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I know we’ve talked about “y’all” a lot (2004, 2005, 2007, 2018, and earlier this year), but Maud Newton has written about it for today’s NY Times Sunday Magazine (archived), and dammit, I like Maud Newton (I was stealing links from her as far back as 2003) and I enjoyed her take on it, so I’m going to quote some bits here:

Growing up in Miami, I dreaded being told that I sounded like a hick. In my teens, a boyfriend pointed out that I tended to say “sow” (as in the female pig) in place of “saw.” But most verbal indicators of my Texas roots fell away in nursery school, after my family moved from Dallas and I took to using the word “toilet” rather than “commode.” […] My father […] mostly ignored the changes in my speech, but one thing I said made him clench with fury: “you guys.” The term was “y’all,” he said, tightening his jaw. Little girls were not guys.

She says “y’all” “seemed to reek of forced cheer and hidden demands that I associated with my father. It was tangled up with his tiresome rules about gender,” and continues:
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Nick Richardson’s LRB review (18 June 2020; archived) of Extraterrestrial Languages, by Daniel Oberhaus, is mostly about recent attempts to communicate with extraterrestrials, which we discussed a couple of years ago, but it begins with a few paragraphs about earlier ideas, which I found charming enough to post:

The hero​ of The Man in the Moone, a novel written in the late 1620s by the Anglican bishop Francis Godwin, is carried to the moon in a sky chariot pulled by a flock of wild swans. He spends the next few months among the peaceful ‘Lunars’ and gains a measure of fluency in their language, which ‘consisteth not so much of words and letters’ as of melodies ‘that no letters can expresse’. Godwin’s cosmonaut, Gonsales, in many ways had an easy time of it. He could point at a swan or a star and the Lunars would whistle one tune or another. Tune by tune Gonsales pieced together his Lunar vocabulary. But almost the only thing we know for certain about aliens is that they don’t live close enough to see us pointing. We know of a handful of possibly habitable planets, but none is less than four light years away – or 24 trillion miles. And the Lunars aren’t that unlike humans: they’re tall but anthropomorphoid, and even claim to be Christian. More recent sci-fi – such as Ted Chiang’s ‘Story of Your Life’, the inspiration for the film Arrival, in which humans try to communicate with heptapods who perceive all time simultaneously – features aliens that are much more alien. The more we learn about ourselves and the universe, the more we appreciate that aliens probably won’t just be humans with longer limbs and waving antennae. How do you communicate with a planet-sized slime with ESP that eats electricity?

The 19th-century approach to breaking the cosmic ice was to attract attention with a huge (preferably exploding) drawing. The German mathematician Carl Friedrich Gauss wanted to plant a visual proof of Pythagoras’ theorem, comprising a right-angled triangle bordered on each side by squares, in the Siberian tundra. The borders of the shapes were to be marked out by trees and their interiors filled with wheat: this would demonstrate to anyone able to view the diagram from space that humans had mastered both mathematics and agriculture. In Austria, Joseph von Littrow proposed digging trenches in the Sahara, filling them with kerosene and setting them ablaze. Charles Cros, a poet and inventor, petitioned the French government to fund the construction of a huge mirror capable of burning messages onto the Martian and Venusian deserts, while the will of Anne Goguet, a French socialite, left 100,000 francs to the Académie des sciences to be awarded to the first person to communicate successfully with aliens, with the proviso that they couldn’t be Martians, whose existence was already ‘sufficiently well known’. Tristan Bernard satirised the alien-seekers in a story in which humanity, on receiving an unintelligible message from Mars, writes huge messages across the Sahara: ‘I beg your pardon?’ ‘Nothing.’ ‘What are you making signs for then?’ ‘We’re not talking to you, we’re talking to the Saturnians.’

