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Adrian Daub’s “But Who Tells Them What To Sing?” is an investigation of the history of Hollywood film choruses — not obvious LH material, but as it turns out there are some passages of Hattic interest:

As the soprano Catherine Bott said: “You enter a studio and you open the score and off you go. You sing what you’re told, and it’s all about versatility, just being able to adapt to the right approach, whatever that may be for that conductor or that composer.” And part of that, singers told me, was singing the words — whatever they may be. As Donald Greig pointed out to me, a lot of these singers have training in classics; they certainly know their way around a Requiem or a Stabat Mater. And yet often enough when they step into Abbey Road they’re being asked to sing perfectly nonsensical phrases in pseudo-Latin — but the studio is booked, the clock is ticking, and as Bott put it, “that’s not the time to put up your hand and, you know, correct the Latin.” […]

Interestingly enough, early in this long tradition of made-up languages, Hollywood felt the need to pretend that it did mean something. When Lost Horizon was released in 1937, Columbia Pictures claimed in its publicity material that Dimitri Tiomkin’s score “includes authentic folk songs of Tibet.” The same press sheet noted that the Hall Johnson Choir, a popular gospel choir, “will sing the folk song arrangements in the native Tibetan language.”

Film music historians agree that this is hogwash. There is no evidence Tiomkin researched Tibetan folk songs for his score — what the ad men were selling as “authentic folk songs” were almost certainly newly written pieces in a made-up language. Tiomkin had started out as a concert pianist and relied on a small army of orchestrators to turn his melodies into actual playable scores. Someone in that group put a pen to paper and wrote these pieces, and either that same person or someone else seems to have made up some fake Tibetan text to distribute to the singers. […]

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Dr. Caitlin Green’s academic blog covers topics including “long-distance trade, migration and contacts; landscape and coastal history; early literature and legends; and the history, archaeology, place-names and legends of Lincolnshire and Cornwall”; her 2015 post “The medieval ‘New England’: a forgotten Anglo-Saxon colony on the north-eastern Black Sea coast” is absolutely fascinating:

Although the name ‘New England’ is now firmly associated with the east coast of America, this is not the first place to be called that. In the medieval period there was another Nova Anglia, ‘New England’, and it lay far to the east of England, rather than to the west, in the area of the Crimean peninsula. The following post examines some of the evidence relating to this colony, which was said to have been established by Anglo-Saxon exiles after the Norman conquest of 1066 and seems to have survived at least as late as the thirteenth century.

She starts by talking about the “significant English element in the Varangian Guard of the medieval Byzantine emperors” (“what seems to have occurred is that, in the aftermath of the Norman Conquest of England in 1066, a group of English lords who hated William the Conqueror’s rule but had lost all hope of overthrowing it decided to sell up their land and leave England forever”) and continues:
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This weekend one of my grandsons got married; he and his bride both love books (as a wedding present I gave them my prized near-incunabulum), and they designed their wedding accordingly — there was an arch of books, table assignments were found in a card catalogue, and tables were named after books (the head table was, delightfully, The Fellowship of the Ring). My wife and I bitterly regretted not being there, but we were just too nervous about the delta variant, both of us being aged and one of us being immunocompromised. At any rate, it got me thinking about the role books have played in my life, and I thought I’d make a list of some that have changed its direction.

In childhood:

Young Readers Science Fiction Stories, by Richard M. Elam
This is, in a sense, a ringer, in that I don’t actually remember reading it, in contrast to those that follow. But it was given to me (by my beloved Aunt Bettie, who supported me in so much) when I was six, so I can’t have had much exposure to sf before it, and it’s very clear from the condition of the book (e.g., endpapers covered with pencil drawings of rockets and buildings) that I read it assiduously and with pleasure, so it makes sense to assume it was my introduction to the world of science fiction, which made up the bulk of my reading for pleasure until I went to college and which is surely responsible for a significant part of how I see the world. From an adult point of view, it’s a pretty terrible book, but if you’re curious, it’s available in full at Project Gutenberg.

