languagehat.com

Irish-American poet Greg Delanty has a nice Independent piece about his visit to Benares (now officially Varanasi), which includes the following paragraph:

It struck me there that the undulating Hindi reminded me of the sing-song Cork accent, and how we used words in Cork that had Hindi origin and were brought back by Irish soldiers in the British army, words like dekho, which in Hindi means “to look”, or conjun box. Conjun comes from the word Khajana — Hindi for “treasure” — and in Cork it was our word for a child’s piggy bank. I had just broken into my conjun box to bribe the rickshaw driver.

Hindi खजाना khajaana is a real word, but it’s not clear that conjun (a highly localized word that is not in the OED) comes from it; Diarmaid Ó Muirithe writes:

Two female friends of mine from Cork city wrote to ask about the origin of conjun box, a child’s money box, a piggybank. Sean Beecher has the word in A Dictionary of Cork Slang (1983). He says that the word is possibly from Tamil kanji, “a lock-up (military), hence a place to keep money; possibly introduced into Cork by the Munster Fusiliers”.

Kanji doesn’t mean a lock-up. Bernard Share, in Slanguage, is right in saying that the Tamil word means water in which rice has been boiled, a source of vitamins and carbohydrates, and a staple nourishment for prisoners in India. A precious substance, therefore. From kanjee came conjun, a little box for hoarding precious pennies.

I have no doubt whatever that conjun box is what they say north of the Lee; but when I inquired further I was told that conjurin’ box is what is said in other places. Whether this conjurin’ is a mistaken “correction”, I don’t know; all I can say is that it exists in Ovens and in Glasheen, from where Mrs Maureen McAlister wrote to tell me that she often heard girls at her school talk of opening their conjurin’ boxes unknown to their parents if they were stuck for ready cash.

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A reader sent me this three-minute track from an ancient recording, asking “Any ideas on the language here?” Nope, so I turn the question over to the Many-Tongued Reader. It’s scratchy, but if you know the language I’m sure it’s recognizable. Thanks, Mik!

I was reading a New Yorker story about the recent Portland heat wave when I hit the sentence:

Medical staff referred to some of the patients as “obtunded,” meaning they were unable to respond at all.

I wasn’t familiar with the word, though my residual Latinity (thanks, Brother Auger!) gave me a general idea that it meant ‘beaten’ or ‘struck’ (it’s from Latin obtundo), so I looked it up and discovered something of a morass. The OED, s.v. obtund (updated in March 2004), says:

Chiefly Medicine.

 transitive. To blunt, deaden, dull the sensation of; to deprive of sharpness or vigour.

[…]
1999 Canad. Jrnl. Anaesthesia 46 368 Fentanyl..helped to obtund the hypertensive response to intubation.

Similarly, Merriam-Webster has “to reduce the edge or violence of.” But those definitions don’t seem to match the sense “unable to respond at all.” Googling turned up the useful page The Difference Between Lethargy, Obtundation, Stupor, and Coma, which says:

There is a spectrum of impaired consciousness that goes from full arousal to complete unresponsiveness. Coma, which is a state of unarousable unresponsiveness is the worst degree of impairment of a patient’s arousal and consciousness.

Words like lethargy, obtunded, and stupor all describe various degrees to which a patient’s arousal is impaired. However, these terms are imprecise. In a clinical setting, it is more useful to describe the patient’s responses to specific stimuli.

They say obtundation “is a state similar to lethargy in which the patient has a lessened interest in the environment,” while stupor means that “only vigorous and repeated stimuli will arouse the patient”; the New Yorker description sounds more like stupor according to that list. I have to agree that “these terms are imprecise.” I trust, however, that in a given setting the medical personnel all agree on what they mean by a term.

In the words of their About page:

Based on the work of the DFG-Research Group 963 – “Manuscript Cultures in Asia and Afrika” (2008-2011) the Centre for the Studies of Manuscript Cultures (CSMC) is engaged in fundamental research, investigating from both a historical and comparative perspective, based on material artifacts, the empirical diversity of manuscript cultures. It will establish a new paradigm that is distinct from the research on manuscripts undertaken until now, which has been limited in its approach by region and discipline. On one hand, the cultural dependency of what has usually been considered given will particularly be brought into question, and on the other hand, universal categories and characteristics of manuscript cultures will be delineated, as one possible result of the comparative research.

