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Carl H. Kraeling, in “The Episode of the Roman Standards at Jerusalem” (Harvard Theological Review 35.4 [Oct. 1942] 263-289, via Laudator Temporis Acti), provides just the sort of detailed philological analysis that I revel in:

The word σημαία used by Josephus in his account of the episode of the standards is, like its Latin equivalent signum, a generic term and may apply to any or all of the standards borne by military units, though it is used also in a narrower sense for one particular type. Among the Roman standards the first to be mentioned are the aquila, a golden eagle mounted on a pole, and the imago or imagines, representations of animals or busts of the Emperor similarly mounted.[13] Both types are essentially symbolic and religious in their significance. The aquila borne by the aquilifer is the palladium exclusively of the legion. Legions also have imagines borne by imaginiferi, but they share this type of standard with other troops, the urbaniciani, the vigiles, the alae and the auxiliarii. The theriomorphic imagines, comprising mainly zodiacal animals, have something to do with the dies natalis of the unit. The images of the Emperor, what ever else they may denote, have a religious and cultic significance also. While every established military unit could, and perhaps did, have its own theriomorphic imago, it is clear that some units did not have separate representations of the Emperor. What the criterion for the distribution of the imperial likenesses may be, is not yet entirely evident.

The next type of standard to be mentioned is that to which the word signum is applied in the narrower sense.[14] More familiar than the others if for no other reason than because of representations in the school texts of Caesar’s Gallic Wars, the signum consists of a spear decorated just below the spear-head with a cross-bar and fillets, and adorned along the shaft with a series of discs, or wreaths and discs, or wreaths and discs and mural crowns. So far as the discs (phalerae) are concerned the signa can be divided into two types, those that are aniconic and have smooth, polished surface, and those that are iconic, being embossed with a likeness of an emperor (or an image of a deity?). The signa, while also of religious significance, are basically the instruments of tactical procedure and hence essential to all troops engaged in tactical manoeuvres. Each military unit has as many signa as it has tactical elements, though in the case of a cohort the signum of the triarii maniple is simultaneously also the signum of the cohort as a whole.

The last type of standard to be mentioned is the vexillum, a cloth flag attached to a cross-bar hanging from the top of a pole or spear. It is used by temporary detachments from established military units, which are therefore known as vexillationes, and in cavalry alae. Under what conditions it served as an identifying medium and as a tactical instrument respectively, is not entirely clear.

It’s useful to be reminded that in Greek texts dealing with Roman topics a Greek word (like σημαία here) can be simply an equivalent of a Latin one, so that there’s no point trying to apply its usual range of Greek senses. For the footnotes, see the Laudator post. And if you’re wondering about maniple, it’s (OED) “A subdivision of the Roman legion made up of two centuries, numbering 120 or (for some purposes) 60 men”:

Etymology: < Middle French maniple […], Middle French, French manipule […] < classical Latin manipulus handful, bundle, sheaf, unit of infantry < mani- mani- comb. form + a second element < the base of plēre to fill, plēnus full (see pleni- comb. form).

A week ago I was corresponding with José Vergara about an impenetrable word in Sasha Sokolov’s «Между собакой и волком» (Between Dog and Wolf), which I started reading last year but then set aside, when he mentioned “the Ostanin slovar’” as something he would check when he got a chance. I googled and was thunderstruck to discover there was a published set of annotations to the novel by the writer and translator Boris Ostanin. I love such books (I have them for Lolita, The Brothers Karamazov, Gravity’s Rainbow, and Moskva-Petushki, and probably others I’m forgetting), so I immediately felt the need to have my own copy. Alas, it was sold out at Ozon (see this post), and I despaired… but then I discovered they still had a few copies at Labirint, and now that I had gotten used to ordering from Russia, I was determined to have one. The interface was completely different from Ozon’s, but fortunately Lizok had used them before and was willing to help me through the process. Besides the Ostanin, I ordered two books unavailable at Ozon, Sorokin’s Метель (The Blizzard), which I’ve been wanting for ages, and Pepperstein’s Пражская ночь [Prague night], which I learned about from Lizok’s site; just now the package was delivered, and I am a happy man. As I wrote Lizok:

