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I had occasion to consult the Russian Wikipedia page for Lake Imandra (the stress is on the first syllable), and I was confused by the first sentence, which said it was “14-е в России по площади водного зеркала” [14th in Russia by surface of the water mirror]. I figured водное зеркало, literally ‘water mirror,’ must mean something else, and sure enough Wikipedia says “Водное зеркало — водная поверхность поверхностных открытых водоёмов или подземных ненапорных вод” [Water mirror — the water surface of open bodies of surface water or underground waters not under pressure (? — I am not a hydrographer)], which makes sense, though I don’t know why they wouldn’t just say “14-е в России по поверхности.” But! My large Russian-English dictionary defines водное зеркало as “water table,” which is entirely different (Wikipedia: “The water table is the upper surface of the zone of saturation”). Furthermore, the translations in Reverso Context use “water table.” That’s presumably not valid for the Imandra sentence, but the murky situation makes me itchy, and if anyone can clear it up I’ll be grateful. (Is водное зеркало a phrase most Russians are familiar with?)

Patrick Wang kindly offered to send me his new book, Nature’s Embrace: The Poetry of Ivan Bunin. I was thrilled by the very idea — I didn’t think anybody but me (and Russians, of course) appreciated Bunin’s poetry! — and said “sure,” and today the book arrived. It’s a very handsome blue paperback with over a hundred poems; I looked for one of my favorites, Спокойный взор, подобный взору лани, and there it was, pleasingly rendered as:

That peaceful gaze, the way a doe will gaze,
And all that I had loved in it so dearly,
I still had not forgotten in my grieving,
But nowadays your image is a haze.

And there will come a day—when grief will lessen,
When all the reminiscing fades to blue,
Where there is neither happiness nor gloom,
And there will only be forgiving distance.

And here’s a lovely bit from “Lucifer” [Люцифер]:

Here’s Eden, Lebanon. The dawn burns crimson.
The snowy peaks — like silk. On slopes the herds
Flow through the caves.

I wish more people would take time off from being economists and movie directors to translate Russian poetry!

I just finished one of the two great samizdat hits of 1970, Yuz Aleshkovsky‘s Николай Николаевич [Nikolai Nikolaevich]. It was passed around and eagerly copied by people with typewriters, even memorized and endlessly quoted; finally, in 1980, after the author emigrated to the US, it was published by Ardis (which rescued so much Russian literature from official oblivion). I had previously revered Aleshkovsky for his immortal song about the Gulag “Товарищ Сталин, вы большой ученый” (“Comrade Stalin, you are a great scholar”; the text is here, and you can read Boris Dralyuk’s lively translation, as well as hear Aleshkovsky sing it, here); of course, I was immediately grabbed by the second line, “В языкознаньи знаете Вы толк” [you know linguistics well]. I had wanted to read his famous first novel for a long time, but it’s a good thing I didn’t try back in the pre-internet days, because I wouldn’t have been able to make my way through its astonishing prose, so dense with idiom, slang, and profanity that even now I have to google something in every paragraph that you won’t find in dictionaries. Andrei Bitov wrote about it here; he describes the new language that arose after the Revolution, used by writers like Zoshchenko and Dobychin but driven underground by Stalin, who separated literature from the living language. He says Aleshkovsky used this living language first in his songs and then in the novel: “советский язык прошел свое литературное развитие от песни до рыцарского романа, и советская литература наконец родилась!” [the Soviet language passed through its literary development from song to chivalric romance, and Soviet literature at last was born!].

So what’s it about? The titular Nikolai, a young pickpocket who has done time and is now working the tram and trolley lines of Moscow, is warned by his aunt that Beria is raising the penalties drastically, so he’d better take up some other line of work. She gets him a job in a biological institute, where after he refuses to push brooms around he is given work as a sperm donor, and once the researcher who hired him, Kimza, realizes the superhuman power of his sperm he starts living the good life (he naturally demands an increase in pay and regular vodka rations). He also falls in love with the lab assistant Vlada; unfortunately, Kimza is also in love with her, and she is married to a third man. Then the Lysenkoists stage a coup, firing the director and destroying the experiments as anti-Soviet (they are accused of “Morganism,” which Nikolai thinks involves necrophilia in a morgue), and things look pretty dicey, but they turn out well after Stalin dies. It’s short and delightful, and there’s an English translation by Duffield White (available in Nikolai Nikolaevich and Camouflage: Two Novels) that the author was consulted on, so it should be reliable; if you have a TLS subscription or haven’t hit the paywall, you can read Dralyuk’s review here (“Joseph Brodsky once noted that Aleshkovsky had a Mozartian ear for the Russian language”).