Their manuscript of the month section, as the reader who sent me the link says, is “unfortunately on hiatus, but full of gems.” Thanks, Yoram!

Another manuscript site is Middle Eastern Manuscript Traditions (MEMaT), “a multidisciplinary project which aims at studying various aspects of manuscript production, utilization, and transmission history.” There’s a list of publications in the right margin.

I love it when a book sends me off to visit other books, and Sharov’s Репетиции (The Rehearsals; see this post) has given me that pleasure. A passage about Patriarch Nikon had me returning to my favorite book of Russian history, James Billington’s classic The Icon and the Axe (see this 2006 post), and the discussion there of Nikon’s stint as a monk on the Solovetsky Islands reminded me that I hadn’t gotten around to reading Roy Robson’s Solovki, which I got a couple of years ago. So I dived in.

I’m going to spend most of the post complaining, so let me start by saying it’s well written and Robson has clearly done a lot of research — you can learn a great deal from the book. There are fine black-and-white photographs and other images to illustrate the text. But Robson doesn’t seem very interested in geography, and that’s a significant drawback for someone who is, like me. Those images include a too-small segment of the 1740 Carte de Moscovie dresse par G. de L’Isle that is pretty to look at but should have been supplemented by a more accurate map that would show the places mentioned in the text; the founder of the monastery, Savvatii, started his career at the Kirillo-Belozersky Monastery, which is below the southern border of the segment, and then moved to Valaam, which is actually shown on the 1740 map but not mentioned in Robson’s caption, so the uninstructed reader will never notice the tiny caption “Valamo Ostrof” towards the north end of “Lac Ladoga.” Then, when even the remote Valaam proves too crowded for him (younger monks kept showing up to get his “wise counsel”), he heads for true isolation, and Robson writes: “Traveling eastward from Valaam toward the White Sea, Savvatii sought a place to settle as a hermit.” But a glance at a map will show that the Solovetsky Islands cannot reasonably described as “eastward from Valaam”; north-northeast, maybe, but “northward” would be the obvious choice.

The worst, however, comes later in the same paragraph: “On his way, Savvatii met his future companion German, who had built a small cabin in the woods, a solitary monastic cell near Soroka on the Vyg River, not far from the village of Belozersk.” I’m pretty sure “Belozersk” is a mistake for Belomorsk, which has now engulfed Soroka (Соро́ка), and it’s a very unfortunate one because he’s already mentioned the Kirillo-Belozersky Monastery, which is near the actual Belozersk. In any case, the thing that should have been mentioned about Soroka is not that it’s near some village but that it’s directly across the water from the Solovetsky Islands. Sheesh.
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Caroline Davies reports for the Guardian:

So it’s farewell to bloody Nora. The f-word has become Britain’s most popular swearword, overtaking “bloody”, as the nation’s use of expletives has dropped over the past two decades, a linguistics study has found. Data on the use of 16 swearwords in the 1990s and the 2010s shows the f-word was the most frequently used, taking the title from “bloody” which was beaten into third place by “shit”.

The study, by Dr Robbie Love at Aston University, found there was a 27% drop in swearing in Britain over the 20-year period, down from 1,822 to 1,320 swearwords per million. Men still swear more than women, and swearing still peaks in people’s 20s and declines thereafter, Love found.

His study, published in Text & Talk: An Interdisciplinary Journal of Language, Discourse & Communication Studies, analysed transcribed spoken conversations that took place in 1994 and in 2014 and looked at changing preferences for the 16 swearwords. “Bloody” saw an 80% fall in popularity in the 20 years leading up to 2014, accounting for just 128 words per million. The word “fuck” was said slightly less, down to 542 from 564 words per million. “Shit” almost doubled in usage during the two decades, reaching 326 words per million in 2014. […]

Love, an English language lecturer, told the Guardian: “Overall the data suggests that while swearing occurrence in casual British English speech is still within an expected range, it is lower than it was in the 1990s. It’s hard to say exactly why this appears to be the case – it may be due to shifts in what we consider to count as swearing, or that speakers perform the functions of swearing using other words that might not be considered to be taboo.