In 1896, the Victorian polymath Francis Galton published a short story in which he describes a message received from Mars – conveyed in a Morse code-like sequence of long and short pulses of light – that begins by illustrating basic mathematical principles, using them as the foundation for progressively more complicated ideas. This encapsulated the scientific community’s best idea of what a message from or to space should look like. Mathematics is the same throughout the universe (they assumed), so using mathematics as the foundation for the message, rather than flaming trenches, seemed a good way of making it universally intelligible. When Guglielmo Marconi started experimenting with radio in the 1890s, transmitting messages like Galton’s to outer space began to look like a realistic possibility. ‘That it is possible to transmit signals to Mars,’ Marconi said, ‘I know as surely as if I had a gun big enough or powder strong enough to shoot there,’ and he endorsed the mathematical style of message outlined in Galton’s story: ‘By sticking to mathematics over a number of years one might come to speech.’ The challenge of communicating with aliens by radio was taken up enthusiastically by Nikola Tesla, who claimed to have intercepted a signal from ‘another world, unknown and remote’. It began with counting: ‘One … two … three …’

I love “with the proviso that they couldn’t be Martians, whose existence was already ‘sufficiently well known’.” (We discussed the movie Arrival in 2016.)

Laudator Temporis Acti has an entertaining rant about people who think the Latin Greek adverb hapax ‘once’ is a noun and exercise their creativity (and whatever small degree of Latinity classical knowledge they have) in coming up with plurals to it. Some people choose hapaces (“a message requiring the use of two hapaces”; “To mention only a few hapaces”), but a few (including the egregious Martin Bernal) come up with the absurd hapakes (“oddities or even hapakes”).

The interesting thing to me is the concluding pair of paragraphs:

More common than either hapaces or hapakes is hapaxes. See e.g. Mark W. Edwards, The Iliad: A Commentary, Vol. V: Books 17-20 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), who uses hapaxes repeatedly on pp. 53-55.

Hapax is short for hapax legomenon, whose proper plural is hapax legomena. Some will defend the solecisms above on various grounds and call me a mossbacked linguistic prescriptivist, a charge to which I cheerfully plead guilty.

It seems to me that there are two different kinds of prescriptivism at work here, wielding peeves of varying potency. The objection to hapaces and hapakes is one I share; it involves a misunderstanding exceeding that involved in the creation of, say, octopi (and hapakes further demonstrates a basic ignorance as to how these things work in English). To create a false plural to a noun may be regarded as a misfortune; to create one to an adverb looks like carelessness. In this regard, my back is as mossy as Gilleland’s.

But the objection to hapaxes is prescriptivism of the worser sort, the kind of peevery that demands everyone stop using language creatively and simply follow a set of rules engraved on tablets which the peever happens to have in their possession. It is foolishness pure and simple to expect people to forever say hapax legomenon and use hapax legomena as its plural. Language users demand usability, and it is much more useful to treat hapax as an English noun, whatever role it may have filled in its language of origin, and create the regular hapaxes as its plural. To object to that is to want to turn a living language into a dead one, and I am afraid that is the goal of peevery, whether its practitioners recognize it or not.

Mind you, if English-speakers had for whatever reason decided en masse to use hapaces as the plural centuries ago, I would have no more objection to it than I do to bartizan, even though it is equally misconceived. Common usage sweeps all before it.

Douglas Hofstadter has an essay in Inference about his experiences with Swedish, starting with his (fairly impressive) catch of a typo in his dad’s Nobel diploma, “colorfully and exquisitely hand-calligraphed in Swedish,” when he was only sixteen and didn’t know a word of Swedish (it had “nuckleonernas” for the correct nukleonernas). After an entertaining account of his later attempts to learn the language (temporarily successful, but inevitably fading when he left the situation of immersion), he finally gets to his socko conclusion, an experiment in which he created “fake-Swedish words and phrases”:

This silly and pointless but very playful activity amused me a lot, so on a lark I decided to sit down at my computer and have some fun for a while. In an hour or so, I wound up producing a paragraph that was chock-full of nonsense words that looked and sounded very Swedish—at least to me!—but that, taken all together, meant absolutely nothing.