The Story of Language, by Mario Pei
As Ben Zimmer once said, Pei is “not always the most reliable source when it comes to language-related information,” but he’s a very lively writer and got a lot of young folks interested in language, including me. (It took me years to eradicate some of the errors he wedged into my developing brain.)

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Tim Whitmarsh’s “Less Care More Stress: A Rhythmic Poem from the Roman Empire” (published last month in the Cambridge Classical Journal; the title is a play on the self-help slogan “Less Stress, More Care”) describes an intriguing little text found all over the eastern Roman empire in the second century:

In this article I consider an anonymous popular text – a poem, I believe, but that identification presumes the discussion below – that was widely circulated across the Empire. My aim is twofold: to collate and publish it; and to reflect on what it can tell us about Greek metrics, poetics and literary value in the Roman period. This brief text, I argue, shines important new light on the emergence of stress-based (as distinct from quantitative) poetry. […]

The text, in its fuller form, reads:

Λέγουσιν
ἃ θέλουσιν
λεγέτωσαν
οὐ μέλι μοι
σὺ φίλι με
συνφέρι σοι

They say
what they like
let them say [it]
I don’t care
you [go ahead and] love me
it does you good

Whitmarsh says:

The diction is unambitious. The verbs belong to the beginner’s Greek lexicon; there are no nouns, adjectives or adverbs. There is no sign of Atticism: in particular, the third-person imperative -έτωσαν ending, which is regular for the koine of the era, is censured by Atticist authorities, who prefer -όντων. […] The spelling συφέρι (in no. 8) also reflects a feature that is ‘not normally found in decrees and documents in which the writing is of a high standard’. In terms of language, then, our text and its inscribers do not lay claim to literary elevation. This is perhaps what one would expect, given the relatively modest value of the gems themselves: agate, onyx and sardonyx, the material on which the majority of texts are inscribed, are all varieties of chalcedony, an abundant mineral in the Mediterranean region.

He goes on to discuss meter (“Our text appears to make use of the stress accent to govern rhythm, in the manner of post-antique Greek poetry”), the use of half-rhymes, and interpretation:
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New to me, that is; Victor Pelevin published his first story in 1989, became famous almost thirty years ago, and has been one of Russia’s most important authors ever since, while Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky died before I was born (though he only became known when the bulk of his fiction was published at the end of the 1980s). But both are writers I’ve been interested in for a long time, and now that I’ve gotten up to 1990 in my long march, I’ve read my first works by each: Pelevin’s Затворник и Шестипалый (translated by Andrew Bromfield as Hermit and Six-Toes) and Krzhizhanovsky’s Клуб убийц букв (written around 1926 and translated by Joanne Turnbull as The Letter Killers Club). They’re different in many ways, but they have something in common that caused me to think about what it is I value in works of fiction, so I’m going to discuss them both here, starting with the Krzhizhanovsky.

The Letter Killers Club is a set of stories linked in a frame, in a fashion popular in Europe in the early 19th century; in Russia it was famously used by Pushkin and Lermontov, as mentioned in my 2014 review of Odoevsky’s Russian Nights. In Odoevsky, to quote my review, “a group of poorly differentiated young people visit their wise friend Faust (a stand-in for the author) and argue about life, history, and everything”; in Krzhizhanovsky, the narrator is brought by an acquaintance to the home of a writer who has stopped writing (hence “killing” the letters he would have written down). I’ll quote Lizok’s excellent review:

Krzhizhanovsky frames five stories, setting them up by describing an apartment and the host of a club where members, each known by a monosyllabic nickname, recite stories from memory. I don’t want to spill many details but I’ll say that the leader, a writer, composed his books after having to sell all his books; he imagined his books and the letters on the pages, rearranging them to occupy emptiness. He says writers are “professional word tamers” (“профессиональные дрессировщики слов”). […]

I think my biggest difficulty with The Letter Killers Club is that I, a bit like the narrator, who’s an invited guest at the meetings, was more interested in buttonholing club members for a chat than in listening to their stories. More frustrating, the first tale, a playlet with characters from Hamlet and the eternal question and implications of “to be or not to be,” interested me far more than the remaining four, despite the appearance of my beloved carnival themes and an interesting science fiction take on mind control. Some of the stories just felt too long.

