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I was listening to a news report of some people in Mexico accidentally burning down an encampment with loss of life when the reporter said they hadn’t meant to “cause this disgrace,” and I knew immediately what had happened. Spanish desgracia, like French déception (which means ‘disappointment’), is a classic false friend: it means ‘misfortune,’ not ‘disgrace.’ Tuvo la desgracia de perder un hijo means ‘(s)he was unfortunate enough to lose a son’; han tenido una desgracia tras otra is ‘they’ve had one disaster (or ‘piece of bad luck’) after another’; desgraciado is ‘unhappy, ill-fated,’ not ‘disgraced.’ So consider this a public service message: if you find yourself having to translate Spanish on the fly, keep this fact firmly in mind; it’s fatally easy to grab the obvious cognate. (Compare the “echelon” problem in Russian, though that is of course far less likely to turn up in practice.)

Unrelated: from John Emerson’s Facebook feed, I learn that Mathematicians have finally discovered an elusive ‘einstein’ tile (Science News piece by Emily Conover). Why do I bring that here? Two reasons; the first:

Although the name “einstein” conjures up the iconic physicist, it comes from the German ein Stein, meaning “one stone,” referring to the single tile.

The second is that the tile is known as “the hat.” (Also: Come back, JE, we miss you!)

Back in 2009, I raved about the then-new third edition of Jesse Sheidlower’s magnum opus, The F-Word; now Jesse is soliciting help with the forthcoming fourth:

The first edition came out in 1995, and was based on the Historical Dictionary of American Slang (the fuck-containing volume of which had been published in 1994). This edition largely ignored non-American uses of the word, and its treatment of entries beyond the letter F was spotty. The second edition of 1999 remedied these and other problems. The third edition, published in 2009, was a massive update; by that point I had become an editor at the OED, and was able to use its resources, as well as the greatly increased availability of online sources, to significantly expand the book. The fourth edition will benefit from the further expansion of online databases, as well as increased interest (both popular and academic) in both the use and the study of offensive language.

I’d been doing haphazard work on the fourth edition since the third edition went to press, but in the last year, I’ve been working in earnest. There are over 1,500 new quotations; over 100 antedatings (earlier evidence for existing senses, forcing us to rethink what we thought we knew about a word’s history); and over 80 new senses. […] I will also be revising the Introduction, incorporating new discoveries about the earliest known examples of fuck, and discussing the constantly shifting acceptability of offensive terms in current usage, where mainstream American newspapers have begun printing the word openly (often spurred by the frequent use of such language by prominent political figures).

As for how the rest of us can help, he says:

There are many ways. You can suggest items that should be in, preferably with good examples of usage. If you have antedatings of any of the new examples listed above, I’d love to get those. If there are particular quotations, anecdotes, or the like that you think deserve to go in, please suggest them! […] Finally, I do have a list of items I’m actively looking for. For these specific items, I already have an entry; I am looking for actual quotations. The general idea is to find “good” examples (except for antedatings, which can be anything): nothing from glossaries, nothing referring to the word as a word, nothing from “the Internet” at random. Printed examples from published texts are preferred, but anything traceable, or from sources that are well-known or reliable, is fine. Indeed, my coverage of online sources could be improved, so I would welcome evidence from major websites, prominent social media accounts, and so forth. Least preferable are totally random examples such as “I’m familiar with this,” or ones found by Googling, searching Twitter, or the like.

The list of specific items starts with cuntfuck, n. (“British use as a term of abuse: antedating 2002”) and ends with SNEFU ‘situation normal, everything fucked up’ (“any evidence not from glossaries”); visit the post for many glorious examples of wordfuckery, and of course help out if you can.

Update (Oct. 2024). The new edition is out:

This new, fourth edition (2024) is not just a minor update but a comprehensive revision. The fourth edition includes over 2,500 new quotations; over 150 new entries; and over 150 antedatings—earlier examples of existing entries, improving our understanding of the word’s development. Major new discoveries push back the known history of fuck by almost 200 years.

