languagehat.com

As I wrote here, one of my birthday presents this year was Sofia Samatar’s A Stranger in Olondria (and I note with a shudder that that Amazon page says “A Stranger in Olondria: a novel (Olondria, 1)” — please don’t let this be yet another trilogy!); I’ve just finished it, and as so often happens I have conflicting reactions. I’ll start by saying it’s a good novel, very well written, and anyone who enjoys Tolkien-derived fantasy should love it. The problem is that I am not one of those people; it is rare for a person to enjoy sf and fantasy equally, and I was a science fiction fan from the beginning. Yes, I liked Tolkien, but that was a one-off, just as my enjoyment of My Fair Lady does not make me a fan of musicals. Here’s the opening paragraph, which gives an excellent idea of what the book is like:

As I was a stranger in Olondria, I knew nothing of the splendor of its coasts, nor of Bain, the Harbor City, whose lights and colors spill into the ocean like a cataract of roses. I did not know the vastness of the spice markets of Bain, where the merchants are delirious with scents, I had never seen the morning mists adrift above the surface of the green Illoun, of which the poets sing; I had never seen a woman with gems in her hair, nor observed the copper glinting of the domes, nor stood upon the melancholy beaches of the south while the wind brought in the sadness from the sea. Deep within the Fayaleith, the Country of the Wines, the clarity of light can stop the heart: it is the light the local people call “the breath of angels” and is said to cure heartsickness and bad lungs. Beyond this is the Balinfeil, where, in the winter months, the people wear caps of white squirrel fur, and in the summer months the goddess Love is said to walk and the earth is carpeted with almond blossom. But of all this I knew nothing. I knew only of the island where my mother oiled her hair in the glow of a rush candle, and terrified me with stories of the Ghost with No Liver, whose sandals slap when he walks because he has his feet on backwards.

This is a poet’s prose, complex and polished and singing, and I can see why the reviews say things like “elegant language,” “the prose […] is glorious,” and “a poetic and elegant style.” The problem for me is that I quickly become impatient with it; like rococo painting and elaborate cocktails, it’s too rich for my taste. It’s not that I want stripped-down, “Hemingwayesque” prose — heaven forfend! But μηδὲν ἄγαν, as they say; if the merchants are delirious with scents and the earth is carpeted with almond blossom, I’m likely to take a hike to a less redolent vicinity. It’s a good example of what Bakhtin called chronotope: a fantasy novel is supposed to have melancholy beaches and light called “the breath of angels,” not to mention places named Bain and Illoun and Fayaleith — that’s how you know you’re in the right kind of novel. But me, I’m a stranger in Olondria; I’d rather be on Mars, even the impossible Mars of Philip K. Dick’s Martian Time-Slip, which I recently read with as much pleasure as the first time around, half a century ago.

Having gotten that off my chest, I will quickly add that I adjusted to the delirious scents and robed priests and quaint festivals, and eventually found the plot gripping and the resolution moving; I particularly enjoyed the interpolation of stories within the main story, which work well (and are told less ornately). But it’s still not my kind of chronotope. Oh, and one thing that kept irritating me was the impossibility of knowing how all those place names are pronounced. Is Bain /beɪn/ or /baɪn/? Is Tyom monosyllabic /tjom/ or anglicized /ˈtaɪɒm/ or, say, /ˈtyom/, with an ü sound in the first syllable? I guess most readers don’t care about such things, being content to absorb the fantastically foreign-looking names by eye, but dammit, I need to know how to say them. That’s one good thing about Tolkien: he took care to let you know how his various languages worked and how to say their words.

Jen in Edinburgh wrote me to say she’d been wondering “why we say that we’re going to ‘wing’ something […] I have actually looked it up in the OED and found out – but it wasn’t a reason I expected at all, so if it surprised me, maybe it will surprise other commenters!” I looked it up and it surprised me too, so I herewith share it. OED s.v. wing v.:

II.11. Theatrical slang. transitive. To study (a part) in or about the wings, having undertaken it at short notice; also intransitive. Hence in to wing it; now usually in slang use (originally and chiefly U.S.), to improvise; to speak or act without preparation, to make statements on unstudied matters (see also quot. 1950).

