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Dave Wilton of Wordorigins.org has a Strong Language post about a notable development in sweary singing:

It wouldn’t be the annual Eurovision Song Contest without some sort of controversy. Most years the controversy is political in nature. The 2025 contest was no different in this regard, but in addition to the usual political rhubarb, this year’s contest saw a dispute over a certain four-letter word in lyrics of one of the entries.

The song in question was Malta’s entry in the contest: “Serving,” originally titled “Kant,” performed by Maltese singer Miriana Conte and written by Conte, Benjamin “BNJI” Schmid, Sarah Evelyn Fuller, and Matthew “Muxu” Mercieca. The song was released in January 2025.

The chorus features the phrase “Serving kant,” and Dave explains:

Kant, the only Maltese word in the otherwise English-language song, means singing in Maltese, and the word is descended from the Latin cantus, meaning song. The aural similarity to the the English word cunt is obvious, and the phrase serving cunt is ball culture slang meaning to be simultaneously bold, confident, and feminine, a quality that Conte exudes in her performances. (Ball culture is an African-American and LatinX LGBTQ+ subculture with antecedents that date back to nineteenth-century drag balls.)

The song is an anthem of feminine power, and the pun is quite clearly intentional.

Sadly, Mrs. Grundy intervened:

After complaints from the BBC Radio, which by UK regulations could not broadcast the word cunt before 9 pm, the European Broadcasting Union (EBU) required the lyrics be changed. Conte reluctantly complied, changing the title of the song and replacing the lyric kant with aahh.

At any rate, I’m glad to have learned a pungent new phrase.

I ran across the surname Longstreeth in the newspaper and was curious as to whether it was the same as the familiar Longstreet. Looking it up in my trusty Словарь английских фамилий = A Dictionary of English Surnames (Moscow, 1986), I found that it was indeed, and it was part of a family of family names whose main entry was under Langstroth, with variants Langstreth, Longstreet, Longstreeth, and Longstreth; they all originate in the Yorkshire toponym Langstrothdale, which this site says “means ‘of the lang strother,’ in other words, ‘the long marsh.'” The OED’s ancient (1919) strother entry (northern. Obsolete.) says it’s of uncertain origin: “Apparently related to Old English stród marsh: compare the place-name Strood.” Wiktionary’s Proto-West Germanic/strōd entry says:

Etymology

Unknown. Suggested to be from Proto-Indo-European *sterh₃- (“to spread; strew”), compare Sanskrit प्रस्तर (prastara, “plain”).
[…]

Usage notes

The gender and noun-type is uncertain: Old English shows a neuter a-stem with possible relics of a z-stem (due to Middle English strother); while Old High German has a feminine i-stem, possibly from an original consonant-stem.

And it gives a bunch of descendants, including the placename Strood and the surnames Strother and Strothers; all the common nouns (Dutch stroet, German Strut) appear to be archaic. Thus an ancient word sinks into the swamp…

Laura Spinney, a British science journalist, has come out with a book called Proto: How One Ancient Language Went Global, about my former area of specialization, Proto-Indo-European. Not having seen it, I can’t say how accurate it is, but Laura Miller’s Slate review makes it sound like Spinney has been keeping up with recent developments, anyway:

It’s astonishing how much we’ve discovered about these languages that have gone unspoken and unheard for millennia. In the past two decades, new DNA analysis technologies, combined with archaeological advances and linguistics, have solved many mysteries surrounding the spread of the Proto-Indo-European (or PIE). For example, Anatolian, a now-extinct group of languages, was once thought to be the earliest offshoot of PIE, the first instance in which a new language split off from the mother tongue. But in recent years, genealogical analysis of human remains from the period shows no genetic connection between the people who spoke the Anatolian languages and the Yamnaya, a people of the Pontic–Caspian steppe region north of the Black Sea—now considered the source of PIE. The presiding theory now is that Anatolian isn’t the daughter of PIE, but its sister, with both being the products of an even more ancient lingua obscura. […]

Fortunately, Spinney is a stylish and erudite writer; it’s the rare science book that quotes Keats, Seamus Heaney, and Ismail Kadare. She also has a keen sense of the romance of her subject. Her vivid scene-setting takes us from the vast, grassy steppes where the nomadic Yamnaya grazed the livestock whose meat and milk made them exceptionally tall and strong to the perplexing Tocharian culture on the western border of China—whose capital was regarded by the Chinese as filled with “heavy-drinking, decadent barbarians,” famed for its dancing girls and “the flock of a thousand peacocks upon which its nobles liked to feast.” This latter culture—and not Sanskrit, as was long thought—may even be the source for the English word “shaman.”