Lizok has a convenient set of links to reviews by Daniel Kalder, Joe Gallagher, Matt McGregor, and others; I think it’s fair to say that in general they feel the stories are uneven. They tend to prefer either the first, like Lizok, or the third, the “mind control” one, a terrifying vision of a society based on the ultimate slavery, in which the vast bulk of the population have their actions controlled by “exes” (reminiscent of the towers in the Strugatskys’ Обитаемый остров, translated as Prisoners of Power) and live in a completely regimented society like that of Saltykov-Shchedrin’s История одного города (The History of a Town — see my review). I’ll quote some passages from reviews I agree with; Matt McGregor at The Rumpus:
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Randyn Bartholomew has a LiveScience story “Will humans ever learn to speak whale?“:

Sperm whales are among the loudest living animals on the planet, producing creaking, knocking and staccato clicking sounds to communicate with other whales that are a few feet to even a few hundred miles away. This symphony of patterned clicks, known as codas, might be sophisticated enough to qualify as a full-fledged language. But will humans ever understand what these cetaceans are saying?

The answer is maybe, but first researchers have to collect and analyze an unprecedented number of sperm whale communications, researchers told Live Science. With brains six times larger than ours, sperm whales (Physeter macrocephalus) have intricate social structures and spend much of their time socializing and exchanging codas. These messages can be as brief as 10 seconds, or last over half an hour. In fact, “The complexity and duration of whale vocalizations suggest that they are at least in principle capable of exhibiting a more complex grammar” than other nonhuman animals, according to an April 2021 paper about sperm whales posted to the preprint server arXiv.org.

This paper, by a cross-disciplinary project known as CETI (Cetacean Translation Initiative), outlines a plan to decode sperm whale vocalizations, first by collecting recordings of sperm whales, and then by using machine learning to try to decode the sequences of clicks these fellow mammals use to communicate. CETI chose to study sperm whales over other whales because their clicks have an almost Morse code-like structure, which artificial intelligence (AI) might have an easier time analyzing. […]

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Benjamin Suchard of Leiden University has a new paper “The Reconstruction of the Proto-Semitic Genitive Ending and a Suggestion on its Origin” (Studia Orientalia Electronica Vol. 9 No. 1); the abstract:

The Proto-Semitic genitive ending on triptotic nouns is commonly reconstructed as *-im (unbound state)/*-i (bound state). In Akkadian, however, this case ending is long -ī- before pronominal suffixes. Since the length of this vowel is unexplained, I argue that it is original and that the Akkadian bound state ending -i should also be reconstructed as long *-ī, explaining its retention in word-final position. This form seems more original than Proto-West-Semitic *-i. Hence, the Proto-Semitic bound state genitive ending should also be reconstructed as *-ī. Through internal reconstruction supported by the parallel of kinship terms like *ʔab-um ‘father’, I arrive at a pre-Proto-Semitic reconstruction of the genitive ending as *-ī-m (unbound), *-ī (bound). This paper then explores a hypothetical scenario where the genitive ending *-ī is derived from the adjectivizing ‘nisbe’ suffix through reanalysis of adjectival constructions like *bayt-u śarr-ī ‘the/a royal house’ as construct chains with meanings like ‘the/a king’s house’; with the addition of mimation and the resultant vowel shortening, this yielded the Proto-Semitic construction with a genitive, *bayt-u śarr-im. The genitive case failed to develop with diptotic nouns because they did not take mimation and in the dual and plural because the nisbe adjective was derived from the uninflected (singular) noun stem; hence, these categories all retain the more original contrast between the nominative and and an undifferentiated oblique case.

I’m curious what people who know more about Semitic than I do think of this.