A couple of random things I enjoyed: the международный урка [international hoodlum] who serves as a mentor to Nikolai is said to know “три языка […] и четыре ‘фени’: польский, немецкий и финляндский” [three languages and four criminal jargons: Polish, German, and Finnish], and at one point Nikolai masturbates while reading Далеко от Москвы (Far from Moscow), a well-known “production novel” from 1948 in which conflicts are artificial, “the most important technological ideas always occur to the various characters simultaneously,” and Gulag labor is presented as free workers’ heroic sacrifices for the building of communism. Also, I should warn the prospective reader that there is a new “upgrade” edition of the novel Aleshkovsky produced a few years ago that is apparently completely rewritten; I read the original, which is also the basis for the translation.

Next I’ll be reading the other great samizdat hit of 1970, a true classic of Russian literature, Venedikt Erofeev’s Moscow-Petushki. I first read it over two decades ago, and it bowled me over (as it does everyone); there was a lot that zipped right by me then, and I’m looking forward to re-experiencing it now that I have a lot more Russian and Russian literature under my belt (it’s full of literary allusions). The two books have a good bit in common, featuring a young man on the fringes of society madly in love and drinking heavily, but Aleshkovsky’s book is a comedy and Erofeev’s a tragedy (furthermore, as best I can remember, it doesn’t have any actual curse words in it, though a lot of cursing is implied). I plan to read it in tandem with the acclaimed new critical biography Венедикт Ерофеев: посторонний (Venedikt Erofeev: The outsider; see this post of Lizok’s), and I expect I will report on it when I’m done.

Again going through my unread-mail file, I discovered that years ago longtime LH commenter Paul Treuthardt sent me a link to A Middle English Vocabulary, Designed for use with Sisam’s Fourteenth Century by J. R. R. Tolkien, adding “This is the opening of his introductury Note (admirable, I think)”:

This glossary does not aim at completeness, and it is not primarily a glossary of rare or ‘hard’ words. A good working knowledge of Middle English depends less on the possession of an abstruse vocabulary than on familiarity with the ordinary machinery of expression — with the precise forms and meanings that common words may assume; with the uses of such innocent-looking little words as the prepositions of and for; with idiomatic phrases, some fresh-minted and some worn thin, but all likely to recur again and again in an age whose authors took no pains to avoid usual or hackneyed turns of expression. These are the features of the older language which an English reader is predisposed to pass over, satisfied with a half-recognition: and space seldom permits of their adequate treatment in a compendious general dictionary or the word-list to a single text. So in making a glossary for use with a book itself designed to be a preparation for the reading of complete texts, I have given exceptionally full treatment to what may rightly be called the backbone of the language.

Admirable indeed; alas, I have just discovered that Paul died in 2017. Hard to believe I’m just finding out; I miss him already.

A very kind LH reader sent me a copy of John Burnside’s The Music of Time: Poetry in the Twentieth Century (thanks, Michael!), and I’m slowly making my way through it — each chapter discusses one or two poets, and I enjoy taking a break after each to digest the poems and Burnside’s thoughts. At the moment I’m reading the chapter called “A Very Young Policeman Exploding,” about Hart Crane and Dylan Thomas (you can perhaps see it at Google Books; the title is from Thomas’s description of Crane’s his own early poems, “with their vehement beat-pounding black and green rhythms like those of a very young policeman exploding”). Crane is the first of the poets Burnside covers who is essentially alien to me; as a young man I tried to make my way into his work but gave it up on grounds of incomprehensibility, as I did with Jacques Derrida. Burnside makes an impassioned case for him that convinces me he was up to something real, but my little Doubleday Anchor Complete Poems may well go another decade or two without being opened again (I must have had it for half a century now). At any rate, the poem he focuses on is “The Wine Menagerie,” set in a bar (necessarily, in 1926, a speakeasy, as Burnside points out), and it begins:

Invariably when wine redeems the sight,
Narrowing the mustard scansions of the eyes,
A leopard ranging always in the brow
Asserts a vision in the slumbering gaze.

Then glozening decanters that reflect the street
Wear me in crescents on their bellies. Slow
Applause flows into liquid cynosures:
— I am conscripted to their shadows’ glow.