1885 ‘To wing’..indicates the capacity to play a rôle without knowing the text, and the word itself came into use from the fact that the artiste frequently received the assistance of a special prompter, who..stood..screened..by a piece of the scenery or a wing.
Stage 21 August 12/2

1886 In the event of an artiste being suddenly called upon to play a part of which he knows nothing..he frequently has to ‘wing’ the part.
Stage Gossip 70

1933 He must give a performance by ‘winging it’—that is, by refreshing his memory for each scene in the wings before he goes on to play it.
P. Godfrey, Back-stage iii. 39

1950 Wing it, vb., to lay off an approximate 90° angle by eye.
American Speech vol. 25 238/1
[…]

1979 Mr. Trudeau came without notes, choosing to wing it, and struggled..unsuccessfully to establish Mr. Leger’s resemblance to an owl.
Globe & Mail (Toronto) 22 January 8/2

It makes sense, but I don’t think I would ever have guessed it. Thanks, Jen!

I just watched the “Japanese historical drama horror film” Kuroneko (lots of fun if you like films with samurai and ghosts; this one features Minamoto no Raikō as a character, not to mention the titular black cat), and was struck when a large city gate was shown with the inscription 羅城門, subtitled RAJOMON GATE. “Is that different from the famous Rashomon?” thought I, and immediately investigated. It turns out the answer is “yes and no”; the gate is the same, but it has different names. As Wikipedia explains:

The gate’s name in modern Japanese is Rajōmon. Rajō (羅城) refers to city walls and mon (門) means “gate,” so Rajōmon signifies the main city gate. Originally, this gate was known as Raseimon or Raiseimon, using alternate readings for the kanji in the name. The name Rashōmon, using the kanji 羅生門 (which can also be read Raseimon), was popularized by a noh play Rashōmon (c.1420) written by Kanze Nobumitsu (1435–1516).

The modern name, Rajōmon, uses the original kanji (羅城門 rather than 羅生門) and employs the more common reading for the second character (jō instead of sei).

And if you continue to the article on the Nobumitsu play, you find: “The title is a pun, which involves the Rajōmon (羅城門) outer castle gate but Kanze changed it by using the kanji shō for ‘life’ rather than the original jō for ‘castle’ (note that 羅城門 was originally read raseimon and 生 can also be read as sei).” Complicated! The odd thing is that although the modern name is used on the gate and in the subtitles, when the characters say it out loud it’s clearly Rashōmon rather than Rajōmon.

I rewatched Bullitt and was gripped once more by what this Wikipedia article calls “the first modern car chase movie.” But that is not a topic for LH; it suddenly occurred to me to wonder what kind of a name Bullitt is, and that makes for a post (a thin one, perhaps, but it’s hot for the umpteenth straight day and my brains are poached). It’s not in my usual surname reference, but happily the information in the Dictionary of American Family Names is online; the Bullitt entry says it’s a variant of Bullett, and that entry says:

Bullett : 1: Altered form of French Boulet reflecting the Canadian and American French practice of sounding the final -t. Compare Bullitt.2: English (Suffolk): of Norman origin probably a nickname for a rotund person from a diminutive of Old French boule ‘round’. The noun bullet is from French boulet a diminutive of boule ‘ball’.3: English (Suffolk): occasionally perhaps a late development of Bulled ‘bull head’.

I don’t know if “the Canadian and American French practice of sounding the final -t” is an accurate generalization or an ad hoc explanation.

I recently ran across the term block ornament, completely opaque unless you know the meaning; OED (entry revised 2022):

slang (British and Australian) Obsolete.

A small piece of inferior meat placed for sale on the butcher’s block, as opposed to a joint hung on a hook; cf. blocker n.¹ I.3.

1843 ‘Block Ornaments’ made into stew!
Sun (Sydney) 18 March

1909 How often, after a search through the old purse they clutch so tightly, they turn away the coveted ‘block-ornimint’ being beyond their means.
Westminster Gazette 7 January 2/1

And blocker n.¹ I.3 reads:

I.3. † colloquial. A small piece of inferior meat placed for sale on the butcher’s block, as opposed to a joint hung on a hook; = block ornament n. Obsolete.

1848 Forced to substitute a ‘blocker’ of meat, with its cheap accompaniment of bread and vegetables..for poultry and rump-steaks.
Fraser’s Magazine April 396/2

I’m sorry those terms fell out of use; they sound great to me. (One has to wonder about the excitement expressed in “‘Block Ornaments’ made into stew!”)

Or, to put it more expansively and comprehensibly, Toukley’s Kooloora Preschool revives endangered Darkinjung Aboriginal language; Sarah Forster and Emma Simkin report for ABC on the kind of program I like supporting (I’ve added links):

Students at a NSW Central Coast preschool start their day talking about their feelings in Darkinjung, the local Aboriginal language. Darkinjung is the predominant First Nations group in the region, but the language became endangered fairly quickly after colonisation due to its proximity to Sydney.