I’ve been reading Russian for half a century, and at first I got my books from the college bookstore as they were assigned, then I got some at the huge Akateeminen Kirjakauppa in Helsinki on my 1971 visit to the USSR (needless to say, there were no interesting books for sale in the Socialist Motherland itself), when I moved to NYC I got them at Viktor Kamkin and then at the bookstores in Brighton Beach, then when we left the city in the mid-2000s I started ordering by mail from ruskniga.com (the online version of the Sankt-Peterburg bookstore I’d frequented in Brighton), then I discovered I could get cheap ex-library books from Abebooks, and all of it was good, but selection was limited and I was still frustrated — somehow it never occurred to me that I could order from Russia. When José mentioned getting books from Ozon, I was thunderstruck; he walked me through the sign-up process (map and all), and now I feel like I’m in Wonderland. “You mean I can get that… and that… and even THAT??” Fortunately my wife is tolerant, and it’s cheaper and less destructive than a gambling or drug habit…

Oh, and that word I was wondering about? It’s матату [matatu] in “Он, во-первых, изведал семейную матату, но супруга поладила с волкобоем и сжила Угодника долой со двора, во-вторых”; Google searches are hopelessly swamped by Hakuna Matata, and it turns out it’s not in the Ostanin book, so any suggestions will be gratefully received.

Rory O’Connor writes for Google’s The Keyword about “a new tool for exploring indigenous languages”:

“Our dictionary doesn’t have a word for shoe” my Uncle Allan Lena said, so when kids ask him what to call it in Yugambeh, he’ll say “jinung gulli” – a foot thing. Uncle Allan Lena is a frontline worker in the battle to reteach the Yugambeh Aboriginal language to the children of southeast Queensland, Australia, where it hasn’t been spoken fluently for decades and thus is – like many other languages around the world – in danger of disappearing.

For the younger generation, even general language can be a challenge to understand, but it can be especially difficult to try to describe modern items using Indigenous languages like Yugambeh. For example in the Australian outdoors, it’s easy to teach children the words for trees and animals, but around the house it becomes harder. Traditional language didn’t have a word for a fridge – so we say waring bin – a cold place. The same with a telephone – we call it a gulgun biral – voice thrower.

However, today’s technology can help provide an educational and interactive way to promote language learning and preservation. I’m particularly proud for Yugambeh to be the first Australian Aboriginal language to be featured on Woolaroo, a new Google Arts & Culture experiment using the Google Cloud Vision API. […]

Woolaroo is open source and allows language communities like ours to preserve and expand their language word lists and add audio recordings to help with pronunciation. Today it supports 10 global languages including Louisiana Creole, Calabrian Greek, Māori, Nawat, Tamazight, Sicilian, Yang Zhuang, Rapa Nui, Yiddish and Yugambeh. Any of these languages are an important aspect of a community’s cultural heritage.

Google will doubtless get bored and drop it as they have so many other exciting/useful projects (why yes, I’m still bitter about Google Reader), but in the meantime it seems like a Good Thing. Thanks, Kobi!

Jaroslaw Anders has an NYRB review of what sounds like an interesting novel, Alindarka’s Children by Alhierd Bacharevič, translated from the Belarusian by Jim Dingley and Petra Reid:

[…] The newest addition to this literature in English is Alindarka’s Children, a dark fantasy by one of Belarus’s most original contemporary writers, Alhierd Bacharevič. It opens with a scene that is simultaneously idyllic and menacing. Two children, a sister and brother, are frolicking in the woods and gorging themselves on bilberries. But a voice in the brother’s head, or coming from “the smooth swaying of pine trees,” or maybe from something in those tasty berries, warns him of danger. The girl’s name is Losya and the boy’s is Lochchik, which sounds almost like “aviator” in Belarusian. They have just been rescued by their father and his lover, Katsya, from a prison-like institution called the Camp, in which the obsessive Doctor tries to cure children of what he considers a speech defect called Mova that prevents them from properly pronouncing the sounds of the official language, Yazyk. Since yazyk and mova mean “language” in Russian and Belarusian, respectively, we can guess that Yazyk stands for Russian and Mova for Belarusian, and the task of the Camp is to brainwash young Belarusians into forgetting their native tongue and their national identity. […]