Quotations are as recent as 2024, taken from a wide range of sources, both literary (traditionally published books, magazines, and newspapers) and nonliterary (rap songs, TV shows (The Wire, The Sopranos, and Succession are quoted dozens of times), 19th-century pornographic phonograph records, and internet sites such as Twitter, Instagram, Urban Dictionary, and Reddit).

The many new entries include, in general use, brainfuck; the MILF spinoff terms DILF and GILF; thank fuck; the group of expressions of the sort to give no fucks or zero fucks given; fuck around and find out (and its abbreviation FAFO); fuck bitch; fuck doll; the social game Fuck, Marry, Kill; fuckton; several new senses of fuck with including ‘to enjoy’; and trophy fuck.

New entries from literary figures include James Joyce’s fuckbird and Henry Miller’s concept of the Land of Fuck.

New initialisms or abbreviations, often associated with online communication, include AF ‘as fuck’; DTF ‘down to fuck’; FFS ‘for fuck’s sake’; FML ‘fuck my life’; LMFAO ‘laughing my fucking ass off’; and WTAF ‘what the actual fuck’.

Many antedatings represent significant improvements in our knowledge of the word’s history. The expression for fuck’s sake, previously first recorded in 1943, is now known from 1922; fucked ‘crazy’ has been improved from 1971 to 1951, fuckload from 1984 to 1970, headfuck ‘something that causes confusion’ from 1993 to 1976, ratfuck ‘a frenetic social event’ from 1979 to 1969. In particular, research into early erotica has resulted in a number of major antedatings. The noun ass-fuck, previously first found in 1940, is now recorded in 1874; dogfuck has been improved from 1980 to 1867, face-fuck from 1972 to 1899, fuckstick ‘the penis’ from 1973 to 1904, mouth fuck from 1954 to 1868, and tongue fuck from 1974 to 1902.

The 2,500 new quotations include an enormous range of prominent writers and public figures, in many genres. Some of the additions include Amy Schumer, Maria Dahvana Headley (from her award-winning translation of Beowulf), Jonathan Franzen, Mike Tyson, Thomas Wolfe, Charles Bukowski, Horace Walpole (yes, the 18th-century writer), the pop singer Lorde, William Vollman, James Ellroy, William Gibson, Marilyn Manson, Margaret Atwood, Joan Rivers, George Pellicanos, Dan Savage, Dave Eggers, N.K. Jemisin, Larry Kramer, John Waters, Nick Cave, David Foster Wallace, Rebecca Traister, Rachel Kushner, 50 Cent, Lauren Groff, Barack Obama, Hilary Clinton, Sally Rooney, Tupac Shakur, Colson Whitehead, Charlamagne tha God, Anthony Doerr, Ottessa Moshfegh, Gary Shteyngart, Ocean Vuong, Marlon James, Ben Lerner, Amor Towles, Hank Green, Marc Maron, John Oliver, and Elon Musk.

I’m too lazy to put all the new terms in boldface as he does, so just imagine it (or click through).

Molly Rookwood writes in defense of my own metier, copyediting, and does so persuasively and well. I’ll just single out a passage that made me particularly happy:

Descriptivist vs. Prescriptivist Editing

Good copyeditors use descriptivist editing (editing that is based on the current usage of language) rather than prescriptivist (like Strunk & White).

I don’t know why so many writing programs still assign The Elements of Style. While it was indeed held up for many years as the pinnacle of grammar rules, the book is an entirely prescriptivist endeavor. Strunk and White tell you there are definitive rules of language and you should not deviate from them. They’ll tell you that singular “they” is not allowed and that you should use “he or she” instead.

Editors have long ago moved past the idea that there is one correct set of writing rules. The goal of editing (and writing) is clear communication, and clear communication is dependent on the current use of language. Strictly enforcing the use of “whom” in a fantasy novel is not in service of clear communication. And replacing “they” with “he or she” is doing harm.

The editors I know and work with use the descriptivist method because it allows us to help our writers connect most effectively with their audience. It acknowledges the evolution of language and keeps our field from becoming, as Rubinstein suggested, stodgy and outdated.

Preach it! (There are, of course, hordes of editors who would disagree with her. They are wrong.)