See the link for further details of this sad decline. Thanks, Trevor!

Anyone who’s studied Russian history will be familiar with the oprichnina, Ivan the Terrible’s separate territory within the borders of Russia over which he held exclusive power and within which his personal guard, the oprichniki, terrorized the population at will. (The word is from the old preposition опричь [oprich′] ‘apart from,’ which Vasmer says is related to Latin prīvus but remodeled after прочь [proch′] ‘away.’) It represents a terrible time in Russian history (however much revisionist historians try to soften it), and when Russian writers use the word, it is either a reference to the 16th-century phenomenon or a use of it as an analogy to describe something very unpleasant, e.g. “ГПУ, этой современной опричнины” (the GPU, that contemporary oprichnina) [Г. А. Соломон (Исецкий). Среди красных вождей (1930)] or “Но в начале 1918 года в Москве, где Дзержинский под свою опричнину занял на Лубянке грандиозные дома страховых обществ… (But at the beginning of 1918 in Moscow, where Dzerzhinsky occupied the grandiose building of an insurance company for his oprichnina…) [Р. Б. Гуль. Дзержинский (Начало террора) (1974)].

With that background, I can now describe the experience of beginning Vladimir Sharov’s novel Репетиции (translated by Oliver Ready, apparently quite well, as The Rehearsals); it’s the first thing I’ve read by Sharov, whom I’ve been eagerly anticipating ever since reading praise by Lizok and the Russian Dinosaur. It starts with a quote from the New Testament and an intriguing paragraph about how Isay Kobylin “stopped being a Jew” in 1939; the next paragraph begins with the narrator saying he learned about this from Kobylin himself in Tomsk in 1965, “но начну я семью годами ранее и с другого” [but I’ll begin seven years earlier and with something else], and he describes going to college in Kuibyshev (now once again Samara) in 1958 and meeting a fellow called Sergei Ilyin, “who was trying to understand God.” The next chunk of the book consists of a long disquisition on the meaning of Jewish history and God’s relations with men, most paragraphs prefaced by “Ильин говорил” [Ilyin said]. This might be offputting to many readers, but I’m loving it — I’m not religious myself, but I’m endlessly fascinated by the ways religion has influenced people, history, and literature, and knowing that this discourse is setting up the machinery for the rest of the novel, I’m absorbing it eagerly. And on p. 16 of my edition, we find:

Ильин говорил: живущие под звездами волхвы и пастухи первыми заметили нарушение естественного строя жизни, оно было сильным: Господь спустился в мир, данный человеку в опричнину, в мир, где человек должен был управляться сам, и его пространство оказалось тесным для Бога.

Ilyin said: the magi and shepherds living under the stars were the first to notice the disruption of the natural order of life, which was powerful: the Lord had descended into the world given to man as an oprichnina, a world where man had to manage on his own, and its space proved cramped for God.

The world given to man as an oprichnina! I was stunned and had to stop reading and think about it. It brought to mind an image of early humans wearing black robes and riding horses with a wolf’s head attached to their saddles and carrying a broom to sweep away God’s enemies. I’m sure that’s not what Sharov is implying, but it certainly isn’t a favorable description, and I can’t wait to see how it resonates in the rest of the novel. I haven’t been so taken aback since the premature death of Jesus in Tendryakov’s Покушение на миражи [Assassinating mirages] (see this post). It takes quite a writer to produce such an effect with a single word.

I regret to report that when I checked Ready’s version at Google Books I found that he omits the crucial word: “God had come down into a world where man was meant to look after himself […].” I realize it would have been awkward to try to cram in all the requisite information in the course of the sentence, and maybe the publisher didn’t want footnotes, but dammit, use “oprichnina” and let the reader look it up. It seems to me malpractice to just omit it.