He then feeds the paragraph to “my old frenemies Google Translate and DeepL, just to see what they would do with it,” and later adds Baidu as well. He finds the results hilarious (“When I read their respective outputs, I found myself rolling on the floor. Their wacky jabber was a riot!”), and his laborious attempts to explain why, and the concomitant assumption that the reader will share his over-the-top amusement, remind me of why I got sick of his shtick many years ago. But the attempts of the machine-translation programs to deal with the semantically vacuous text are genuinely funny, so here they are, beginning with his mock-Swedish paragraph:
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A reader writes:

I am asking for your help in finding the proper definition for the term, “dialect singing.” Last night, I rewatched The Prestige as a soporific without the desired effect and set to perusing write-ups of the film. The neurotransmitter cascade from rapid, casual trivia consumption flowed smoothly until it was blocked by “dialect singing,” a skill listed in the repertoire of a few vaudevillian era performers. I found it on the wiki page for the American magician, Chung Ling Soo.

It could have a very simple and obvious definition: the performer sings with an exaggerated regional accent. I’m not entirely convinced. After reading your post Singing in Nonsense, I feel like dialect singing is more closely related to Grammelot.

Anybody know anything about this vaudevillian skill?

From a very long and gassy NY Times “Guest Essay” by Anand Giridharadas (bold added):

They worry, meanwhile, that their own allies can be hamstrung by a naïve and high-minded view of human nature, a bias for the wonky over the guttural, a self-sabotaging coolness toward those who don’t perfectly understand, a quaint belief in going high against opponents who keep stooping to new lows and a lack of fight and a lack of talent at seizing the mic and telling the kinds of galvanizing stories that bend nations’ arcs.

I have no idea what “the guttural” is meant to mean; Nick Jainschigg, who sent me the link (thanks, Nick!), says “it sounds like it refers to the gutter,” and I guess that’s as good a guess as any. (The word in more standard uses, not that they’re necessarily apt, has featured here more than once, e.g. “The politician seemed to have a longstanding issue with the ‘guttural‘ letter” [ы!] and “Avar … with its guttural pops and creaks,” not to mention the classic Flann O’Brien “People do say that the German language and the Irish language is very guttural tongues.”)

Back in 2016 I posted on a “gibberish language” called Grammelot, with a reference to “the invented penguin language Pingu”; now Gabriel Rom has a nice piece in the NY Times (archived) about the latter:

In the unreal early days of the pandemic, when it seemed foolish to try to comprehend the enormity of what we were collectively living through, a clay penguin reacquainted me with the clarifying power of gibberish. “Pingu” is a stop-​motion children’s television show about the titular character, a penguin tyke who lives with his family in a little igloo village at the South Pole. Initially, the episodes appear to be light five-minute affairs about the small dramas of toddler penguinhood: Pingu spits his veggies into the toilet; a municipal penguin employee turns Pingu’s play area into a parking spot. But with a balance of farce and sentiment, the show also gestures toward some of early life’s more complicated realities — sibling rivalries, parental punishment and the loneliness of childhood. Created by the German animator Otmar Gutmann, “Pingu” premiered in Europe in the early 1990s and became a worldwide phenomenon; but unlike other global cultural crazes, the show did not need to be dubbed or subtitled. Nothing could be lost in translation because there was nothing to translate. Every “Pingu” character speaks the language of Penguinese, which sounds like Thai, Indonesian, Italian, something in between or something else entirely. Yet, despite the lingo’s seeming inscrutability, it is mysteriously — hilariously — comprehensible. […]

My first brush with “Pingu” came when my Canadian cousin, a more cultured toddler than I, once brought a VHS tape of the series with her during a visit. I dimly remember watching an episode on a Sunday morning, while squeezed together in bed with my family. The show was a revelation. “Pingu” did not speak two languages, one to children, another to adults. There was no hierarchy of comprehension, no winking jokes meant to soar over young heads to keep the adults in the room vaguely interested.

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TCM is showing the 1949 Ghost Story of Yotsuya (Shinshaku Yotsuya kaidan, 新釈四谷怪談) directed by Keisuke Kinoshita tomorrow night, and I’m going to record it because it’s said to be a great filmed version of Yotsuya Kaidan, “arguably the most famous Japanese ghost story of all time.” Of course, most Western aficionados will associate the term kaidan ‘ghost story’ with the Lafcadio Hearn book and the 1964 Masaki Kobayashi film based on it, both called Kwaidan in English (kwa is a historical form of the syllable now pronounced, and transliterated, ka) and both of which I enthusiastically recommend. But what brings me to post is the word Yotsuya (四谷), which of course I was curious about.

