of course what primarily interested me was the translation:
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I was reading along in Kathryn Hughes’ fascinating NYRB review (December 21, 2023; archived) of Hilary Davidson’s Jane Austen’s Wardrobe (I had no idea she was so tall!) when I got to this:

The making of dresses and outer garments was entrusted to a local dressmaker; Davidson points out that the complex construction of the sleeves on Austen’s brown silk pelisse could be achieved only by an expert pattern cutter. This, though, remained a surprisingly inexpensive outlay. When Austen employed a London dressmaker in April 1811 to make pelisses for her and Cassandra, the tradeswoman charged only eight shillings, equivalent to perhaps $30 today. The mantua-maker—or dressmaker, as she was increasingly known—would have kept a pattern of each client on file that could be altered to take account of changes occurring through age, illness, and pregnancy.

Mantua-maker! I ran to the OED (entry revised in 2000):

Now archaic and historical.
Originally: a person who made mantuas. Later more generally: a dressmaker.

1694 Mantuamaker.
P. A. Motteux, translation of F. Rabelais, 5th Book of Works Pantagr. Prognost. 237

1712 The most celebrated Tyre-women and Mantua-makers in Paris.
E. Budgell, Spectator No. 277. ¶11

1776 Masks will be..sold by almost all the Milliners and Mantua Makers in Town.
Massachusetts Gazette & Boston Weekly News-letter 22 February
[…]

1997 A Coach and Six to go to her Mantua-Maker’s.
T. Pynchon, Mason & Dixon xiii. 143

So I must have run across it when I was reading Mason & Dixon a decade ago (1, 2, 3) but simply accepted it as one of those mysterious olde-fashioned terms he sprinkled the text with — unless, of course, I did look it up and subsequently forgot it. (Surely not!) At any rate, I turned next to the base word, mantua (entry also from 2000):
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Via Mark Liberman at the Log, a deeply bizarre problem: How a glitch in an online survey replaced the word ‘yes’ with ‘forks’. I’ll let you visit the links for the details of the problem; this user comment will give you the idea:

“Please review [the] answer choices. Every ‘yes’ answer for me was listed as ‘forks’ for some reason. I.e. instead of yes/no it was forks/no.”

The interesting thing is the reason that “Google translate still thinks that ‘yes’ in Spanish means ‘forks’ in English”; in Mark’s words:

That may be puzzling until you realize that ye as the name of the letter ‘Y’ in Spanish can be used to mean a fork in the road, i.e. a Y-junction.

I wonder how long it would have taken me to figure that out.

John Gallagher (seen previously in these parts, e.g. 2020, 2022) reviews Bernard Cerquiglini’s ‘La Langue anglaise n’existe pas’: C’est du français mal prononcé for the LRB (6 March 2025; archived), and he is as enjoyable as ever:

Picture the scene​: it’s a few years after the Norman Conquest, and a man goes out to shoot deer in the New Forest. He’s breaking the law, as the right to hunt here is reserved to the Crown. The man is caught, and arrested – not by his own countrymen, but by ‘a group of armed jabbering foreigners’. Our hapless English hunter is forced to take a crash course in a strange language. First, he learns the word ‘prisun’; soon after, he’ll hear the words ‘foreste’, ‘rent’, ‘justise’. Uneasy in an occupied land, he will find language turned against him, his homely Saxon terms elbowed out by the language (and brute power) of a new Norman elite.

The scene comes from The English Language, published in 1949 by Charles Leslie Wrenn, a professor of Anglo-Saxon at Oxford. Wrenn was one of many scholars for whom the history of English after the conquest was painful to relate. In 1855, the philologist and later archbishop of Dublin Richard Chenevix Trench frightened an audience of schoolboys with the story of the deliberate perversion of the language by the French: he accused them of drawing ‘a secret satisfaction, a conscious sense of superiority, in thus stripping the language of its grace and ornament, outraging its laws, compelling it to novel forms, showing, even while it is used, how little it is regarded, and making thus not merely the wills, but the very speech of the conquered, to confess its subjection’.