“It’s taken a lot of research, a lot of hard work from people that have come before me to get those words so we can start learning them again,” preschool educational leader Sharon Buck said. Ms Buck is a proud Gamilaroi woman who has lived and worked on Darkinjung country her whole life.

Kooloora is a targeted Aboriginal preschool attached to Toukley Public School. About 75 per cent of students identify as Aboriginal, but Ms Buck said all families appreciated the opportunity to learn language and culture. Amber Clenton’s daughter, Islah, has attended Kooloora since the beginning of the year. She has started bringing the language and songs home. “Our whole family is Aboriginal, so we love to learn the language,” Ms Clenton said. […]

Arliah James is one of Kooloora’s non-Aboriginal students. Her mother, Kelsey, said she was benefiting from the Darkinjung language program. “I just love how this school incorporates it [culture] a lot and it is not getting forgotten,” Ms James said. […]

Ms Buck’s commitment to restoring language has resulted in the preschool earning the highest rating achievable for an early childhood education and care service. The rating of excellent, from the Australian Children’s Education and Care Quality Authority, is an honour Kooloora shares with just 10 other facilities in NSW. “It validates that the service is a leader in our community and for other early childhood services, and that our initiatives are recognised and valued as making a difference for children and families,” Ms Buck said.

The preschool is working with other local schools to share the localised Aboriginal curriculum.

The ethnonym Gamilaroi is from gamil ‘no,’ a common pattern among Australian languages.

Laudator Temporis Acti presents a set of translations of Horace, Epistles 1.20.5, “addressing his soon to be published book”:

Indulge the fond Desire, with which You burn,
Pursue thy Flight, yet think not to return. (Philip Francis)

Well, you’re keen to be off. Goodbye. (Niall Rudd)

Off with you, down to where you itch to go. (H. Rushton Fairclough)

But off you go, down where you’re itching to go (David Ferry)

But follow your urge for a come-down (Colin MacLeod)

Vete, pues a donde tan ansiosamente deseas ir (Alfonso Cuatrecasas)

Foge para onde estás louco por descer (Frederico Lourenço)

Vai, scappa a precipizio dove hai tanta voglia (Enzo Mandruzzato)

Fuggi pur dove sogni di scendere (Luciano Paolicchi)

Va donc où tu brûles d’aller. (Ch.-M. Leconte de Lisle)

Flieh, wohin du Lust hast hinabzusteigen (Epstein)

I’ll add a Russian version (I can’t find the translator’s name): Ну что же, ступай, куда хочешь! [Well then, go wherever you want!] But Roland Mayer provides a “dissenting voice”; in his commentary he says:

Fuge quo avoid (10.32n.) the place to which …; the verb cannot imply dismissal yet, but it gives a warning. descendere ‘to go down (to a place of business or other activity)’ (OLD 4).

10.32 fuge magna ‘avoid (OLD 10) anything grand’, fuge echoes fugitivus 10[…].

Correspondingly, John Davie has “Avoid the place you are so eager to go down to”; again, I’ll add a Russian equivalent, Nikolai Ginzburg’s Избегай, куда тянет, спуститься [Avoid going down to the place you are drawn to]. Eric Thomson, who provided the quotes, says “My opinion’s not worth a fig, but I don’t find Mayer wholly convincing except in so far as there have may been for the Roman reader/listener a jolt of ambiguity, one that would underline how pained a bon voyage it was”; my opinion is worth even less, but I enjoy this kind of dissection of the semantics of verse.

The Onion has remained amazingly reliable over the decades; back in 1995 they published the immortal Clinton Deploys Vowels to Bosnia, and in 2008 they posted Idiom Shortage Leaves Nation All Sewed Up In Horse Pies, which I missed at the time but which has now come to my attention (thanks, Sven!):

WASHINGTON—A crippling idiom shortage that has left millions of Americans struggling to express themselves spread like tugboat hens throughout the U.S. mainland Tuesday in an unparalleled lingual crisis that now has the entire country six winks short of an icicle.

Since beginning two weeks ago, the deficit in these vernacular phrases has affected nearly every English speaker on the continent, making it virtually impossible to communicate symbolic ideas through a series of words that do not individually share the same meaning as the group of words as a whole. In what many are calling a cast-iron piano tune unlike any on record, idiomatic expression has been devastated nationwide.