From Thomas Mann, “Goethe’s Faust,” on Goethe’s unfinished farce “Hans Wurst’s Wedding” (courtesy of Michael Gilleland at Laudator Temporis Acti):

He will hear nothing of the preparations for the celebration of the nuptials; nor of the guests, among whom are “all the great names of the German world.” No, what he wants is just to be off with his Ursel to the hayloft. But what sort of “great names” are these? They are simply a list of the vulgarest folk-epithets in the language, with which Goethe displays an astonishing, well-nigh exhaustive conversance. I will not attempt to translate these for you. The list includes not only such common terms as Vetter Schuft, Herr Schurk, and Hans Hasenfuss, but other such gems as Schnuckfozgen, Peter Sauschwanz, Scheismaz, Schweinpelz, Lauszippel, Rotzloffel, Jungfer Rabenas, Herren Hosenscheiser and Heularsch — and so on and on, in endless number.

Er will nichts wissen von den Hochzeitsumständlichkeiten, zu denen alles ins Haus kommt, »was die deutsche Welt an großen Namen nur enthält«, sondern will einfach mit seiner Ursel auf den Heuboden. Was sind das übrigens für große Namen? Es sind lauter deutsch-herkömmliche Schimpf- und Ekelnamen der derbsten Art, von denen Goethe sich zum Gebrauch eine erstaunlich kundige und erschöpfende Liste angelegt, auf welcher nicht nur so Gewöhnliches figuriert wie Vetter Schuft, Herr Schurk und Hans Hasenfuß, sondern auch solche Perlen wie Schnuckfözgen, Peter Sauschwanz, Scheismaz, Schweinpelz, Lauszippel, Rotzlöffel, Jgfr. Rabenas, die Herren Hosenscheißer und Heularsch und so in unendlicher Reihe fort.

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I was looking at Martin Seymour-Smith’s discussion of Nietzsche in his (superb and superbly opinionated) Guide to Modern World Literature — I have the 1973 first edition — when I came across this: “Nietzsche could be strident, even horrisonous; but he is a key figure.” Horrisonous! This is why it’s good to have poets writing about literature. OED:

horrisonous, adj.

Etymology: < Latin horrisonus (< stem of horrēre + -sonus sounding) + -ous suffix.
Previous versions of the OED give the stress as: hoˈrrisonous.

= horrisonant adj.

1631 J. Mabbe tr. F. de Rojas Spanish Bawd vii. 84  Words of most horrisonous roaring.
1901 Daily Chron. 31 Dec. 5/1  Sophie oft wakes on my snorting horrisonous.
1962 L. Deighton Ipcress File xv. 91  I listened to the ululating wail and horrisonous mewl.

They should add the Seymour-Smith quote to the citations. And if you’re wondering about horrisonant, it’s “< stem of Latin horrēre (see horripilation n.) + sonānt-em sounding” and means “Sounding horribly; of terrible sound.” The citations:
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Uwagbale Edward-Ekpu writes for Quartz Africa about the influence of the Edo language on the creoles of the Gulf of Guinea:

Gulf of Guinea creoles are the main Portuguese creole languages still spoken today. There are a few other portuguese creoles spoken by a few thousand people in Malaysia, Sri Lanka, India, Singapore, and Indonesia. Several studies have shown though that the Edo language is the major African component that constitutes the foundation of the creoles of the Gulf of Guinea.

At least one variety of these creoles is spoken in Sao tome and Principe and Equatorial Guinea, with diaspora speakers mainly in Angola and Portugal, according to the Atlas of Pidgin and Creole Language Structures (APiCS), a linguistic atlas that provides expert-based information on 130 grammatical and lexical features of 76 pidgin and creole languages from around the world.

The creoles of the Gulf of Guinea were derived from the combination of the Portuguese language, Edo language (including closely related Edoid languages in the Niger delta), and Bantu languages (mainly Kikongo and Kimbundu), according to linguists. The creoles emerged from a first-contact language or pidgin resulting from the contact between the Portuguese colonizers and the slaves from the kingdom of Benin in Sao Tome. The Bantu languages came in contact with the newly formed Portuguese-Edo language in the island some decades later. […]

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