(Burnside says “‘Mustard scansions’? Did that mean something? Anything? In literal terms, I didn’t think so…”) Leaving the general phantasmagoria aside, what strikes me is the word, or alleged word, “glozening”; it appears to exist only here in the entire corpus of the English language. It seems to be Crane’s extension of the verb gloze “To minimize or underplay” or “To use flattery or cajolery,” originally the same word as gloss “brief explanatory note or translation” (from Greek glōssa ‘tongue, language’), but why? If your poetic vision insists on your using a phrase like “mustard scansions,” fine — at least we can try to make our own sense out of those violently juxtaposed concepts — but what’s the point of making up a word that just (as far as I can see) adds to the general sloppiness? Is it to suggest the drunk’s creative language use? All I can say is, it doesn’t work for me.

While I’m on the topic of the Burnside book, I’ll mention a couple of errors that are unimportant but that amused me. In the introduction he writes:

[…] poetry is a way of ordering experience, of giving a meaningful order to lived time – and that that process of ordering could be summed up in a phrase from the Old Irish, a phrase that is first found in a tale of the Fianna-Finn, who, during a break from hunting, begin to debate what might constitute ‘the finest music in the world’. […] Finally, they turn to their chief, Fionn, and ask him what he would choose, to which he replies: ‘The music of what happens … that is the finest music in the world.’

A lovely sentiment, but as soon as I read it I thought “that can’t possibly be Old Irish,” and sure enough it seems to have been composed by James Stephens in 1920. And earlier in the introduction he discusses Lev Gumilev and Anna Akhmatova, saying “Anna Akhmatova survived, but the regime punished her indirectly by persecuting her son with Gumilev, Lev Nikolayevich, who would spend the best part of eighteen years, off and on, in Stalin’s labour camps.” Understandably but hilariously, the index includes an entry “Nikolayevich, Lev, 3.”

Bathrobe sent me a link to How to Read Aloud, Irina Dumitrescu’s review (LRB, 10 September 2020; archived) of Voices and Books in the English Renaissance: A New History of Reading by Jennifer Richards and Learning Languages in Early Modern England by John Gallagher (both Oxford 2019), with the comment “Very interesting! Touches on several LH issues, including multilingualism, foreign language learning, and the virtues of reading out loud.” It sure is, and I hope you haven’t used up your free-article quota for the month (it was my last freebie) so you can read the whole thing [I’ve added an archived link above]. I’ll quote some particularly juicy bits, but it’s all good:

In the British Isles as in the rest of Europe, most instruction in other subjects took place in Latin. From the early Middle Ages into the Renaissance, skill in Latin was a marker of elite status, as it still is, but it was also of practical use for international travel and communication. It was taught using many of the same techniques employed for modern foreign languages today: singing, lively dialogues, reciting poetry, taking dictation and giving speeches. Pupils learned the language orally, in other words, as well as through grammar and the translation of set phrases. […]

It is easy to overlook how loud premodern education was. Most of our evidence for more than a thousand years of teaching consists of books, and, to the modern way of thinking, books are objects used silently. That this was not the usual way of doing things for much of Western history is now better known, though still difficult fully to understand. In a famous anecdote in the Confessions, Augustine describes seeing Ambrose of Milan reading on his own without making a sound. Ambrose was not the first person in history to read silently, but his quiet, private reading was unusual enough to make an impression. Augustine wondered whether Ambrose did it to preserve his voice or because someone might overhear him reading a difficult passage and ask him to explain it. Scholars have, in turn, asked why Augustine found Ambrose’s silent reading noteworthy: was it simply his ability to do it, or the peculiarity of his solitude?

What’s clear is that reading was, for most people, a fundamentally social act. […] Jennifer Richards’s excellent Voices and Books in the English Renaissance challenges the view of early modern books as objects for quiet use. She begins by noting how much scholarly work on Renaissance books focuses on traces associated with silent reading, especially the annotations readers used to help them absorb the material, to note parallel passages, or to mark their reactions to certain passages. Oral performance leaves no obvious marks behind. […] She encourages us to see the history of books in the early modern period differently by acknowledging the importance vocal work still has in our reading. […]

As their education progressed, pupils had to learn how to read books out loud. Richards shows how the choices early modern printers made in typesetting and punctuating books helped readers to speak them. Early modern educators, like their modern counterparts, had to deal with the peculiar challenges posed by English: confusing homonyms, plentiful loan words, and irrational spelling conventions. Edmund Coote helped readers of The English Schoole-Maister (1596) navigate difficult vocabulary by printing a list of tricky words at the end of the book. Loan words from Latin and Greek appeared in Roman type, French words were rendered in italics, and words of English origin in blackletter. […]

[Read more…]

Baseball expert Richard Hershberger made a Wordorigins post about the term “box score,” which “is something of a mystery”:

Baseball box scores date to the 1840s, modeled off cricket scores. The main difference is that a cricket match being at most two innings, it can have a full score for each innings, with the number of runs for each batsman and how he was put out. This was obviously impractical for baseball, so from the start the score was compressed, with the results of the innings combined into one column. But the modeling from cricket was clear.

