I’m on the home stretch of Rieber’s The Struggle for the Eurasian Borderlands
Khevenhüller is the name of a Carinthian noble family, documented there since 1356, with its ancestral seat at Landskron Castle. In the 16th century, the family split into the two branches of Khevenhüller-Frankenburg, Imperial Counts (i.e. immediate counts of the Holy Roman Empire) from 1593, and Khevenhüller-Hochosterwitz, raised to Imperial Counts in 1725 and, as Khevenhüller-Metsch, to princely rank (Fürsten) in 1763. […]
Johann IV von Khevenhüller zu Aichelberg (born ca 1420-1462) was the first to hold the family title “of Aichelberg”, yet Johann V Khevenhüller (died 1462), son of Wilhelm II Khevenhüller and Margareta von Auersperg, was Burgrave of Federaun, whereas his son, Augustin Khevenhüller, who died 1516, is referred to as Herr (i.e. Lord) of Hardegg. His mother was one “Miss” von Lindegg, who together with her grandson Sigismund III, Herr Khevenhüller in Hohen-Osterwitz (1507–1558) appears among the ancestors of Prince Charles. Her youngest grandson, Bernard von Khevenhüller (1511–1548) was “Herr auf Sternberg and Hohenwart”; her eldest grandson, Christoph Khevenhüller (1503–1557) was Lord of Aichelberg.
Khevenhüller-Hochosterwitz! Burgrave of Federaun! Herr of Hardegg! “Miss” von Lindegg! Further down is Bartlmä Khevenhüller, but the real gems come in the Spanish branch: Don Camilo Ruspoli y Khevenhüller-Metsch, Marescotti-Capizucchi y Liechtenstein, dei Principi Ruspoli! Don Luigi Ruspoli y Godoy, de Khevenhüller-Metsch y Borbón, dei Principi Ruspoli, 3rd Marquis of Boadilla del Monte! Don Adolfo Ruspoli y Godoy di Bassano, de Khevenhüller-Metsch y Borbón, dei Principi Ruspoli, 2nd Duke of Alcudia! The last-named was a Grandee of Spain First Class, as well he might be.
Although it’s admittedly not up there with Don Adolfo Ruspoli y Godoy di Bassano, de Khevenhüller-Metsch y Borbón, dei Principi Ruspoli, 2nd Duke of Alcudia, I’ve always liked the Chimborazo-Cotopaxi romance of the titles of the descendants of Moteuczoma II, last-but-one emperor of the Mexica:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Duke_of_Moctezuma_de_Tultengo
“The original title of Count of Moctezuma, from which it descends, was given by Philip IV of Spain in 1627 to Pedro Tesifón Moctezuma de la Cueva, 1st Viscount of Ilucán, Lord of Tula and Peza, a Knight of Santiago and a great-grandson of Moctezuma II through his son Pedro de Moctezuma Tlacahuepan.”
Is it really Moteuczoma, or is that just a typo?
Juan Carlos I bore (but did not use) the titles of King of Spain, King of Castile, King of León, King of Aragon, King of the Two Sicilies, King of Jerusalem, King of Navarre, King of Granada, King of Toledo, King of Valencia, King of Galicia, King of Sardinia, King of Cordoba, King of Corsica, King of Murcia, King of Jaen, King of Algeciras, King of the Canary Islands, King of the Philippine Islands, King of the Spanish East and West Indies and of the Islands and Mainland of the Ocean Sea, Archduke of Austria, Duke of Burgundy, Duke of Brabant, Duke of Milan, Duke of Athens and Neopatria, Count of Habsburg, Count of Flanders, Count of the Tirol, Count of Roussillon, Count of Barcelona, Lord of Biscay, Lord of Molina, General Captain of the Royal Armed Forces and its Supreme Commander, Sovereign Grand Master of the Celebrated Order of the Golden Fleece (Spain), Grand Master of the Royal & Distinguished Order of Charles III (Spain), Grand Master of the Royal Order of Isabelle, the Catholic (Spain), Grand Master of the Royal & Military Order of St. Hermenegildo (Spain), Grand Master of the Royal & Military Order of St. Fernando (Spain), Grand Master of the Order of Montesa (Spain), Grand Master of the Order of Alcántara (Spain), Grand Master of the Order of Calatrava (Spain), Grand Master of the Order of Santiago (Spain), Grand Master of the Order of Maria Luisa (Spain), Grand Master of other Military Orders.
