languagehat.com

1) This Twitter thread by The Meanest TA, PhD. starts off “Everyone on my team (5 men ages 48-75) texts me to make sure the slang they’re using is correct in context. Some examples below.” It’s very funny:

From Boss (74): “Can I say this meeting got lit if I mean people were getting upset?”
Me: “No but you can say they were salty about it.”
[…]

Project Manager (48): “Do people still say hella?”
Me: “Not in this state.”

In return they translate my frustrations into professional corporate.

Me: “How do I say this meeting is a waste of my time I am not paid enough to deal with your bullshit?”
Boss: “Can you provide me with a meeting agenda so I can ensure my presence adds value? I want to prioritize my schedule to support our most urgent needs.”

Me: “How do I say there is no way you are this fucking stupid?”
WorkDad: “I think there was a disconnect, can you restate your definition of this concept so we can ensure there’s no miscommunication?”

Thanks, Nick!

2) Caleb Madison of The Atlantic writes about a new use of “go off”:

Go is up there with be as one of the most versatile and abstract verbs in the English language. […] Add off, easily the most dramatic preposition, and you’ve got the key to semantic ignition: “Change to be really far away” in the rapid fire of two sharp syllables. And on the internet in the mid-2010s, people truly started to go off. Go off first came into the common vernacular sandwiched between but and I guess as a sarcastic flourish at the end of a categorical disagreement. If I read a post saying that bees are scary and bad, I might respond with, “They actually play a crucial role in the global ecosystem, but go off, I guess.” And while to go off on had long been used to describe a strong reprimand, this smug final flourish after owning someone with logic drew the phrase more specifically into the world of internet discourse. Eventually the internet winnowed it down to just go off (as in, “to go on a passionate tirade without concrete structure or purpose”).

Thanks, Ariel!
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Benjamin Aldes Wurgaft’s TLS review (Nov. 20, 2020; archived) of Ben Katchor’s The Dairy Restaurant is full of delights, though not as full as I’m sure the book is — Katchor has been one of my favorites ever since his strip Julius Knipl, Real Estate Photographer was running in the New York Press a generation ago. I’ll quote some excerpts below, the linguistic hook being the Yiddish word מילכיג (milkhig, aka milchig):

The dairy restaurant is hard to define. It sprang from two comingling histories: those of kosher law and of the restaurant as it arose in its modern form in eighteenth-century France (Katchor’s citation, which would be mine, too, is Rebecca Spang’s wonderful The Invention of the Restaurant, 2000). Kashrut’s injunction against mixing milk and meat produced a tripartite taxonomy of kosher foods: meat (fleisch, in Yiddish – meat foods are fleischig), dairy (milch; milchig), and foods that can be served with either (pareve). But dairy restaurants are not necessarily kosher – nor necessarily vegetarian, especially if you consider fish to be meat (which kosher law does not). The cuisine itself generally complies with kashrut, and consists of a range of specific dishes, usually Eastern European Jewish. Here is Scholem Aleichem in praise of milchig cuisine: “From meat you have a roselfleisch, and esikfleisch, a roast. … and that’s it. From milk you have milk, cheese, butter, sour cream, pid-smetene, whey, kasha with milk, noodles with milk, rice with milk …”. This list, from the short monologue “Milchigs” (1903), truly goes on. […]

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I’ve finished Lyudmila Ulitskaya’s Весёлые похороны (The Funeral Party; see this post), and it sure was a different experience from the Makanin I’d read just before: shorter, lighter, less demanding, less likely to stick with me or be reread. I was trying to think how to describe it, and then I realized it resembles a television series — perhaps Six Feet Under, which is set in a funeral home and, like Ulitskaya’s novel, features stories of love, betrayal, and family chaos with death as a constant background. The Ulitskaya series could be called Alik’s Still Alive; the central character, the painter Alik (short for Abram), is slowly dying of some ALS-like disease in his Chelsea loft, which he’s had since the early 1970s at a rent-controlled $400 (and thus the landlord is eagerly awaiting his death so he can jack up the rent). The action is set in the summer of 1991; at one point the TV is turned on and there is news of the coup d’état attempt, so everyone is glued to the screen for days. There is much coming and going — Alik’s former Moscow friends and acquaintances, the new ones he’s made in New York, and various former wives and girlfriends, not to mention his current wife, the childlike Ninka, are constantly reminiscing, drinking, and trying to keep him comfortable — and many flashbacks to earlier times. You get the idea.

It’s by no means a great book, and I might have been harder on it except for its setting: the NYC of the ’80s and early ’90s is my town, and Ulitskaya — who clearly spent a lot of time there — gets it just right. It ignores the standard tourist sights but name-checks many of the beloved downtown hangouts of the day: Katz’s Deli! CBGB! the Knitting Factory! McSorley’s (not named but unmistakably described)! People order out for pizza and Chinese food; at one point there’s a bravura description of an all-night visit to the Fulton Fish Market (then at the east end of Fulton Street near the East River, since evicted to the Bronx) that’s worth reading for its own sake. It gave me intense and pleasurable nostalgia.