Losya and Lochchik’s reluctance to embrace their regained freedom may also have something to do with the fact that the father had been conducting a linguistic-pedagogical experiment of his own. Religiously devoted to Mova, he seems to be trying to raise Losya as the first true native speaker. Since her infancy, he had forbidden her to utter a word in Yazyk, and everyone at school thought she was mute. For the father’s nosy neighbors and for a young, attractive school psychologist, this amounted to mistreatment. The psychologist had seen Losya’s scribblings in Mova and was sure the girl feared and despised her father. […]

The children’s predicament brings us to the core of what can be called the Belarusian dilemma. The country, in a constant drift between cultures, languages, and identities, suffers from a case of invisibility. Its peculiar history makes it particularly hard for outsiders—and a good many Belarusians—to decipher. Its territory, initially home to a constellation of East Slavic tribes, had by the thirteenth century been absorbed into the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, which in 1385 united with the Roman Catholic Kingdom of Poland. After the dual Polish–Lithuanian state was partitioned at the end of the eighteenth century by Russia, Prussia, and Austria, the former Grand Duchy fell to Moscow. Between the two world wars part of the Belarusian lands fell under Polish control, with the rest eventually becoming the Byelorussian Soviet Socialist Republic. After both parts were “liberated” from the Germans during World War II, the formerly Polish-controlled lands were incorporated into Soviet Belarus; the Soviet Union’s collapse in 1991 led to the creation of the Republic of Belarus. […]

Alindarka’s Children was published in Belarus in 2014. Alindarka is not a character in Bacharevič’s novel but the protagonist of a nineteenth-century poem, “Things Will Be Bad” by Frańcišak Bahuševič, considered the father of Belarusian literature. In the poem—which Bacharevič weaves through his book—Alindarka is a poor, illiterate Belarusian peasant whose non-name (alindarka is a corruption of z kalindarka, “from the calendar”) and unclear legal status (he is an “undocumented” orphan) are the cause of endless troubles and eventually land him in a Russian jail. The characters in Bacharevič’s novel, it seems, and perhaps all Belarusians, are his symbolic descendants.

But what leads me to post is this discussion of the translation:
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Jonathan Morse sent me a TLS review by Ellen Jones of Ää: Manifiestos sobre la diversidad lingüística by Yásnaya Elena A. Gil. It begins:

Ää is a collection of essays in defence of indigenous languages, multilingualism and cultural plurality, written by a member of the Mixe community of the Sierra Norte of Oaxaca, Mexico. Yásnaya Elena A. Gil is a linguist and indigenous activist known for forging dialogues between communities, for excavating layers of racial and gender oppression and critiquing the effects of neoliberalism in Mexico. Here she writes in her second language, Spanish, which she began to learn aged about six, having until that point spoken only Mixe (known to speakers as Ayuujk). Hers is an unlaboured Spanish, suitable for recounting conversations with her monolingual, Mixe-speaking grandmother, as well as for doling out practical advice on how to stem the tide of linguicide (stay informed and spread the word, she insists: make sure you know, for instance, the difference between a language and a dialect, and which indigenous nations’ territory is split between multiple states).

Jones spends almost half the review complaining that the author doesn’t “interrogate the concepts ‘mother tongue’ and ‘native language,’” which seems churlish considering this may be the only English-language review the book will get. She does not, however, explain what most concerned me: what the devil does “ää” mean? I will spare you the trail I took through the Google Labyrinth, but I finally came out with the answer, courtesy of Rodrigo Romero-Méndez’s dissertation A Reference Grammar of Ayutla Mixe (Tukyo’m Ayuujk), whose Acknowledgements include: “Special thanks go to Yásnaya Elena Aguilar Gil, a dear friend and colleague, who convinced me to work on a Mixe language (instead of a Zoque language) and particularly in her own community, Ayutla Mixes.” On page 242 we find this example of the adposition mëët ‘associative’:

ës tsuj ää ayuujk mëët
and beautiful mouth word with
‘with good speech’

So there we have it: ää is ‘mouth’ (and ä, according to §2.3, Table 2, p. 27, is a low back vowel). For more about the Mixe languages, see Wikipedia; you can see a three-minute clip of René González Pizarro speaking his dialect of Mixe here (make sure to turn on the closed captioning). That page includes a discussion of his rhetorical style, beginning:

What the English translation doesn’t capture, however, are the poetic qualities of René’s speech. Take the second line, for example: ja’ tu’uk aa mäjtsk aa nkajpxa’any nyaka’any translated as ‘I’m going to share a few words.’ This sentence demonstrates nicely two features that typify eloquent Mixe. (Both of these features are also characteristic of skillful speech across Mesoamerica.)

Note that there the word for ‘mouth’ is written aa, not ää; dialect difference? (Thanks, Jonathan!)

Update (Nov. 2024). Ellen Jones (the reviewer above) has now translated the book as This Mouth Is Mine; it’s reviewed in the TLS (November 22, 2024) by Patrick Graney. The review begins:

Ellen Jones reviewed Yásnaya Elena Aguilar Gil’s ÄÄ for the TLS in 2021 (In Brief, April 23). She has now translated it from Spanish into English as This Mouth Is Mine. In this collection of articles written mainly between 2011 and 2015, Aguilar Gil, a veteran activist and native speaker of Mixe, asserts the linguistic rights of Indigenous Mexicans. Jones thoughtfully admits that by translating the book, she is contributing to the “overwhelming excess of English in the global written landscape”; precisely the colonial linguistic dynamic bemoaned by Aguilar Gil in the case of Spanish. Yet there is no doubt that she has succeeded in rendering Aguilar Gil’s lively and urgent tone, and in conveying her close readings of language carefully. Given Unesco’s estimate that half of the languages spoken today will be extinct within 100 years, it surely makes sense to introduce this work and its accompanying debates to the anglosphere.

In 1820, 65 per cent of Mexicans spoke indigenous languages; by 2019 the figure was 6.5 per cent. Aguilar Gil argues that the Mexican state has actively oppressed Indigenous communities through policies such as the imposition of the Spanish language and expropriation of ancestral lands. She is sceptical about more recent efforts to protect minority languages – complaining that the government has “lacked strategy” – but optimistic that the new president, Claudia Sheinbaum, will do better. As the author notes wryly, the government must not lose heart; after all, its Hispanicization policy from the 16th century onwards was “crazy successful”.

In the current context, speaking an Indigenous language is itself an act of resistance: “every time we debate in Zapotec, Mayo or Maya, we escape state-manipulated, state-controlled discourses”. Politicians have given speeches to Congress in Indigenous languages – in particular in Nahuatl, first spoken by the Aztecs and Toltecs in the seventh century – but debating in them is rare. Aguilar Gil takes aim at everyday prejudices, from easy slurs such as “Indigenous languages have no grammar” to the lack of state resources in these languages. As she denounces land disputes with corporations and water shortages in her own community, it is clear that she sees the death of Indigenous languages as merely part of the colonial statist project.

Yet it is not only nationalists but also progressives who pose a threat. […]

Back in 2003, I posted about a site (still extant) called Chinese Poems. I was perhaps more enthusiastic than was strictly called for (“I won’t say it’s impossible to imagine a better Chinese poetry site, because the human imagination is limitless”); for one thing, it’s all images, so you can’t copy-and-paste anything, and for another, the selection is quite limited. I’ve now discovered a much more comprehensive site, Китайская поэзия, which has lots and lots of poems in characters and Russian translation; obviously it’s not much help if you don’t read Russian, but if you do, it’s a treasure.