I especially like “King of the Islands and Mainland of the Ocean Sea.” Comprehensive sort of claim, that.
Doctor Eszterhazy meets the King of Jerusalem, alias Teodro Gogor, at the spa at Gross-Kroplets, and on one other occasion.
These splendid names put me in mind of a character in (if I remember correctly) At-Swim-Two-Birds, who is described as holder of a Guinness clerkship the third kind.
I await eagerly the weighing in on this of Count von Bladet, and of course the crowned AJP.
Bartholomä is one thing, but what is this half-nickname?
Motecuzoma II. Xocoyotzin.
Hawaiian nobility and royalty had names that went on for days, as well they might when you have so few consonants and not that many vowels.
Don’t forget Johann Gambolputty….
@JC:
Not a typo. “Moteuczoma” is me being pedantic, but I’m unrepentant. The Nahuatl is /mote:kʷso:maʔ/ “He Frowns like a Lord.” The Spanish-based orthography never came up with a good way of representing kʷ before a consonant. I’ve used Launey’s orthography, but without diacritics because I’m not *that* pedantic.
Andrews’ grammar gets particularly shirty over spellings like Motecu(h)zoma, but then he gets cross over a lot of things, perhaps with reason.
The Spanish form Moctezuma is basically a mistake, even it’s a ducal name. At least it’s not as mangled as the Anglo “Montezuma.”
There’s no o/u contrast in Classical Nahuatl – hence -zuma/-zoma etc.
Ah, so that would be Motēuhczōmah in whichever orthography is the one used on Wikipedia…
…edit: actually I have no idea if -uhc- or -cuh-, and I’m not gonna look it up at 1 am.
At Swim-Two-Birds it is. The unnamed narrator’s uncle is “holder of a Guinness clerkship, the third class”; I presume there has been some mental contamination with “close encounters of the third kind” or the like, which is more a mathematical/scientific style of term than a commercial/bureaucratic one.
The excellent Baron de Charlus has at one point to explain to the odious Verdurins that he is
aussi duc de Brabant, damoiseau de Montargis, prince d’Oléron, de Carency, de Viareggio et des Dunes et membre de l’ordre de Malte et du Jockey Club.
Sadly, Wikipedia’s short-lived states category was deleted, and the list of shortest-lived ones is half-baked at best.
“Guinness clerkship, the third class”: In Olde Ireland, the unconnected Dublin school-leaver’s options ranked (from most desirable) thus:
1. Guinnesses
2. Civil Service
3. Teacher training
4. College
the list of shortest-lived ones is half-baked at best.
But still a fun read. Most of them are boring or aspirational/fictional (and often both), but I’m quite fond of the Republic of Prekmurje, Kruševo Republic, United Baltic Duchy, Hutsul Republic, and Duchy of Courland and Semigallia.
Don’t forget kingdom of Galicia and Lodomeria!
Kh??? Since when does any German variety use for anything? If it’s pronounced /x/, what non-loanwords in German ever start with a /x/?
Overlaps happen – the ranks at the Centre national de la Recherche scientifique (CNRS) are from lowest to highest: Chargé de Recherches 2e Classe, Chargé de Recherches 1e Classe, Directeur de Recherches 2e Classe, Directeur de Recherches 1e Classe.
Not short-lived at all, it just so happened that the king was also emperor of Austria, king of Hungary and a whole lot of other things.
Has occasionally cropped up for the South Bavarian completion of the High German consonant shift: it’s several versions of /k͡x/. Andreas Khol, from Tyrol, is not a typo.
That’s not the end of it, though. The Carinthians have reinterpreted the whole sound system in Slovene terms. First, trivially, /k͡x/ was reanalyzed as a sequence of /k/ + /x/. Second, German has [h] and [x], while Slovene only has [x]; therefore, as many [x] as possible were hypercorrected to [h]! So, the Carinthian outcome of */k͡x/ is [kh]. (Not [kʰ], but a sequence of a released [k] followed by [h].)
Consider cloud covers, Wolkendecken. I pronounce that as [ˈvɔlkŋ̩d̥ɛkːŋ̩] (nasal release on each [k]). A TV weather presenter from the other side of the Alps consistently said [ˈvɔlkhəŋdɛkhəŋ].
And let’s not forget John Dee’s buddy, the alchemist Heinrich von Khunradt.
Is the Prince des Dunes related to the Prince of Tides?