One thing that did bother me was the plot line involving Ninka’s insistence on baptizing Alik (thanks to the babblings of an itinerant “healer” brought over from Russia to help a guy who had died by the time she arrived and now earning a sub rosa living with her folk remedies). I realize this is part of Ulitskaya’s “theology of inclusiveness” and desire to bring Christianity, Judaism, and Islam together, but it grates on me — I can’t help but think about how my late friend Allan would have hated it (he despised Jews for Jesus and suchlike). See the last paragraph of my animadversions on Doctor Zhivago for further grumpiness along those lines.

A bit of linguistic fun:

— Ребята, я не могу вам сказать спасибо, потому что таких спасиб не бывает.

“Guys, I can’t say thanks to you, because there is no such thank.”

(The original creates a nonexistent genitive plural to спасибо, treating it as a neuter noun rather than an indeclinable particle; Cathy Porter renders the sentence “My friends, I can’t thank you, because no such thanks exist,” which ignores the fun and gives an absurdly high-flown translation of “Ребята.”) And in the penultimate chapter there’s a passage on chastushki in which a sax player asks a Russian character what they are, and she says “Это русский кантри” [It’s Russian country music]. Gave me a chuckle.

Tessa Hadley’s latest New Yorker story, “After the Funeral” (archived), is as excellent as I expect from one of my favorite contemporary authors (two quotes I can’t resist sharing: “his face alight with reason and cleverness”; “the closing of the front door […] gave out a certain twanging sound, subdued but resonant, which reached the girls like a signal, resolving something even in the deep chambers of their dreams”), but it’s a reference to “gabardine macs” that led to this post. I knew “gabardine” was some sort of fabric, but what kind exactly? And where did the word come from? The first was simple enough; AHD says “A sturdy, tightly woven fabric of cotton, wool, or rayon twill.” But the second is a ball of confusion. The AHD, s.v. the earlier form gaberdine, says:

[Obsolete French gauvardine, from Old French galvardine, perhaps from Middle High German wallevart, pilgrimage : wallen, to roam (from Old High German wallōn; see wel-² in the Appendix of Indo-European roots) + vart, journey (from Old High German, from faran, to go; see per-² in the Appendix of Indo-European roots).]

OK, wallevart, that’s pretty cool. But the new OED etymology (updated June 2018) tosses out the German form:

Etymology: < Middle French gavardine (1483) < Spanish gabardina (1423), apparently an alteration of tabardina kind of outer garment (1397 as tavardina; < tabardo tabard n. + -ina -ine suffix¹), after gabán (1367 as gavant; < Arabic qabā’: see cabaan n.).
Compare Catalan gavardina (1486), Portuguese gabardina (15th cent.).

There’s no way I’ll ever remember that, but I offer it for your delectation. Also, the original meaning was “An outer garment worn by men, consisting of a loose coat, gown, or smock made from a coarse fabric” (1520   Will of Mathew Beke in G. J. Piccope Lancs. & Cheshire Wills [1857] I. 39   I bequeth unto litill Thomas Beke my gawbardyne to make hym a gowne).

I was reading Margaret Drabble’s TLS review (November 20, 2020) of The Walker: On finding and losing yourself in the modern city by Matthew Beaumont when I was driven to post by the following paragraph:

The most entertaining chapter in the volume, on the Big Toe, takes as its starting point a fragmentary essay on the mouth by the surrealist philosopher Georges Bataille, from 1930, which ranges widely through iconography, anthropology, the history of bipedalism, the French physician de la Tourette’s analysis of human gait, and the novels of Thomas Pynchon and Carlo Emilio Gadda. It is full of puns, and thoughts about the nature and meaning of punning. Gadda’s “late modernist masterpiece”, That Awful Mess on the Via Merulana (1957) contains, we are told, “an elaborate pun on la luce (meaning ‘light’) and l’alluce (meaning ‘big toe’)”, and introduces us to the feet of various painted saints, with their “flocks” or “herds” of toes. It speaks of the magnificence and hideousness of big toes, which we must stare at, Beaumont admonishes us, “unflinchingly, affirming our fear, horror and hilarity, to celebrate their humanity and inhumanity alike”. Gadda’s puns lead us, mysteriously but inexorably, to the thought that “It is as if creation itself is a ridiculous, Beckettian accident caused by a slip of the tongue”. Beaumont’s own contribution to the rich world of puns comes in a discussion of the opening scene of Coriolanus, where the aristocratic Menenius memorably addresses the rebellious First Citizen as “The great toe of this assembly”. This leads Beaumont, via Bataille and Roland Barthes, to declare that “Bataille, it might be said, calls for the dictatorship of the toeleprariat”.