Joel at Far Outliers is doing a series of posts with quotes from Face[t]s of First Language Loss (yes, the title has the bracketed letter), by Sandra G. Kouritzin (see the “Recent Posts” sidebar at the link for others, which are all of interest); I thought Losing Your First Language: Polish was particularly worth bringing to the Hattery:

Alex is a borderlander who is also the son of borderlanders. His mother was born to Russian immigrants in Chicago, but moved to Russia when her parents returned there after the Revolution. She moved into a border town that had once been the southwest part of Poland, just north of the Ukraine, but which had become part of White Russia. Living in such a linguistically diverse region, Alex’s parents spoke Polish and White Russian (a dialect) and standard Russian, depending on the situation. When Alex was born, they adopted Polish as the home language. They moved to a vibrant Polish-speaking community in the United States when Alex was 3 years and 3 months old. They later moved to northern Canada where several of their relatives lived, and where they were able to communicate in Ukrainian, another language spoken by both of his parents.

Alex remembers beginning school, and he remembers the day when his Polish first name was changed to Alex so that his teachers could more easily pronounce it. Like Kuong, he has no recollection of Grade 1 and 2, though he has clear memories of Grade 3 and following (after he could speak English) and of playschool and kindergarten (when he played and had fun in Polish). While Alex was growing up, his parents relied on him to translate English into Polish for them; his father worked in a foundry and did not require English, while his mother stayed home. When I met him, Alex could speak only a little, broken, Polish, and could follow a very basic conversation in Polish. He remembers being much more fluent, and he feels like he is losing Polish bit-by-bit, day-by-day.

Everybody’s situation is different, and it doesn’t make sense to try to generalize about these things.

Boris Dralyuk is a longtime LH favorite (starting with this 2012 post), so I am pleased as punch to share the news of the National Book Critics Circle Award for Translation going to his version of Andrey Kurkov’s Grey Bees; see this page (scroll down) for a description.

In his response to my congratulatory e-mail, he sent me a link to his new essay for the New Criterion, “A White Russian on the rocks,” which begins with a discussion of one of the more picturesque occupations of Russian exiles after the Revolution:

Some twenty pages into Nabokov’s first novel, Mary (1926), the protagonist, Ganin, an émigré displaced by the Russian Revolution who has found a precarious home in Berlin, returns to his pension—“a cheerless house in which lived seven Russian lost shades”—and sinks into despair. In that moment, “the whole of life seemed [to him] like a piece of film-making where heedless extras knew nothing of the picture in which they were taking part.” Despair is the characteristic mood of the so-called White émigrés, who fought against or simply opposed the Bolsheviks and ended up scattered across the cities of Europe, Asia, and the Americas; it is also the title of Nabokov’s seventh novel. The image of dispirited Russian-speakers wasting away in the boarding houses and smoke-filled cafés of Paris and Berlin is indeed something of a cliché. Like most clichés, it has a basis in truth.

When Nabokov’s Ganin reaches for a cinematic metaphor to express his ennui, he alludes to something that became another cliché of Russophone émigré life—one to which he returns later in the novel. At the deathbed of the poet Podtyagin,

he looked in the old man’s face, and once again he remembered these flickering, shadowy doppelgängers, the casual Russian film extras, sold for ten marks apiece and still flitting, God knows where, across the white gleam of a screen.

[Read more…]

Marianna Giusti reports at Financial Times on a guy who is engaged in one of my favorite pastimes, attacking purist myths:

The man I’m dining with is Alberto Grandi, Marxist academic, reluctant podcast celebrity and judge at this year’s Tiramisu World Cup in Treviso. (“I wouldn’t miss it, even if I had dinner plans with the Pope”.) Grandi has dedicated his career to debunking the myths around Italian food […] Grandi’s speciality is making bold claims about national staples: that most Italians hadn’t heard of pizza until the 1950s, for example, or that carbonara is an American recipe. Many Italian “classics”, from panettone to tiramisu, are relatively recent inventions, he argues. Some of DOI’s claims [“DOI” is Grandi’s 2018 book Denominazione di origine inventata (Invented Designation of Origin) — LH] might be familiar to industry insiders, but most are based on Grandi’s own findings, partly developed from existing academic literature. His skill is in taking academic research and making it digestible. And his mission is to disrupt the foundations on which we Italians have built our famous, and famously inflexible, culinary culture — a food scene where cappuccini must not be had after midday and tagliatelle must have a width of exactly 7mm. […]