The latter wouldn’t stop attacking him!
Pretty sure there’s actually no such thing as a “Burgrave” I mean come on.
Burggraf. Count of a castle.
So is there really such a thing as a “Guinness clerkship, the third class”, and if so what is it? At Swim-Two-Birds is a favorite of mine and I’ve long wondered.
Appparently yes. It has been twice referred to in Irish Senate debates, admittedly in connection with O’Brien (under his other pseudonym of Myles na gCopaleen). It was said to be both permanent and pensionable, unlike most jobs today. Government bureaucracies of the day certainly had third-class clerks.
Someone was asking me a whie ago about the origin of the form “Montezuma” – which is common (predominant?) in English but rare in current Spanish. At first it looked like it may have originated with some 18th-century opera librettos, but then I saw that Bernal Díaz del Castillo had used it in his True History of the Conquest of New Spain in 1576. Would it be reasonable to suppose that it was contaminated by Spanish monte – a grand thing for a monarch to have in his name?
Even if it weren’t a grand thing, it seems pretty natural as a way to make an exotic name conform to a more familiar pattern: Mountbatten, Montreal, Monte Cristo, Montevideo, Mount Zuma. After all, what’s a mocte? (Could be something from Starbucks, I suppose …)
Davud E, JC: “Moteuczoma”…. The Nahuatl is /mote:kʷso:maʔ/ “He Frowns like a Lord.” The Spanish-based orthography never came up with a good way of representing kʷ before a consonant.
Neither have some English-based orthographies. Some languages I have been researching have a /kʷ/, often written uk or even ouk in non-initial position (as in dzakw written dzaouk) even by some linguists who might be expected to hear the difference and know how to write it. I find this strange, as I have not had any problems hearing the [kʷ] (and neither have some others, including native speakers).
Come to think of it, “Frowns like a Lord” as an imperial name is not too different from von Bladet’s high title “Bearer of Imperial Grudges.”
I can actually picture the role and responsibilities of this dreaded official quite easily. I suspect many an emperor has in fact had one, but without the formal feudal recognition.
May I just nitpick by questioning the claim that Eastern Rumelia is “almost equally obscure”? I should think the de-facto-independent Tamrash was much more obscure than ER, as evidenced by both their relative levels of prominence in my own recollection and (more objectively) in the google books corpus. ER also probably gets an additional boost because of the broader usage of “Rumelia” as a more prominent (if still now archaic) toponym for “some perhaps vaguely-specified portion of the Ottoman-ruled Balkans, with the details/boundaries of the territory referred to varying considerably depending on time and context.”
If I had been a Spanish invader I’d have spelt him Motequsoma, cf Urquhart with original kʷʰ and just as liable to be pronounced with a spurious vowel by people not in the know.
Of course that would depend on being able to hear the labialization.
Although I am intrigued to learn that the de facto autonomy of Tamrash may have been facilitated by the involvement of a colorful-sounding fellow named Stanislas Graham Bower St. Clair, alias Hidayet Pasha, who was either carrying out secret instructions from the British Government to prop up Ottoman power in order to limit the expansion of Russian influence or was just a free-lance adventurer serving no cause but his own.
May I just nitpick by questioning the claim that Eastern Rumelia is “almost equally obscure”? I should think the de-facto-independent Tamrash was much more obscure than ER, as evidenced by both their relative levels of prominence in my own recollection and (more objectively) in the google books corpus. ER also probably gets an additional boost because of the broader usage of “Rumelia” as a more prominent (if still now archaic) toponym for “some perhaps vaguely-specified portion of the Ottoman-ruled Balkans, with the details/boundaries of the territory referred to varying considerably depending on time and context.”
Nitpicking is always in order around these parts! I grant you that “almost equally obscure” may have been an overstatement, but I would urge you to separate the specific toponym Eastern Rumelia from the broader usage of “Rumelia,” which, as you say, is not that obscure (to those of us who care about the history of the region, of course). The fact that “Eastern Rumelia” doesn’t sound as weird as it would if it were called “Eastern Khevenhüller” (to pick a name out of the blue) is irrelevant, since I’m not talking about the weirdness of the name but the obscurity of the actual entity, the autonomous territory that existed from 1878 to 1885. I would bet that few people outside of Bulgaria (and classes in Balkan history) are aware that there ever existed such a thing, which is the kind of obscurity I had in mind. (It’s possible, of course, that few people in Bulgaria are aware of it either, but deponent hath no knowledge thereof and saith not.) A current point of comparison would be Somaliland, which sounds comfortably familiar but actually refers to a plucky region that is not internationally recognised as a state but in my opinion should be. Nearly everyone who hears the name and nods with apparent recognition will be confusing it with Somalia; that apparent recognition has no bearing on the obscurity of Somaliland itself (the entity).