In the first place, la luce and l’alluce make for a lousy pun, because the latter is stressed on the first syllable (and frankly I’m not impressed by “toeleprariat” either, but then I haven’t read Bataille and Barthes). But l’alluce sent me on a confusing etymological quest. Wiktionary says “From Late Latin (h)allucem, from Latin hallus/allus,” and the hallus entry says “Uncertain; probably a borrowing from a non-IE language. hallux is the only form that suggests an Indo-European structure.” What does that last sentence mean? And how did Italian go from hallus (genitive hallī) to alluce, as if from hallux? Well, there is a hallux, and it’s in the OED — “The innermost of the digits (normally five in number) of the hind foot of an air-breathing vertebrate; the great toe”; unfortunately, the entry is unchanged since 1898, and the etymology is not very helpful: “modern Latin, corrupted < allex (allic-) the great toe (Isidore Gloss.), found once in Plautus in phrase allex. viri a ‘thumb of a man’, a thumbling.” I turned to my Oxford Latin Dictionary and looked up hallus: “see allus.” That took me to:

allus or hallus, m. (app.) The great toe (cf. allex).

The “app.” stands for “apparently”; does that refer to the “m.” or the definition? And allex says “see hallec.” But (h)al(l)ec is a fish sauce! If anyone can bring any order to this mess, I’ll be grateful.
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1) Frequent commenter Jen (in Edinburgh) writes:

I’m reading Peter Moore’s Endeavour, a history covering the life of the ship and its journeys, rather than e.g. a biography of Cook or Banks. Having reached Tahiti, some of the members of Cook’s first expedition have been collecting Tahitian words, and the book notes that one they didn’t collect is Tōtaiete mā, the local name for the archipelago which Cook called the Society Islands.

I have a strong suspicion that it would have been impossible for them to do so – that ‘Tōtaiete’ is a form of the English word ‘society’, in the same way that ‘Kiribati’ is a form of ‘Gilberts’. But I can’t turn up anything about the etymology of the name on a quick search, and Wikipedia just cites the book itself. Do you think your erudite community might know more?

I join her in her suspicion and her quest for knowledge.

2) I just watched the very silly movie Green Dolphin Street (solely because I’ve long loved the Miles Davis version of the movie’s theme, “On Green Dolphin Street,” and I was curious about its original setting). Executive summary: the sisters Marguerite (Donna Reed) and Marianne (Lana Turner) are both in love with the hunky young scapegrace William Ozanne (Richard Hart), who is in love with Marguerite but (having inadvertently deserted from the Royal Navy and wound up helping run a lumber concern in New Zealand) drunkenly sends a letter proposing marriage to Marianne rather than her perkier sister, and when the prim, ambitious Marianne shows up and he realizes his error, there is nothing for it but to swallow hard and marry the wrong woman, which occasions a great deal of hand-wringing, hangdog looks, and emotional outbursts. At any rate, in the section of the movie set in New Zealand there is a fair amount of spoken and chanted Māori (you don’t want to know how the movie treats its Māori characters), and I was curious about how accurate the language was. Anybody happen to know?

Back in 2013, the excellent blog called odamaki posted about an unusual word that the OED had missed (and it’s still not there):

It is incredible to me that the Oxford English Dictionary does not have the word pogonip. Merriam-Webster say that they have a cite from 1865. I had thought that the OED had put all of their material for the letters M through R online, before the editors started jumping around more last year. How did this word fall through the cracks in the OED’s reading program for American genre fiction?

Perhaps pogonip got swept up into general-use dictionaries because it was used in a Louis L’Amour story “Down the Pogonip Trail”. Later writers of Westerns and frontier fiction seem to have propagated the word after that. […]

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Today’s NY Times has a story about Swiss cartographers called “The People Who Draw Rocks” (archived); it’s fascinating, especially if you love maps as much as I do, but what brings it to LH is this sentence:

Known around the office as “felsiers,” a Swiss-German nickname that loosely translates as “the people who draw rocks,” Dähler, along with Jürg Gilgen and Markus Heger, are experts in shaded relief, a technique for illustrating a mountain (and any of its glaciers) so that it appears three-dimensional.

Of course I wanted to know about “felsiers,” clearly based on German Fels ‘rock,’ but I couldn’t find it anywhere, even on the internet — googling [felsiers rock] gets you only the Times story, and googling [Schweizerdeutsch felsier] gets you “Your search did not match any documents.” I realize Swiss German isn’t well represented online — you can’t google up a comprehensive Schweizerdeutsch dictionary the way you can French or standard German — but I’d like to be sure this is an actual word and not a Times distortion, so if any German-speaking Hatters can help out, I’ll be grateful.