“It’s all about identity,” Grandi tells me between mouthfuls of osso buco bottoncini. He is a devotee of Eric Hobsbawm, the British Marxist historian who wrote about what he called the invention of tradition. “When a community finds itself deprived of its sense of identity, because of whatever historical shock or fracture with its past, it invents traditions to act as founding myths,” Grandi says. […]

[Read more…]

A decade ago, the New Yorker published a profile by Adam Green (January 7, 2013 issue; archived) of “a pickpocket of almost supernatural ability” named Apollo Robbins; the following passage is full of Hattic goodness:

In pursuit of his craft, Robbins has ended up incorporating principles from such disparate fields as aikido, sales, and Latin ballroom dancing. He is a devotee of books like Robert B. Cialdini’s “Influence: The Psychology of Persuasion,” and has also immersed himself in the literature of criminal lore. The book that made the greatest impression on him was a paperback, published in 1964, called “Whiz Mob: A Correlation of the Technical Argot of Pickpockets with Their Behavior Patterns,” by David W. Maurer, a professor of English who devoted his life to the study of raffish subcultures, before apparently killing himself, in 1981. Robbins loved the vivid trade lingo in “Whiz Mob,” and he continues to pepper his conversation with such terms as “pit” (inside jacket pocket) and “prat” (side pant pocket), “skinning the poke” (removing the cash from a stolen wallet and wiping it off before tossing it) and “kissing the dog” (the mistake of letting a victim see your face). Reading about how street pickpockets operated, Robbins was gratified to discover that he had arrived at similar methods intuitively.

Street pickpockets generally work in teams, known as whiz mobs or wire mobs. The “steer” chooses the victim, who is referred to generically as the “mark,” the “vic,” or the “chump,” but can also be categorized into various subspecies, among them “Mr. Bates” (businessman) and “pappy” (senior citizen). The “stall,” or “stick,” maneuvers the mark into position and holds him there, distracting his attention, perhaps by stumbling in his path, asking him for directions, or spilling something on him. The “shade” blocks the mark’s view of what’s about to happen, either with his body or with an object such as a newspaper. And the “tool” (also known as the “wire,” the “dip,” or the “mechanic”) lifts his wallet and hands it off to the “duke man,” who hustles away, leaving the rest of the mob clean. Robbins explained to me that, in practice, the process is more fluid—team members often play several positions—and that it unfolds less as a linear sequence of events than as what he calls a “synchronized convergence,” like a well-executed offensive play on the gridiron.

If a crew of pickpockets is like a football squad, then its star quarterback is the “cannon,” an honorific generally reserved for pickpockets skilled enough to ply their trade without the help of a team. This is also known as “working single o.” Robbins works single o. He is his own steer, stall, shade, and duke man, though, unlike street criminals, he lets his victims know that he will be picking their pockets.

Thanks, Trevor!

Laudator Temporis Acti posts a passage from Basil Gildersleeve’s reflections on Pindar (American Journal of Philology 32.4 [1911], starting at p. 480) which includes this:

Commonplaces? Yes, there are commonplaces, but do we not all live by commonplaces? What gave ‘good old Mantuan’ his vogue for two centuries except his copy-book sentences? ‘Semel insanivimus omnes’ has become as familiar a quotation as any in the whole list of household words, though few of us stop at ‘semel’.