So much for the artifact. The term doesn’t appear until the second half of the 1890s. Prior to that it was simply the “score.” Where did “box score” come from? Dickson’s Baseball Dictionary cites a Ph.D. dissertation from 1939 on baseball terminology, that claims it is derived “from the old newspaper custom of placing the data in a boxed-off section on the page.” I am unconvinced. […]

I asked what they called the score (Reds 3, Mets 0) when they called the box score a score, and I found his response interesting and unexpected enough to post here:

It goes back to cricket, as is typically the case with early baseball. The printed cricket score has separate sections for each innings, each listing how many runs each batsman scored and who put him out. It resembles a baseball box score, but with two of them. This is essentially identical to what the scorer recorded as it happened. This is not practical with baseball, with its nine innings. The scorer records each plate appearance in a nine-by-nine array, with rows for the nine players and columns for the nine innings. This would be a bit much to publish in the newspaper, even considering that the earliest scorers recorded only runs and outs. I have seen only one published example of this. From the start, the score had to be condensed. You might compress the rows, resulting in a line score with runs scored each inning. Or you might compress the columns, giving runs and outs for each player. Or you might compress both, reporting only the final score for each team. All three were common. The second option, reporting runs and outs for each player, was popular for important games, giving as it does the most information, as most closely resembling the cricket score. The first two compressions might even both be included for the really big games. But in all three cases, it was simply the “score.”

For years I’ve been looking forward to reading Yury Trifonov, and now that I’ve finally gotten to him, I find him even better than I expected. At the end of July I read his Обмен (The Exchange), the first of his famous “Moscow novels,” and now I’ve finished the second, Предварительные итоги (Preliminary results, tr. as Taking Stock, available in this collection); they’re both gripping stories of moral choices and fraying families, but the second has a language-related aspect, so it’s the one that drove me to make a post. Anyone who likes good novels should read both — they’re nice and short.

The novel is about a middle-aged hack translator, Gennady, who has fled Moscow for Turkmenia to get away from his wife Rita and son Kirill, with both of whom he is furious, and to earn some money by translating a long poem by his self-important acquaintance/patron Mansur, who seems to always come through when he needs a commission. In the process he thinks about his life, trying to come to some sort of conclusion, and this aspect seems to me to derive from two classic stories, Tolstoy’s Смерть Ивана Ильича (The Death of Ivan Ilich), in which a mediocre judge realizes he’s lived all wrong, and Chekhov’s Скучная история (A Boring Story; A Dreary Story; A Tedious Story), in which a famous medical professor, close to death, realizes his knowledge is useless to help himself or anyone else. (Apparently Trifonov originally intended for Gennady to die, but changed his mind as he was writing.) I suspect he’s influenced by Kataev’s memoir-novels as well, and it could also have links to Yuri Olesha’s Зависть (Envy; see this 2010 post), in which the woman several of the male characters struggle over is called Valya, like the young nurse Gennady reaches out to at the end. An interesting scholarly approach can be found in Andrew R. Durkin, Trifonov’s “Taking Stock”: The Role of Čexovian Subtext (Slavic and East European Journal 28.1 [Spring, 1984]: 32-41). At any rate, here’s my translation of a passage about his professional life (the Russian is here):

I’m translating an enormous poem by my friend Mansur, three thousand lines. It’s called “The Little Golden Bell.” As you might guess, Little Bell is the nickname of a girl; her fellow villagers called her that because of her clear, melodious voice. The poem will be published here [in Turkmenia], in Moscow, and in Minsk. I don’t know why Minsk — that’s his business. I’m doing it in a hurry; I need the money, and I have to leave here no later than the tenth of June. […] I’m doing as many as sixty lines a day, which is a lot. I don’t wait for inspiration: at eight in the morning I drink a bowl of last night’s tea kept in a thermos and sit at my desk till two, at two I have lunch in a lousy teahouse next to the post office, and from three till five or six I sit until my head hurts and I see specks in front of my eyes. But what can I do? Translating poems is my profession. I don’t know how to do anything else. I translate from an interlinear crib. For all practical purposes I can translate from all the languages of the world except for two which I have some knowledge of, German and English, for which I don’t have the heart, or maybe the conscience. I don’t have any need for fame; that’s come and gone (not fame, of course, but the need for it).