I finally finished Makanin’s 1998 novel Андеграунд, или Герой нашего времени [Underground, or A hero of our time], about a Brezhnev-era “underground writer” who stopped writing and in the early 1990s is spending his time drinking and walking the corridors of the large, run-down apartment building where he makes a semi-legal living watching people’s apartments while they’re away; it took me three weeks, but I’m not going to make a post of it, because I’m not sure what to say about it other than that it’s long, dense, complex, and worth the reading, and also because it hasn’t been translated, so what’s the point of recommending it? At any rate, I moved on to Lyudmila Ulitskaya’s (much shorter) novel Весёлые похороны [The cheerful funeral, translated as The Funeral Party], which is set — very unusually for a Russian novel! — in New York, and near the start of chapter 2 I read:

Тетка села на самый край сиденья, растопырив розовые ноги в подследниках, которые на этом континенте не водились.

Her aunt sat at the very edge of the seat, spreading her pink legs/feet in podsledniki, which are not found on this continent.

Well, of course I turned to my dictionaries for the unknown-to-me podsledniki, only to find that it wasn’t in any of them, even the huge three-volume one. Fortunately, Google came to the rescue, providing descriptions like “Чулочно носочное изделие женское и для девочек, покрывающее ступни ног частично или полностью” [Women’s and girls’ hosiery, covering the feet in part or in full] and “это своего рода хитрость, которая позволяет даже самую неудобную обувь носить с комфортом и удобством” [it’s a kind of trick that allows even the most uncomfortable shoes to be worn with comfort and convenience]. So I had a decent idea of what it was, but no clue as to what it was called in English. I turned to my wife, who after hearing the description said “Oh, you mean Peds.” I had heard that term, but didn’t know what it was, so now I knew — but that word isn’t in dictionaries either! It’s a trade name that’s become the usual term, like Kleenex, but while the latter is in the OED (“The proprietary name of an absorbent disposable cleansing paper tissue,” first citation 1925), Peds isn’t, nor is it in any other reference book available to me. I thought at least Wikipedia would help, but the article PEDS Legwear is entirely useless, providing reams of corporate-history trivia but saying nothing whatever about the origin of the name or how long it’s been in use. A Google Books search turned up evidence of its existence in 1936, if the metadata for Broadcasting are to be believed, so that’s something, but it is, frankly, shocking that I can’t find out anything more in this twenty-second year of the twenty-first century. And I can’t help suspecting that the fact that the terms and what they represent are used largely by women has more than a little to do with their absence from lexica. (Another curious fact: a Russian Language Corpus search on подследник* gets zero results, so this novel is apparently not included in the corpus, even though other books of Ulitskaya’s are.) As always, any information is welcome.

Tobias Gregory’s “Don’t break that fiddle” (LRB, 19 November 2020; archived) is a review essay about literary imitation, a topic that has long fascinated me (cf. Axe Handles, Love and Theft, Against My Will, Mimesis); I’ll quote some good bits and let you head for the links if you want more:

How is imitation taught and learned? Is it like apprenticeship to a master, a matter of acquiring skill through practice? How would the apprenticeship model work if your master wrote in another language, time and place? Is imitation a phase, to be practised by a beginner and then dispensed with? How, as a reader or critic, do you identify, evaluate and discuss literary imitation? Does it require a demonstrable verbal resemblance between old and new? How can you tell when imitation is intentional, or when a precursor’s influence has crept in unbidden? Does it matter? On what grounds do you judge whether the imitating author has produced a living child or a lifeless portrait?

These are some of the questions that a history of literary imitation will explore. It is an enormous subject. Even if you want to stick to literature – a hard enough category to circumscribe – you can’t. Plato and Aristotle, whose discussions of mimesis started the ball rolling, were concerned with the way poets imitated reality, rather than their imitation of other authors. That somewhat narrower question emerged from the Roman rhetorical tradition, which is why literary imitation has usually been denoted by the Latin imitatio rather than the Greek mimesis. But the boundary between the broader and narrower senses has never been firm, and the history of literary imitation has always been bound up with the histories of philosophy, rhetoric and education. Plato, Aristotle, Cicero, Virgil, Seneca, Quintilian, Petrarch and Erasmus will figure in any serious treatment, and from there it’s up for grabs. A different book could be written for each modern vernacular literature that bears the influence of classical antiquity. A thorough account will include both theory and practice: critical and philosophical writing on imitation, and the way authors have actually gone about it. Books, articles, whole careers have been devoted to studying particular cases: Virgil imitating Homer, or Renaissance humanists imitating Cicero, or English Romantics imitating Milton, or modern novelists trying not to imitate Joyce. A historian of imitation has to survey this vast body of scholarship without becoming overwhelmed. […]

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