Hysterics like these are nothing new. By the latter half of the 16th century, when the number of words in English increased at an unprecedented rate, anxieties proliferated about the threat to the language’s good Saxon stock from foreign lexical invaders. Authors and translators borrowed promiscuously from French to expand English’s range of expression, prompting Samuel Johnson to warn that too much translation risked shaking the foundations of English. Since no book ‘was ever turned from one language into another, without imparting something of its native idiom’, translators’ ‘mischievous and comprehensive innovation’ in attempting to ape the style of originals – which, in the 18th century, were very often in French – meant that they wrote with an insidiously Gallic inflection. This, for Johnson, was worse than simply borrowing new terms, something which had exercised critics for years. He warned that ‘single words may enter by thousands, and the fabrick of the tongue continue the same, but new phraseology changes much at once; it alters not the single stones of the building, but the order of the columns.’ If nobody stopped the translators, the English would be left ‘to babble a dialect of France’.

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I’ll quote Nelson Goering’s Facebook post (adding italics where they seem called for):

Happy Nowruz! It’s the vernal equinox today, and also the traditional new year’s day of the Persianate world. The name of the festival means “new day”, but is etymologically basically the same as “new light” in English.

Actually the elements aren’t quite perfect matches, since there are slightly different suffixes involved — a bit like how German Heiligkeit and English holiness are related in their roots, but have different suffixes. In this case, the now- part goes back to an Old Iranian *nawa-, itself from Indo-European *new-o-. English new is from an extended form of this, *new-jo-. Both variants just meant “new”.

For -ruz, that goes back to Old Persian raucah-, which already meant “day” in the oldest records of Persian, the inscriptions of Darius the Great (around the year -500). But the older meaning was definitely “light”, and this is the sense of Avestan raocah-. Avestan is the liturgical language of the Zoroastrian religion, and the oldest language of the Iranic family attested. The word is found already in the oldest layer of Avestan, the hymns of Zarathushtra, which might be as old as c. -1000. This in turn comes from Indo-European *leuk-os-. English light comes from a slightly different formation, something like *leuk-to-.

And I’ll follow that with Martin Kümmel’s extremely interesting comment and the ensuing back-and-forth:
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Sam Anderson has an enjoyable story in Sunday’s NY Times Magazine (archived) about a once-famous wanderer in the Northeast of the U.S. in the Civil War era:

The word “strange” hardly captures his strangeness. He was rough and hairy, and he wandered around on back roads, sleeping in caves. Above all, he refused to explain himself. As one newspaper put it: “He is a mystery, and a very greasy and ill-odored one.” Other papers referred to him as “the animal” or (just throwing up their hands) “this uncouth and unkempt ‘What is it?’”

But the strangest thing about the stranger was his suit.

In summer and in winter, in every possible kind of weather, the man wore, from head to toe, an outrageous outfit he seems to have made himself: rough leather patches stitched together with long leather strips, like a quilt. It was stiff, awkward, stinky and brutally heavy. It looked like knight’s armor made out of baseball gloves. To anyone encountering him on a quiet country lane, he must have seemed almost unreal: a huge slab of brown, twice as wide as a normal man, his suit creaking and squeaking with every step.

In the years following the Civil War, the wandering stranger became an object of curiosity, then a frequent subject of the newspapers. People gave him a name: the Old Leatherman.

It’s a great read, but I’m bringing it here for the Hattic bits:

Month after month, people watched the Old Leatherman clomp past their farms and through their woods and right up the main streets of their tiny towns. At mealtimes, he would stop at sympathetic households — the same ones, over and over — to ask, with a grunt, for food. He rarely spoke, and when he did his words were clipped, strange. In the silence, rumors grew. People speculated that the Old Leatherman was French, or French Canadian, or Portuguese. They said that he couldn’t speak at all, or that he just couldn’t speak English, or that he spoke English perfectly but pretended not to. […]

Who was he? Why was he doing this? People were obsessed. But try as they might, no one could figure it out. “One of the most noted philologists in the State spoke to him in a half-dozen different languages,” The New York Times reported in 1884. “He could get no reply but a guttural sound which meant nothing, and which was more animal than human in its character.”

Maybe he was… a Neanderthal! Or possibly just a Gael.