Surely in the old days the proverbial Every Schoolboy knew about the changes to the map of the Balkans created by the Congress of Berlin, as illustrated in standard historical atlases which would show Eastern Rumelia but not the freelance/bootleg/not-Congressionally-approved Tamrash. At a minimum, I can’t have been the *only* schoolboy of the 1970’s to have looked at and committed to memory the substance of that particular page of that particular book?
As to Somaliland, I just saw an article the other day arguing for greater recognition of its de facto awesomeness, because in the brave new 21st century you’re never that far away (in a having-mutual-facebook-friends sense) from one of the small but devoted cadre of Somaliland-recognition activists.
Surely in the old days the proverbial Every Schoolboy knew about the changes to the map of the Balkans created by the Congress of Berlin, as illustrated in standard historical atlases which would show Eastern Rumelia but not the freelance/bootleg/not-Congressionally-approved Tamrash. At a minimum, I can’t have been the *only* schoolboy of the 1970’s to have looked at and committed to memory the substance of that particular page of that particular book?
The old days in which that was true were over by WWI. I find it hard to believe many schoolboys of the 1970s (as opposed to the 1870s) were using books that had such a map, but in any case, I’m sure you were not the *only* such schoolboy, but I’m equally sure you were one of a vanishingly small cohort of such schoolboys. You’re not seriously suggesting that if you interviewed your fellow classmates there would be more than one other (and I’m being generous here) who would have even a flicker of recognition at the phrase “Eastern Rumelia”?
I actually don’t remember if my 12th grade textbook for AP European History (now being taken by my older daughter after being transmogrified into “World History”) had maps showing 19th century Balkan border changes, because I already personally knew all that stuff from years earlier. But I learned it not from dusty old pre-WWI books found in some antiquarian attic, but from fairly newly-published historical atlases found in the reference sections of school and public libraries in places that would not have been anyone’s idea of obscurantism-friendly major research collections.
I will admit that my odd historical/geographical/etc obsessions were not things I talked about with peers, so that while I do remember the sense of hipster camaraderie that went with the feeling circa 1981 of “we’re the only half-dozen kids out of 350+ in our grade who know about the Velvet Underground!” there was for good or for ill no similar bonding over knowing about Eastern Rumelia. Maybe things have changed with the internet, though? I have a friend with a son around 9 years old who has become obsessed with all things Luxembourg and is trying to teach himself Letzeburgesch via some website. Maybe he will be able to tap into a global community of other young Luxembourg-obsessives?
I had (and have) a similar love for historical maps, but it was pretty much just me. In high school I used to draw maps on the chalkboard during homeroom, and my classmates would call me “the Cartographer”, but not even the nerdier set that I hung out with shared the inclination.
To pick another nit, the righteous form is apparently saith naught, or in full further affiant/deponent saith naught, meaning ‘has nothing further to say’. This is made clear by the canonical Spanish translation (in U.S. context) as el declarante / deponente afirma no tener nada más que decir.
JC’s wording is more congruent with my own sense although that particular archaic/ritualistic phraseology had largely dropped out of active use in NYC-area legalese by the time I started practicing. But there are very substantial regional variations in legalese fixed phrases within the US (not to mention between the US and other Anglophone jurisdictions), so I would not necessarily assume one version is canonical. Indeed, if it turned out that at some point in the mid-20th-century the standard phrase in let’s say the Denver area had mutated from “saith naught” to “saith not” due to an eggcornish reanalysis of opaque language, with the mutation then ritualistically carried forward by succeeding generations of local scriveners, I wouldn’t be surprised.
My grandfather had a beautiful world atlas which, when he bought it, was not historical at all. It was particularly enjoyable looking at the maps of Austria-Hungary. No idea what became of it, unfortunately.
