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A decade ago I posted about Chinese typewriters; now I’m happy to pass along Thomas S. Mullaney’s Fast Company article about the woman who helped demonstrate and publicize IBM’s 1947 electric Chinese typewriter, invented by Kao Chung-Chin. Yes, you read that right, 1947. Mullaney tells a riveting tale about how he contacted Lew and got her life story (which is in itself an amazing trajectory) and about how the thing worked (you can see a clip of it in action); I’ll just quote this paragraph about the outcome of the team’s initially triumphal visit to China:

In the end, however, it was geopolitics that would kill Kao’s project. “The Communist takeover in China was well underway at the time,” a 1964 retrospective article explained, “and was completed before the typewriter had a chance to achieve significant sales in an understandably nervous Chinese market.” Not only did Mao’s victory in mainland China push IBM’s anxieties to the breaking point, it also threw Kao’s national identity into turmoil. He became a man without a country, being issued a special Diplomatic “Red” Visa by the United States. The IBM Chinese Typewriter never made it to market, leaving the challenge of electrifying—and eventually computerizing—the Chinese language to later inventors in the second half of the twentieth-century (a topic I’ve written about elsewhere, including in a forthcoming book on MIT Press called, unsurprisingly enough, The Chinese Computer).

Thanks, Bathrobe!

I recently heard the word habitat and thought “That sounds like a Latin verb, but that can’t be right, can it?” After all, debit and credit look like Latin verbs too, but it’s just appearance: they’re both French forms of Latin nouns with the ending chopped off, as is normal for French. But I looked up habitat and found that it is indeed what it looks like; OED:

Etymology: < Latin habitat, 3rd person singular present tense of habitāre, literally ‘it inhabits’, in Floras or Faunas, written in Latin, introducing the natural place of growth or occurrence of a species. Hence, taken as the technical term for this.

As you can probably tell from the style of that etymology, it hasn’t been updated since 1898, but other sources tell the same story, e.g. AHD: “Latin, it dwells, third person sing. present of habitāre, to dwell.” Here are the first two OED citations:

[1762 W. Hudson Flora Anglica 70 Common Primrose—Habitat in sylvis sepibus et ericetis ubique.]
1796 W. Withering Arrangem. Brit. Plants (ed. 3) Dict. Terms 62 Habitatio, the natural place of growth of a plant in its wild state. This is now generally expressed by the word Habitat.

I get that they were used to seeing it in such Latin contexts as the 1762 citation, but I would have thought Latinity was ubiquitous enough in the 18th century (among the educated word-coining classes, obviously) that it wouldn’t have occurred to them to treat it as a noun. Why not habitation?

I’ve quoted Gary Saul Morson a lot here; I’m doing it again, I’ll do so in the future, and I make no apologies — he’s one of the few writers on literature and culture who pretty much always gets it right, and this interview from the NYRB newsletter is worth quoting in extenso (the introduction includes this striking bit of backstory: “Born in the Bronx, Morson had initially planned to study French, but due to a blizzard he arrived late for his entrance exam and failed it, leading him to take Russian instead”):

Andrew Katzenstein: In an introduction to Dostoevsky’s The Gambler, you wrote that “Russians are all possibility,” owing to their proclivity “for absorbing others’ culture, for extremes, and for sudden transformations.” This national disposition seems to result from a tension between the country’s indigenous culture and Western influence—a tension that runs throughout Russian history and literature. How has it played out in the work of the writers you’ve discussed in the Review?

Gary Saul Morson: By brute force, Peter the Great utterly transformed Russia almost overnight. Noblemen had to learn Western values, shave their beards, bring women out of seclusion, and copy Western manners, and so they had a strong sense of play-acting and impostorship. Customs that had taken centuries to evolve in Western countries and were natural there seemed arbitrary to Russians. They had a strong sense that things could be otherwise because they had recently been so.