[…] A few days ago, having worked till I saw the black specks, I went to the teahouse […] and to cheer myself up drank two glasses of godawful Ashkhabad vodka. I drank with pleasure, but with some fear as well. And it acted on me in a strange way. It’s not so much that I got drunk — I’m sure my abstaining for so long had its effect — but my head worked with clarity, everything was normal except in one respect, as in the world of Kafka, where everything seems believable except for one particular circumstance: for instance, Samsa having turned into an insect. It seemed to me that the godawful Ashkhabad vodka standing on my desk was the interlinear crib whose amphibrachic tetrameters I had to translate into Russian, at which point it would become a bottle of Stolichnaya. That day I tossed off more than seventy lines.

I want to thank Alexander Anichkin, who comments as Sashura, for having urged on me some of the Russian authors it has given me most joy to read: Platonov, Kataev, the Strugatskys, and now Trifonov. I’m very much looking forward to the rest of the Moscow novels.

That wonderful Irish poet and link-provider Trevor Joyce (see this post from a few years back) has been providing links, and here are a couple you may enjoy.

1) William Costa on languages in Paraguay in the Guardian: “The Paraguayan Guaraní language is a rare regional success story. But its own popularity is a problem for smaller languages.”

2) Eddie Moroney doing sports commentary in a South Tipperary accent so thick you could do somersaults on it. What is goin’ on? At all?

Thanks, Trevor!

Renee Ghert-Zand writes for the Times of Israel about something I (a gentile who has been Judaism-adjacent all his life) had no idea of:

Kids in the Diaspora missed many things by not being able to attend Jewish sleep away camps this summer due to the COVID-19 pandemic. It’s been a rough couple of months not eating in the chadar ochel (dining hall), doing rikud (dance) and swimming in the breicha (pool). And of course, they missed polishing up their Hebrew.

However, a fascinating new book by a historian and two sociolinguists explodes the notion that campers and staff speak Hebrew at American Jewish camps. Instead, they become conversant in what Jonathan Krasner, Sarah Bunin Benor and Sharon Avni have coined “camp Hebraized English” (CHE), which is actually a rich register of Jewish American English. CHE includes both Jewish life words (such as Shabbat Shalom) and camp words (such as chadar ochel) — but it is not Hebrew.

To illustrate their point from the outset, the authors begin “Hebrew Infusion: Language and Community at American Jewish Summer Camps” by quoting a humorous bit performed by American-Israeli comedian and educator Benji Lovitt, who attended Young Judaea camps for many years. Lovitt, who made aliyah to Israel from Texas 14 years ago, jokes that the Hebrew he learned at Jewish summer camp consisted solely of nouns and set phrases, and as a result he couldn’t even string together a sentence. […]

Aside from a small number of hardcore Hebrew-language Zionist camps that operated in early- to mid-20th century, such as Camp Massad, established in 1941 in the Pocono Mountains, the vast majority of Jewish camps never intended to teach their campers to speak, read or write fluent Hebrew. In some cases, this was an ideological choice. In others, it was due to cultural, political, and economic exigencies.

From the mid-20th century onward, fewer and fewer Jewish American leaders — let alone lay people — were fluent Hebrew speakers, and camps reflected this reality. In order to attract staff and campers and keep their doors open, camps couldn’t restrict admissions to only those with strong Hebrew backgrounds.

Over time, almost all attempts at Hebrew immersion were replaced what Benor, Avni and Krasner term “Hebrew infusion.”

There’s much more at the link, including some great photos; frequent commenter D.O., who sent it to me, adds:

[This] got me thinking about “Moscow English”, a version of English language that was taught in the Soviet Union. It is pretty clear why English in the USSR was taught as if it were a dead language (though it was stupid nonetheless), it is less clear to me why American Jewish camps won’t hire a bunch of young Israelis to teach kids some real language. Anyway, it looks a bit like a language revival project for a language that is not in fact dead. Crazy! Do other expat communities teach their kids a canned language?

Good question!