“This is an absolute oyster carnival,” said Harvard University linguistics professor Dr. Howard Albright, who noted that the current idiom shortage has been the country’s worst. “I don’t know any other way to describe it.”

Albright said that citizens in the South and West have been hit by the dearth of idioms like babies bite the bedpost, with people in those colorful expression–heavy regions unable to speak about anything related to rain storms, misers, sensations associated with nervousness, difficult or ironic predicaments, surprise at a younger relative’s rapid increase in height, or love. In some areas, what few idioms remain are being bartered or sold at exorbitant prices. And, Albright claims, unless something is done before long to dry out the cinnamon jars, residents of Texas may soon cease speaking altogether.

“These people are desperate,” said Albright, gesturing with his hands to indicate the severity of the problem there. “We’ve never seen anything like it. Some are being forced to choose between feeding their family and praising especially talented professional athletes. It’s as if—it’s really—it is bad.” […]

[Read more…]

The OED’s June set of New word entries is particularly full of good things, although there are, of course, boring items like “Anglo-Dutch, adj.: ‘Of, belonging to, or involving both England (or Britain) and Holland (or the Netherlands)’” — how did that not make it in until 2025? Some that caught my eye:

asweddumize, v.: “transitive. To prepare (fallow or disused land) for cultivation, esp. for the growing of rice.” (It’s Sri Lankan English, from Sinhala asvedduma ‘cultivation (of land),’ whose origin is unclear.)

Avurudu, n.: “The first day of the Sinhala and Hindu New Year, occurring on the spring equinox.” (The pronunciation is unexpected: British English /ˈaʊrᵿduː/ OW-ruh-doo, U.S. English /ˈaʊruˌdu/ OW-roo-doo, Sri Lankan English /ˈaurud̪u/ or /ˈaurud̪ə/.)

bag of dicks, n.: “Coarse slang. In various expressions used to convey hostile or contemptuous dismissal, esp. to suck (or eat) a bag of dicks (frequently in imperative).” (First cite: 1995 “Doesn’t the food suck the biggest bag of dicks you’ve ever tasted?” New York Magazine 19 June 54/3)

baggywrinkle, n.: “A material used to prevent rigging from chafing, made by weaving many short strands of rope, the edges of which are left to fray, across two long strands.”

bagus, adj.: “Of high quality; excellent, splendid. Also as int., expressing approval or assent.” (This is Southeast Asian, from Malay and Indonesian bagus ‘good, fine, beautiful, nice, excellent’; the stress is on the second syllable: British English /bɑːˈɡuːs/ bah-GOOSS, U.S. English /bɑˈɡus/ bah-GOOSS, Singapore and Malaysian English /ˌbʌˈɡus/.)

bee’s dick, n.: “Slang. A very small distance or amount.” (First cite: 1988 “If I was a second out it would have been easier to accept but I was only a bee’s dick out.” Sydney Morning Herald 21 May 28/3)

And that’s just the a’s and b’s; click the link for many more. One that startled me was gunzel, n.: “A tram or train enthusiast”; it turns out to be Australian slang and, according to the etymology, is in fact from the gunsel I was thinking of: “Among vagrants: a boy, a youth; a young male companion of a vagrant, esp. one who is made use of as a sexual partner. Hence: a young man who is made use of as a sexual partner by an older man.” They say “The U.S. slang word was probably transmitted to Australia via American popular culture; compare e.g. its use in the film The Maltese Falcon (1941) and in the book on which this was based,” but the semantic transition is not clear to me.

From the About the Project page:

ARETE is a project of the UCLAB at the University of Applied Sciences Potsdam. The central result of the project is the interactive visualization of the history of the Latin alphabet. In particular, the visualization shows the temporal and formal relationships of the different scripts and typefaces to each other.

Our main concern was to show the diversity and variance of the Latin alphabet over the centuries. It is often suggested that the Roman Capitalis evolved to Antiqua scripts to today’s Grotesk in a linear way. However, we believe that this is only one possible view among many. Like any cultural development, the history of type and script is, at its core, a network. Over the centuries, designers have learned from others, referred to existing designs, and developed variants. There were times of greater standardization and then again times of great variance. The Arete project wants to show and clarify this diversity and these different design lines.

Another concern was to show not only the typographic history, but also the history of calligraphy and handwriting. Even after the invention of printing, a lot of text production occurred by hand. In the 17th and 18th centuries, various social, economic and cultural developments even caused handwriting to flourish.

Lots more info at the link; it’s a pleasing layout, even if I don’t understand all the ins and outs — there are lots of things to click on. (Via chavenet’s MeFi post.)