High culture itself seemed like a foreign import. Millennia of Western thinkers and writers were absorbed simultaneously, so that, let us say, Sophocles, Dante, and Descartes entered Russia together and seemed like contemporaries who argued directly with one another. This telescoping of cultural history created a sense of urgency, and of the presentness of the distant past, that is absent in the West.

Because of a strong sense of the utter conventionality of genres, the Russian tradition became one of metaliterature. Tolstoy famously said that War and Peace belongs to no recognized genre, and that makes it quintessentially Russian since “not a single work of Russian literature, from Gogol’s Dead Souls to Dostoevsky’s Dead House” conforms to Western norms of genre. It is hardly surprising that the Russian Formalists developed a theory of literature centering on what they called “baring the device.”

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A couple of Language Log posts interesting enough I thought I’d share them here:

1) Korean Romanization

Victor Mair says “I can’t think of another language in the world where the Romanization situation is more chaotic than it is for Korean. There are seven schemes in common use…” and goes on to explain the merits and demerits of each. As someone who never studied the language and has often been confused by the ways it’s transliterated, I found it helpful.

2) R.I.P. Daniel Kane (1948-2021)

Kane is one of those remarkable people I wish I’d known. From the Sydney Morning Herald obit:

At his primary school in 1950s Melbourne, Danny Kane would ask the kids from Italy, Poland, Hungary and elsewhere how to say things in their language. He became quite fluent in Italian and picked up Latin from the liturgy at church, pursuing it formally in high school along with French. […]

He got a job as a teller in a bank on Lygon Street, Carlton, the heart of Melbourne’s Little Italy where he found himself speaking Italian all day with customers, and occasionally French, and was also on the way to fluency in Spanish.

As he recalled in 2019 in an interview with the Australian National University’s Annie Luman Ren, “someone from the university came in one day and we got chatting in Italian, and he said to me, ‘Why are you working at a bank?’ And I said, ‘Oh, it pays the bills.’ To which he said, ‘Why don’t you go to the university?’ For me, university was where people go to become doctors or lawyers. The person said, ‘Come to my office and we will talk about it.’ He turned out to be the dean of the arts faculty.” […]

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José Vergara (see this post) was kind enough to send me a copy of his article “The Embodied Language of Sasha Sokolov’s A School for Fools” (Slavonic and East European Review 97.3 [July 2019]: 426-450), which is available at JSTOR, and it’s one of the best things I’ve read about Sokolov (see this post for my take on A School for Fools); in particular, it gets the importance of language in his work in a way that scholars who concentrate on psychology or (feh) politics don’t. I’ll quote some relevant passages and recommend the whole thing to anyone with an interest in Sokolov (or, really, modernist literature in general):

A third factor that bears consideration is Sokolov’s attitude toward language in general and Russian in particular. The author has consistently advocated a perspective that places the literary word above all else, as in an interview with David Remnick conducted after his return to Russia in 1989:

Texts are more important than life, for me. Language is more important than life. So if you deal with language, you are creating not only texts, but also something more important than life. It’s been said many times, of course, but it is true that first there was the Word, and God created the Word, the Word is God, and God is more important than life.

His novels, in turn, reflect these beliefs, as Sokolov prioritizes the intricacies of his language over plot, character and setting. […]

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The phrase “old army game” has flickered at the edges of my consciousness for decades; I never bothered to investigate it, contenting myself with the sense that it was some sort of con. Now Dave Wilton at Wordorigins.org has done the research and told the story:

The old army game is a phrase that has gone through a number of different meanings over the years. It started out as a name for a gambling game—exactly which one varies with the telling—shifted to refer to sucker’s game—like three-card-monte—and then comes to mean any kind of confidence game or deception. Meanwhile, in baseball it developed three distinct and contradictory senses.