My edition of Shepherd’s Historical Atlas, 2nd rev. ed. 1921, has a map of Europe at the Present Time that shows Austria-Hungary, Turkey in Europe, and Turkey in Asia as they were before the Downfall, with the actual 1921 borders and names added in red ink: Czecho-Slovakia, Jugoslavia, Albania, Syria, Armenia, Georgia, et al. (I note that “Arabia” is shown as extending up to the Turkish border and including Aleppo, while “Syria” is limited to a coastal strip including Beirut, Alexandretta, and Adana. Must have been out of date almost immediately, if not before it was printed.)
Speaking of contemporaneous maps that become historical with the passage of time, this guide to dating one (based on the presence/absence of certain details) is one of the best xkcd’s with no linguistics content. https://xkcd.com/1688/
One of the fascinating things up in my grandparents’ attic when I was a boy was a globe memorializing the international boundaries of a brief intermediate period during the run-up to WW2. I’m now fuzzy on the details (I don’t know where that globe went after my grandma died in ’89 and the house was sold), but maybe the Anschluss had already occurred but Czecho-Slovakia had not yet been dismembered? Manchukuo was shown separate from China but that was far from being the most recent development.
The map in Yakko’s World shows united Germany (late 1990), doesn’t show the dissolution of the USSR (slowly in 1991/92, IIRC), and apparently didn’t get the news on the Yemen unification (mid-1990).
The song has an awful lot of other errors, but they mostly don’t show up in the actual map.
I’ve heard, somewhere, that it was actually made in 1993 or so, but the production team was working from a late-1980s map, and the only difference they could remember offhand was the German unification.
Presumably they also remembered that the USSR had been renamed to Russia, but weren’t sure what happened to it more specifically.
I’ve seen it spelled Urchart. The Scottish quh seems to be a nice parallel to the Old High German qhu, which sometimes appeared in places where chw would be expected for /k͡xw/. C + h = ch, qu + h =…
I had a clearer mental image of East Rumelia than of Rumelia, no doubt because of the historical atlases and encyclopedia articles I (too) devoured as a child.
Rumelia is a better name for Balkan than Balkan.
Rumelia was the name of the European possessions of the Ottoman empire. Now there’s only a tiny Thrace left.
As a child I lived on Colquhoun [kʰə’hu:n] Street.
Yeah, “Rumelia” is a nice name. I’d favor using it for European Turkey even still, rather than the clunky “Eastern Thrace” – leaving “Thrace” for the region in northeastern Greece.
I’m waiting for the 15th edition of the big Times before I buy again — it’s still a few years before the grandchildren will be old enough to understand it. I don’t know if I still have the early eighties one in a box somewhere, but it would be fun to compare.
I’m sure this [h] is an approximation to an original [x], the [x]-[xʷ] distinction being neutralized before [u].
“Is the Prince des Dunes related to the Prince of Tides?”
The latter wouldn’t stop attacking him!
Indeed, the feud is going on forever:
Avec la mer du Nord pour dernier terrain vague
Et des vagues de dunes pour arrêter les vagues
Due to the fortunes of war and subsequent ethnic cleansing, there are virtually no Rum (in the ethnoreligious-group sense) left in the vestigial bit of Turkey-in-Europe within the current boundaries of Turkey. Maybe it’s just the etymological fallacy to think it shouldn’t be called Rumelia without a reasonable number of the namesake people still located there, but it still seems that using that name might provoke a melancholy focus on the many unfortunate aspects of the area’s 20th century history.
I think the first time I’ve heard of Eastern Rumelia was when my family went on a vacation to Bulgaria in 2014 – specifically, the small seaside town of Byala, which apparenty used to be just north of the Bulgaria-Eastern Rumelia border.
As a fan of both history and geography, I was fascinated by the factoid that the old border between Bulgaria and Eastern Rumelia and the modern border between Varna Province and Burgas Province both ended within the short stretch of coast (about five miles or so) between the towns of Byala and Obzor – but that the latter boundary was apparently a little bit south of the former.
(Ever since, my planned [still planned, somehow] Simpsons fanfic where a bunch of Springfieldian schoolkids go on a huge worldwide field trip to Springfield’s assorted twin towns and sister cities had included a scene where the organizers get the news that “the twin town of Gefiltefiş, Eastern Rumelia had probably never really existed” and tell the field-trippers to also try to contact the Eastern Rumelian government so that it can recommend a different sister city that actually exists.
It’s a somewhat althistorical setting, from North Takoma to Czechoslovenia – actually Czechoslovenia [capital: Vladislava] was the first thing I’ve made up for it, back in 2010 – but it’s intended to be the “mostly like reality unless noted” kind of alternate history, and the fate of Eastern Rumelia is supposed to basically be pretty much the same as in our history.