Unrelated, but I recently had occasion to look up the Russian word марафет ‘the outer appearance of orderliness’ (also slang for cocaine), and I was struck by the etymology:

From Ottoman Turkish معرفت‎ (maʼrifet, “knowledge; connaissance, adroitness; skill, trick; method, means”), from Arabic مَعْرِفَة‎ (maʿrifa, “knowledge”). The central phrase for the meaning development is навести́ (navestí) / наводи́ть (navodítʹ) марафе́т, which was first applied by criminals to mean distancing oneself from the crime scene or putting forward an alibi, so as not to appear responsible. The sense “cocaine” comes from the effects of the drug when satisfying an addiction.

And if you go back to Arabic مَعْرِفَة‎ you find a list of descendants with such varied meanings as ‘trick, ruse, device, artifice’ and (in Greek) ‘widget, doodad, thingummy, thingy; gizmo, contraption.’ Наука умеет много гитик!

Dave Wilton of Wordorigins.org investigates the origins of nerd; there are no firm answers, but it’s fun to see the various theories:

A nerd is a socially inept, often highly intelligent—particularly within a narrow technical field— and otherwise thoroughly conventional person. The slang term makes its appearance in the United States during the early 1950s, but its origin is otherwise mysterious. We simply don’t know where it comes from.

The earliest known use in print is from an article on teen slang in the weekly (physical/paper) news magazine Newsweek from 8 October 1951:

Nerds and Scurves: In Detroit, someone who once would be called a drip or a square is now, regrettably, a nerd, or in a less severe case, a scurve.

[…] Another early appearance is in a cartoon in Collier’s magazine from 2 February 1952. In the cartoon by John Norment, a radio announcer uses nerd in advertising copy for teen clothing:

You’ll get a large charge from Hoffman’s Teen-Age Clothes. So get on the stick with these real fat, real cool, really crazy clothes. Don’t be a Party-Pooper or a nerd. Yes, everybody is bashing ears about Hoffman’s Teen-Age Clothes. They’re Frampton. They’re pash-pie. They’re Most! […] The geetafrate is reasonable and we’ll make it Chili for you. Remember, don’t be an odd ball. The name is Hoffman’s Teen-Age Clothes.

We don’t know where nerd comes from, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t hypotheses and speculations about its origin. One of the more plausible, but still probably wrong, ones is that nerd appears as a nonsense name for a strange creature in the 1950 children’s book If I Ran the Zoo by Dr. Seuss (Theodore Geisel). The idea is that this nonsense word wormed its way into teen-age consciousness and was assigned its present meaning there. […]

But this hypothesis is questionable at best. Suess’s nerd has no semantic connection to the slang term. And given that the first print use is in the thoroughly conventional Newsweek a year later, it is likely that nerd had already been in oral use by teens for several years when Suess published this book. It is more likely that Seuss picked a word that he had heard the slang word in use and unconsciously registered it rather than that teens acquired it from his book—a book that most teens in 1950 hadn’t read as it was intended for much younger children. And even more likely is that Seuss’s use of nerd is entirely coincidental.

There are images and further hypotheses at the link; I particularly recommend reading the entire caption for the Norment cartoon which Dave excerpts. It’s pash-pie!

Cathy Kearney’s CBC News story about crow behavior is interesting in other respects, but its LH relevance is in the word “anting”:

To experts, anting is something of a mysterious behaviour where birds rub insects, usually ants, on their feathers and skin. Some birds will sit still on an anthill and patiently allow the creatures to crawl freely through their feathers. At other times, they have been seen to pick the ants up with their beaks and rub themselves with the tiny insects. Sensing a threat, the ants shoot a spray of formic acid from their abdomens or anal glands, which is absorbed into the bird’s body and acts as a natural insecticide.

I love the English language’s relentless verbing, but I never would have thought of “ant” as a candidate. The OED has an anting entry:

The action of birds in rubbing on their plumage ants or other insects that secrete acrid juices; also, a similar action of birds with various other objects (see quot. 1959 for ant vb. at Derivatives).