The earliest use I have found of army game is as another name for the game commonly called chuck-a-luck. It apparently got that name because of chuck-a-luck’s popularity among soldiers during the 1861–65 U.S. Civil War. The particular use, however, is from a chapter subtitle in William Rideing’s 1879 travelogue, A-Saddle in the Wild West, and the army game is great, not old […] For those unfamiliar with the game, John Philip Quinn’s 1890 book on gambling, Fools of Fortune, gives a description of chuck-a-luck and explains that while the game can be played on the level, a skilled player can easily rig it to take money from the unsuspecting […]

Other early appearances of old army game use it to describe other or unspecified games of chance. […] And given this association with rigged games of chance, it should be no surprise that old army game generalized to refer to any deception or confidence game. There is this article from the 24 May 1910 Jersey Journal that uses old army game to refer to what can only be described as a predecessor to the “Nigerian prince” email scam so familiar to us today. […]

But we also see the old army game used in baseball, and in ways that are difficult to reconcile with both the gambling senses and with each other. At first, the phrase in baseball parlance referred to a style or tactic of defensive play, perhaps one involving some kind of deception, but exactly what is unclear. […] The second baseball sense is that of an aggressive style of play, involving bunts, base stealing, hit-and-run plays, and the like. […] But old army game could also mean exactly the opposite, a strategy that relies on slugging and long balls. […] So, in the case of baseball, the old army game is what we call a Janus phrase, one that has meanings that are diametrically opposed to one another.

See Dave’s post for the (sometimes lengthy) illustrative quotations and for further discussion; I particularly recommend Quinn’s lively description of chuck-a-luck. The OED has no occurrences of “army game,” though they do have an entry for chuck-a-luck (“A gambling game played with dice,” first citation 1836). It’s particularly striking to me that “army game” was used in baseball with such different senses — you’d think it would have gotten settled in one. But I guess it never caught on enough for that.

I’ve enjoyed Sergei Dovlatov’s writing for years and posted on him various times (e.g., here). But I had no clue regarding one feature that Anatoly Vorobei describes. I’ll translate a couple of paragraphs:

Rereading Dovlatov’s Zone, I find myself unable to overlook a particular stylistic trick. Surely many are unaware of this interesting principle. From the ’80s, Dovlatov’s books obey a severe restriction. Different letters must begin the words in each sentence. The rule is strict; deviations exist but are quite uncommon. […]

His style appears in many ways determined by this rule. Sentences wind up quite brief. Sometimes chopped up. Many short, but afterwards you notice one unexpectedly long, thirteen words (I espied fifteen!). You sense how the author operates, finding words but making changes if letters repeat.

It’s a strange restriction, not very easily complied with, unlikely to be perceived.

Phoebe Weston writes for the Guardian in journo-apocalyptic fashion:

Knowledge of medicinal plants is at risk of disappearing as human languages become extinct, a new study has warned. Indigenous languages contain vast amounts of knowledge about ecosystem services provided by the natural world around them. However, more than 30% of the 7,400 languages on the planet are expected to disappear by the end of the century, according to the UN.

The impact of language extinction on loss of ecological knowledge is often overlooked, said the study’s lead researcher, Dr Rodrigo Cámara-Leret, a biologist from the University of Zurich. “Much of the focus looks at biodiversity extinction, but there is a whole other picture out there which is the loss of cultural diversity,” he said.

His team looked at 12,000 medicinal plant services associated with 230 indigenous languages in three regions with high levels of linguistic and biological diversity – North America, north-west Amazonia and New Guinea. They found that 73% of medicinal knowledge in North America was only found in one language; 91% in north-west Amazonia; and 84% in New Guinea. If the languages became extinct, the medicinal expertise associated with them probably would too. Researchers expect their findings from these regions to be similar in other parts of the world. […]

The areas with languages most at risk were in north-west Amazonia, where 100% of this unique knowledge was supported by threatened languages, and in North America, where the figure was 86%. In New Guinea 31% of languages were at risk. The anticipated loss of linguistic diversity would “substantially compromise humanity’s capacity for medicinal discovery”, according to the paper, published in PNAS. […]

Dr Jonathan Loh, an anthropologist and conservationist from the University of Kent, who was not involved in the research, said he was surprised by the degree of linguistic uniqueness in medicinal plant knowledge. He has previously spoken about the parallels between linguistic and biological diversity, commenting that these had evolved in remarkably similar ways, and both faced an extinction crisis.