And yes, I did pretty much deliberately choose Eastern Rumelia as an obscure country.)
However, while I do like reading about the occasional obscure separatist state, I can’t recall ever hearing of Tamrash before this thread (as should be expected, since it’s nowhere near Byala).
Alas, no Eastern Rumelian passport, but this is an enjoyable collection.
No mention that Fiume has been translated and is now called Rijeka? Boo.
Or Reka or Rika, depending on who’s pronouncing it.
Sure, but if you’re looking for it on a map that isn’t Serbian or Slovene, it’ll be called Rijeka.
But does Czechoslovenia border Yugoslovakia?
I kind of don’t get the point of calling a town River.
Short for “St. Vitus on the River (flowing into the sea)”, as opposed to St. Vitus on the Glan, the old capital of Carinthia. The Glan flows through three intermediaries into the Danube.
But does Czechoslovenia border Yugoslovakia?
I… haven’t actually gotten to the point of actually putting it on the map (unlike North Takoma, which I do have a map location for – it’s basically the OTL Nebraska panhandle plus a bit of nearby stuff).
The map from the Czechoslovenia tumblr (no relation) is pretty close to what I had in mind, but has far too much Austria. And a bit too much Hungary. (Come to think of it, isn’t it just a map of Austria-Hungary? Oh, right, it’s missing Croatia.)
The map from Wikipedia (also no relation) is even closer to what my current impression is (aside from the name of the capital, and the overly large sea coast).
My current idea is that Czechoslovenia is either an alternate rendering of Czecho-Slavia (which IOTL became Czechoslovakia), or united Bohemia and Moravia (the old duchies, not the 1940s country) plus maybe some nearby lands that somehow became independent in the 18th or 19th century.
Either of those will make it not border Yugo-anything – Austria-Hungary is in the way (I can hardly have Austria not border Hungary unless I’m rewriting the entire history of the 17th, 18th and 19th centuries, and even if I do manage to get that part in order, it would be a bit complicated to show in a story set in modern times).
Actually, looking at the map, a division of the Austrian Empire into three parts (German, Slavic and Hungarian) instead of OTL’s two would make a Slavic part that could reasonably work as Czechoslovenia and actually have Slovenia in it.
Another possibility would be to have Cisleithania and Transleithania both split into Slavic and non-Slavic halves each; the former will result in a Czechoslovenia, the latter in a Yugoslovakia (it would basically be OTL’s middle Yugoslavia plus a bit of southern Slovakia). The names wouldn’t really make much sense then, though (especially the second one).
Finally, going with the somewhat frivolous nature of the entire story, I could have a connection to the east of Hungary – after all, while I need to keep Austria and Hungary connected, there’s no reason to do the same with Hungary and Romania. Czechia plus Slovakia plus (western) Transylvania plus Baranya plus Slavonia plus (inland) Slovenia… voila, contiguous country. (That list probably excluded some connecting areas, and included a few that shouldn’t be there; basically it’s most of OTL Czechoslovakia, plus everything within a few dozen miles immediately south of OTL Hungary, plus that one little bit in the extreme west of OTL Ukraine.) This is the Slovenia-including option that I’m most likely to go with (so far).
TL/DR: I haven’t decided yet, but probably not – but for reasons that have less to do with naming and more to do with why the OTL equivalents didn’t border each other either.
Now there’s only a tiny Thrace left.
A couple of years late, but I want to get on the record how much I enjoyed that.
It was particularly enjoyable looking at the maps of Austria-Hungary. No idea what became of it, unfortunately.
Gone out with the tides of history, along with Eastern Rumelia, Graustark, the Notar Republic, and the Triune Monarchy. Or perhaps vanished in Apache fog.
In re JWB, February 24, 2017 at 3:01 pm: We are getting uncomfortably close to the year of “Danger — radioactive exclusion zone — avoid” instead of “Colorado”. I for one shall not be surprised.
Luckily the spiders are a year further out.
Lord of Hardegg
By the mid-1630s we hear (fictionally) of “Hardegg, Selfisch, and Krapp, a Rudolstadt legal firm with a certain reputation”, namely for winning their cases.
Also the name of one of Krleža’s most famous poems:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RVnw9pDUnnY
(From the Balade Petrice Kerempuha, 1936, read here by the actor Fabijan Šovagović.)
Text.