1) Alison Flood writes in the Graun about a literary mystery that has apparently been solved:

The word “slut” scrawled at the end of the manuscript for John Steinbeck’s seminal novel The Grapes of Wrath may have been explained, thanks to a handful of Swedish academics. […] But after the Guardian article about the facsimile was published, a handful of Swedish scholars got in touch with Shillinglaw, pointing out the meaning of “slut” in Swedish. “It is the Swedish expression for ‘the end’, used on the last page of all kinds of books, especially children’s books,” wrote Jonathan Shaheen, an academic at Stockholm University, to Shillinglaw. “A well placed ‘slut’ always makes me laugh. I wonder if it might’ve been the same for Steinbeck or his wife, who I believe visited Sweden in 1937. As bookish types they might well have discovered the word. They might even have used it as an inside joke, as I have known other Americans around here to do.”

You can see an image of the MS at the link. Thanks, Michael!

2) Avva (Anatoly Vorobey) posts (in Russian) about Shakespeare’s line (from Macbeth) “The earth hath bubbles, as the water has” and wonders why the different forms of the verb. He consulted a bunch of sources and got no answers; the best suggestion seems to be that Shakespeare just wanted the variation. (“Hath” is noticeably more common in the plays.)

3) I learn (from this very useful Reddit thread) that DeepL is better for the languages it covers than Google Translate; its performance with German is particularly praised. Check it out.

I was glancing at a news story on the Boston Marathon that headlined the (unsurprising) fact that both men’s and women’s winners were Kenyan, Benson Kipruto and Diana Chemtai Kipyogei respectively, and I couldn’t help noticing the repeated Kip-. And then I remembered that the first Kenyan runner I ever heard of was Kipchoge “Kip” Keino, and I wondered what was going on. A little research showed that the majority of Kenyan runners are Kalenjin, and as it happens there’s a Wikipedia article Kalenjin name that explains:

For most Kalenjin speaking communities, masculine names are often prefixed with Kip- or Ki- though there are exceptions to the rule e.g Cheruiyot, Chepkwony, Chelanga etc. Feminine names in turn are often prefixed with Chep- or Che- though among the Tugen and Keiyo, the prefix Kip- may in some cases denote both males and females. The personal name would thus be derived through adding the relevant prefix to the description of the circumstance of birth, for example a child born in the evening (lagat) might be called Kiplagat or Chelagat.

So I’m provisionally satisfied, though of course if anyone knows anything more about the prefixes or about how Kalenjin works in general, I’m all ears.

Joseph Carter’s review of Rakes of the Old Court, by Mateiu Caragiale, opens with a bang:

Tenebrous, mollitious, superal, advigilating, encoursive, orgulous, salubrious, appanage, siccicate, phanariot, inquination, schickster, seneschal, decretory, voivodes, bijouterie, uncinctured, deturpation, internunciary, noctambulant, autochthonous, urticated.

These are all words that appear in Sean Cotter’s translation of Mateiu Caragiale’s Rakes of the Old Court. You’ll have difficulty finding the definition of some of them. Google the word “imbrumated,” which appears on page 25 of the book in the clause “he lived imbrumated with thick smoke,” and you will be taken directly to… excerpts from this translation of Rakes of the Old Court. I believe “imbrumated” to be a neologism of Cotter’s, and it is meant, as far as I can tell, as something of a portmanteau of “imbricated” and “inundated.”¹ Thrown into all this is the occasional not-even-italicized loan from another language, such as “saugrenu” – bizarre in French.

Such a vocabulary would be unorthodox for an English-language novelist to use; for a translation, it is borderline heretical.

I relish the heresy. In his introduction, Cotter describes The Rakes of the Old Court as having an “ornate style, filled with archaic Romanian and base street language, saturated with Turkish, Roma, German, and Greek vocabulary.” To read Cotter’s rendering of The Rakes of the Old Court is to encounter the rare work where both author and translator find euphoria in an unbounded display of language; it is among the finest works of translated prose I’ve ever read. It is certainly among the noblest and most ambitious recent attempts to render a unique piece of foreign-language literature into English.

Click through to the review to find more about the novel itself (“a novel of friendship […] centered around a circle of four dissolute men”); I’ll proceed to the final passage, which returns to language and translation:
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