I doubt humanity’s capacity for medicinal discovery will be substantially compromised, but if it’s exaggeration, it’s in a good cause. And if you think that’s apocalyptic, check this out: Neuralink Brain Chip Will End Language in Five to 10 Years, Elon Musk Says. Thanks, Trevor!

Back in 2006 I mentioned Gaddis in my list of ten unread books; I don’t know why I picked J.R. rather than The Recognitions, since I owned them both and the latter was published first (by twenty years), but Vanya mentioned it in the first comment and I grouped them together in my 2020 comment linking to a Christopher Beha piece on Gaddis “so I’ll be able to find it when I want it, if and when I ever get around to deciding to tackle J.R. and The Recognitions.” Well, my wife and I finished Ann Patchett’s The Dutch House (and were sad it was over — I highly recommend it, and we’re eagerly awaiting her next, whenever she chooses to produce it) and were trying to decide what to read next, and for whatever reason I pulled the doorstop paperback of The Recognitions off the shelf and said “Want to try this?” and she agreed, so we started it last night, and after the first few pages we’re enjoying it (and its thousand pages should keep us going almost to the end of the year).

But Gaddis, like a good modernist, is wildly allusive, and though I was able to translate the Goethe epigraph for my wife and explain a couple of references, there were a number of things I wondered about, so this afternoon I turned to the internet and googled “The first turn of the screw pays all debts.” Imagine my surprise and delight when I was taken to A Reader’s Guide to William Gaddis’s The Recognitions, which will be my vade mecum throughout the long voyage! For the turn-of-the-screw quote it has:

The first turn of the screw pays all debts: that is, one’s debts on shore can be dismissed with the first turn of the ship’s screw – a sentiment, says Eric Partridge in his Dictionary of Catch Phrases, “so optimistic as to verge upon the mythical.”

But what really boggled my mind was this, on two counts:

Reverend Gwyon: according to de Rougemont, Gwyon was a Celtic divinity whose name “(whence ‘guyon’ meaning ‘guide’ in Old French) means the Führer who has in his custody the secret of initiation into the way of divinization” (LWW 210 n.1). Also relevant are Gawain from the Grail romances (see FRR) and Gwion, a semilegendary bard whose poetry hides “an ancient religious mystery – a blasphemous one from the Church’s point of view – under the cloak of buffoonery” (WG 55); one of Gwion’s poems is quoted at 467.5. (Asked once how to pronounce Gwyon, Gaddis said he didn’t know; he had never said it aloud. It probably should be pronounced as one syllable, like “Gwynne,” its modern form.)

In the first place, it astonishes me that Gaddis didn’t know the pronunciation of the name of one of his main characters; in fact, I’m not sure I actually believe it. Anyone so aware of the sound of words (as is evident when you read his sentences aloud) surely must have vocalized it on some level. And in the second place, it would never have occurred to me to say it as one syllable; it seemed natural to read it as /ˈgwaɪən/, so that’s what I did. I guess I’ll switch to /gwɪn/ unless someone presents arguments to the contrary. At any rate, what a great resource to help the striving reader through a strenuous text!

Yoram wrote me saying “This map is fun, and so are the replies, including the video.” I hope you can see the Twitter post; it shows a “map of oaths and affirmations taken languages other than English” at the swearing-in ceremony of the new Scottish Parliament. “Some patterns: Doric around Aberdeen, Gaelic mostly in the Highlands and Islands, Urdu in Glasgow”; Claire McAllister adds others: “Arabic, British Sign Language, Canadian French, Doric, English, Gaelic, German, Orcadian, Punjabi, Scots, Urdu, Welsh and Zimbabwean Shona…” Thanks, Yoram!