It turns out to be the name of the Tokyo neighborhood where the story takes place, though the name of the heroine’s father is Yotsuya Samon (I presume it’s the same Japanese word). The Japanese Wikipedia article on the neighborhood says, in Google’s translation:

Origin of name

There are two major theories, but neither of them has become an established theory.

First of all, there are four teahouses, Umeya, Kiya (Kuboya), Chaya, and Nunoya, so there is a theory that it became ‘Yotsuya’ (Yotsuya), but it was not until the Genna era that these four teahouses came together. Therefore, it is difficult to explain why it was called ‘Yotsuya’ before the Edo period.

Another theory is that it comes from the four valleys of Sennichiya, Myogadani, Sendagaya, and Oouedani (there is another theory that the four valleys are Momijigawa Valley , Samegawa Valley, Shibuyagawa Valley, and Kanigawa Valley). There is no reason to extract only the four valleys, and doubts have already been issued since the Edo period.

Well, I don’t know much Japanese, but I do know that yotsu (四) is ‘four’; what’s ya? My trusty Essential Kanji has it as “KOKU, tani valley” — no ya. So I went to jisho.org, which found 82 words, starting with tani ‘valley’ and going on for pages… but no ya. I presume it’s one of those readings that occurs only in one term as a specialized and unpredictable use, and the only way to know it is to know it. Japanese isn’t for amateurs.

Michel DeGraff, a professor of linguistics at MIT and a founding member of the Haitian Creole Academy, writes for the NY Times (archived link) about his native language:

As a schoolchild in Haiti in the 1970s, I was forbidden to speak my mother tongue, Haitian Creole, which we Haitians call Kreyòl. If I disobeyed, a teacher would remind me with the sharp smack of a ruler across my hand. Kreyòl, which emerged from the contact among French and African languages on colonial plantations, is the only language spoken by all Haitians. But the nation’s education system discriminates against it in favor of French, which is spoken by at most a tenth of the population. Kreyòl-speaking children are subjected to myriad classroom humiliations, including in at least one school a sign that says, “I have to always express myself in French. Otherwise, I am the gorilla of the class.” […]

When I was a schoolchild at the prestigious Institution Saint-Louis de Gonzague in Port-au-Prince, my teacher of French and Haitian literature, a French Catholic brother, had us memorize texts that taught us to despise Kreyòl as a worthless language. I was also made to write hundreds of lines saying “I will never speak Kreyòl again.” Some parents and teachers even make children scrub their tongues with soap, lemon and vinegar to metaphorically wash away the Kreyòl.

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Youssef Rakha, an Egyptian novelist, poet, and essayist, writes for New Lines about the less decorous aspects of modern Egyptian literature; some excerpts:

The Arabic word for literature, “adab” also means decorum — implying that good language and good manners are ultimately the same thing. But, aside from the delicate feelings and refined tastes so abundant in [Salah] Jahin’s work, the Arabic literary canon has always had another strand, rich in profane scenes and blasphemous references. That kind of writing tears away the veil of propriety and derives its power from obscenity. In modern times it became a truer expression of fraught reality than decent, respectable literature ever could be. And there is no better example of that than the short, tragic life of [Naguib] Surour whose poetry shocked Egyptians through the 1960s and 1970s.

Surour was a lifelong dissident, repeatedly arrested and tortured for his views. […] Misdiagnosed with schizophrenia, he was beaten and “treated” with electroconvulsive therapy (ECT). It was six months before his friends could locate him.

Up to this point Surour had been flamboyant and outspoken but not especially foul-mouthed. When his marital crisis came to a head, though, he started writing a series of “rubaiyat” (quatrains) — simultaneously hilarious and heartbreaking — that flaunted the worst swear words in Egyptian Arabic […] He continued adding verses until 1974, by which time it had turned into a 6,000-word tirade with the offensive title “Kuss Ummiyyat” — combining “umm,” the Arabic word for mother, and “kuss,” a vernacular term for vagina (which the poem used repeatedly).

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