1936 Jrnl. Bombay Nat. Hist. Soc. 38 631 Dr. Stresemann suggests the use of a special term for this ‘rubbing in’ process..which may be translated into English..as ‘anting’,—e.g. a bird ants itself or its feathers, even when objects other than ants..are used in the process.
1944 Ibis July 404 Some birds..practise ‘anting’ more or less consistently, while others of related species do not ‘ant’ at all.

Derivatives

ant v. [as a back-formation] (trans. and intr.) to act in this way.
1944 [see main sense].

1959 Observer 1 Mar. 19/4 Starlings and rooks will ‘ant’, without ants, on smoking chimney-pots. Tame birds will ant with matches or cigarette ends.

The etymology is “< ant n.¹ + -ing suffix¹, after German einemsen (E. Stresemann 1935, in Ornith. Monatsber. XLIII. 138).” I wonder how other languages express the concept?

The National Library of Israel has digitized and put online its Kafka holdings (scroll down to see categories):

In 1921 and 1922, Kafka wrote two notes to Brod asking that all his manuscripts, paintings and letters be destroyed after his death. In defiance of this clear directive, from June 1924 Brod collected all of the materials from the various locations, examined them and began to publish what Kafka had stored away during his lifetime. The three unfinished novels The Trial, America ​​and The Castle are among the most well-known of these works. Brod took all of Kafka’s writings with him when he left his native Czechoslovakia for Mandatory Palestine in March 1939, just hours before the Nazis invaded the country. In the early 1960s, he returned most of them to Kafka’s heirs.

These materials are preserved today in the Bodleian Library at Oxford, while hundreds of letters, a number of short manuscripts and even many of Kafka’s drawings remained in Brod’s possession, comprising a significant part of Kafka’s literary legacy. Between 2016 and 2019, Brod’s own extensive personal archive, along with Kafka’s items, was deposited in the National Library of Israel. A number of other original items of Kafka’s, including notebooks in which he practiced his Hebrew, are also preserved today at the National Library, and together these materials represent the third largest collection in the world of the great writer’s original material.

As an example, here are manuscript pages from The Castle. Another win for the internet!

In other literary news, Alison Flood reports for the Guardian: Authors to earn royalties on secondhand books for first time.

Oh, and if there’s a short (under 125 pages) piece of nineteenth-century Russian prose that you wish were available in English, let Erik McDonald know in the next week or so.

I’ve written about Nikolai Leskov frequently (e.g. The Sealed Angel, The Enchanted Wanderer), and now I’ve read the last of his major works, Заячий ремиз, written in 1894 but not published until 1917. Leskov sent it around to journals with a cover letter saying it dealt with some touchy issues but they were well disguised by madness and Ukrainian hijinks so it should pass the censors, but the 1890s were one of the more repressive periods in tsarist Russia, so nobody was willing to try to print it, and it languished in his drawer. Finally, over two decades after his death and after the February Revolution removed essentially all censorship, the magazine Niva published it in its September 16 issue. (Happily, that volume is online, and you can see the story’s original publication here.) You will notice I haven’t translated the title, and there’s a reason for that: it’s essentially untranslatable, because nobody knows what it means. It’s been translated as The Hare Park, The March Hare, The Rabbit Warren, and even The Rabbit Carriage, although ремиз does not mean ‘carriage’ in any variety of Russian (it normally means a penalty in a card game, but it can also mean ‘a place where wild animals live and breed’), so that seems to me a particularly silly suggestion, despite the arguments in its favor by Sperrle — see my discussion with Erik McDonald of XIX век here. As I wrote at the end of that thread:

You know, actually I think using “Remise” is brilliant — it restores the sense of mystery and avoids having to pin down the sense of the word. If I didn’t believe in entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem (does the world really need yet another title for a fairly obscure Leskov story?), I’d go for it in a heartbeat. I might even overcome my purist urges regarding “rabbit” vs. “hare” because “The Rabbit Remise” sounds so great.

(There is a rare English remise meaning ‘coach house’; see this LH post.) Leskov had originally used the title for a different story, so there needn’t be any close connection with this one — he said he wanted something “sharp but unintelligible” (“то резким, то как будто мало понятным”). As for the plot, I’ll let Prince Mirsky describe it:
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