The phrase “good old Mantuan” meant nothing to me, and I was unfamiliar with that familiar quotation “Semel insanivimus omnes,” so I did a little googling. Baptista Mantuanus, traditionally known in English as “Battista the Mantuan” or simply “Mantuan,” was “an Italian Carmelite reformer, humanist, and poet” whose posthumous reputation was based mainly on his Adulescentia, a collection of Latin eclogues, and in the first of these we find the line “Id commune malum, semel insanivimus omnes” (118; in Lee Piepho’s translation, “’Tis a universal evil. We have all been crazy once.”). Horace Furness says rather unkindly in his notes to Love’s Labors Lost (1904, 2nd ed. 1906, p. 150, referring to the passage where Holofernes says “Ah, good old Mantuan!”):

As to the cause of his popularity in the schools of the sixteenth century, — I think it is not utterly incomprehensible; his verse is very smooth, — almost too smooth, — and, being no poet, his ideas are common-place, and, expressed in lucid language, quite suited to teachers of moderate intelligence and Latinity. One phrase, — it occurs in this very Eclogue quoted by Sir Nathaniel, — is become one of our hackneyed quotations: — semel insanivimus omnes.

Le pauvre vieux Mantouan…

Joel at Far Outliers is posting quotes from The Making of Eastern Europe: From Prehistory to Postcommunism, by Philip Longworth, and the following passages from his latest post seem to me of LH interest:

The Turks had long used a variety of paramilitary forces (armartolos, derbentsy, akinji, vojnuki, etc.) as auxiliary troops, frontier raiders, mountain-pass guards and the like; as we have seen, the Hapsburgs had followed suit; and the Cossacks constitute a parallel in Ukraine and southern Russia. Such troops usually received some pay and also rations or plots of land, but by no means always. There was an Ottoman category known as deli, young men noted for their dare-devilry who would take part in campaigns and sieges for no reward whatsoever, except the opportunity to share in any plundering. Another such type of predatory soldiery was known as haramia. These had an equivalent on the other side of the frontier in the unpaid heyduks and uskoks (venturini) attached to the ‘official’ groups of heyduks and uskoks employed by the Habsburgs to garrison frontier forts and stations, and the unregistered Cossacks of the Ukraine who were to play such a prominent role in the Khmelnytsky rising of 1648. […]

The subsequent economic difficulties and the onset of disorders no doubt increased the flow. In any case the numbers of heyduks called ‘Racz’ registered in Eastern Hungary (and there were units in which nearly two-thirds of the men bore that name) points to a sizeable migration northwards from the Balkans, for racz in Magyar (rat in Romanian) means ‘Serb’. Their names also indicate that, although most were or became linguistic Hungarians, some heyduks had originated in Slovakia (toth), Romania (vlach, olah) and Ukraine (kozak, rusnak) as well as in Hungary and the Balkans. And there were Hungarian, Romanian and Tatar names among the Zaporozh’e Cossacks, though most had migrated from Belorussia, Ukraine and Russia. Circumstances suggest that a proportion of these were peasants escaping serfdom, and this was also the case with the recently enserfed Szekels whose support for Michael ‘the Brave’ when he invaded Transylvania regained them their freedom as frontier servicemen.

As always, I am troubled by the issue of italicized foreign words with English plurals — technically, it should be (e.g.) heyduks, but that looks lousy and would add to the already considerable difficulties of proofreading such a text. In addition, it bothers me that he arbitrarily stops italicizing after a couple of usages. But never mind, there are some great words here; anybody know the history of racz/rat? (We got into the Székely in this peachy thread from 2004.)

A great story posted on Facebook by Bill Poser:

I happened on an article that mentioned a non-native man named Timothy Barrus who claimed to be a Navajo named Nasdijj, allegedly meaning “to become again”, and published several works, well-received until the hoax was revealed, about his fictional life. His publishers and the literary world were criticized for accepting his claims without any investigation. His fake Navajo name would have been a clue. There is no word <nasdijj>; in fact, no Navajo word ends in <jj>. There are no infinitives, so no Navajo word could mean “to become again”. But Barrus didn’t actually make up his name. There is a real Navajo word násdlį́į́’ meaning “(s)he has become again”, and at least one dictionary glosses this as “to become again”. Barrus evidently chose his Navajo name from such a dictionary and misread dlį́į́’ as dijj. If you’re going to pretend to be from another culture, you should probably learn its writing system.

Fakers beware!

Also, via Slavomír Čéplö (bulbul) on FB, a snarky video (3:39) called If YouTube Polyglots Were Honest in which a “hyperpolyglot alpha male gigachad” tells you about how he’s going to tell you about a bunch of languages he doesn’t know anything about. Fakers everywhere!