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I recently ran across a reference to “Кошут” (Koshut) in a Russian text and realized it was very unlikely to refer to Lajos Kossuth, the usual referent; googling it took me to this disambiguation page, from which I learned that it can also refer to the conceptual artist Joseph Kosuth, which seems an unfair ambiguity because the latter’s name is pronounced (per Wikipedia) “/kəˈsuːt, -ˈsuːθ/” — i.e., kə-SOOT or kə-SOOTH, so that it should be Косут in Russian (either way, since Russian represents /θ/ as /t/). So consider this a public service message. But I’m also curious about the pronunciations of both names. In the first place, surely Joseph Kosuth says his name one way or the other — does anybody know? And in the second, Kossuth is [ˈkoʃut] in Hungarian but of course is routinely anglicized in English; my Webster’s New Biographical Dictionary gives \ˈkä-ˌsüth, kä-ˈ\ — i.e., KAH-sooth, kah-SOOTH, but I suspect that doesn’t exhaust the possibilities. How do you say it, and/or what version have you heard, if you and/or those around you have discussed the once-famous “nobleman, lawyer, journalist, politician, statesman and governor-president of the Kingdom of Hungary?”

John Guillory is famous (in certain circles) for his use of the concepts “cultural capital” and “social capital” to take whacks at literary scholars and their pretensions. God knows pretensions always need a good whack, but it makes me nervous when people emphasize sociopolitical concepts like that at the expense of the esthetic (which is always in danger, because it has no obvious utility). At any rate, Dan Sinykin has a good Nation review (archived) of Guillory’s new book On Close Reading:

“What is close reading?” a professor asked us on the first day of a seminar on modern American poetry. I could see that he was needling us, deflating our presumptions. We all pretended that we knew what close reading meant. We not only talked about it but we did it. We knew it when we saw it, and we knew when it was done badly—but what it was, in the end, we couldn’t exactly say. You might think it strange for literature students to be incapable of describing a core practice of their field, but we weren’t alone.

In his slim new volume, On Close Reading, John Guillory sets out to explain what close reading is and “why it has been so difficult to define” by way of a fascinating anthropology of reading that makes available new arguments in defense of the practice. At first glance, the book might appear to be an addendum to Guillory’s 40-plus-year project to clarify what literary study achieves—and, pointedly, what it doesn’t. But On Close Reading is more than that: It helps to clarify the stakes involved in reading to begin with, even if we might quarrel with its conclusions.

After a summary of Guillory’s earlier work, Sinykin continues:

On Close Reading, then, reads like a postscript, a bit that Guillory couldn’t fit into his previous book. But though it is slim, On Close Reading is not slight. In it, Guillory situates close reading in a wide historical, political, and sociological context. Exegetes and interpreters have “read closely”—which is not the same, he argues, as “closely read”—for millennia, from biblical commentators to the “philological and textual” critics of the Renaissance to hermeneuts in the German tradition of Schleiermacher and Gadamer to French practitioners of explication de texte. But in the early 20th century, groups of scholars in England and the United States sought to provide a newly rigorous basis for interpretation, changing how professionals in the Anglophone world read (and still read) today.

(Note that no Russians are mentioned, and a Google Books search shows that Guillory ignores the formalists and their immensely influential version of close reading, but that is, sadly, only to be expected in the Anglophone world of walled-off scholarship. But to continue…)
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Joel Christensen’s substack on the Iliad is, I think, the only substack I’ve subscribed to, and I found this post particularly interesting:

This summer, I am working through two recent books that I think will become standard reading for Homerists and Hellenists: Charles Stocking’s Homer’s Iliad and the Problem of Force (Oxford, 2023) and Chiara Bozzone’s Homer’s Living Language: Formularity, Dialect, and Creativity in Oral Traditional Poetry (Cambridge, 2024). […]

Stocking’s Homer’s Iliad and the Problem of Force starts out by invoking both Simone Weil’s articulation of “force” as the subject of the Iliad rending Homeric poetry–in Stocking’s words–“a transhistorical monument to the singularity of force, which transforms the human subject into an object” (2023, 1) and Bruno Snell’s analysis of different forms of force in his famous Die Entdeckung des Geistes (The Discovery of the Mind). Where Weil sets up “force” thematically as a central concern of the epic (and ignores that there are many ways to talk about it), Snell sees the varied expressions for ‘force’ in Homer (menos, bie, sthenos, kratos, alke, (w)is, dynamis etc) as evidence of an externalization of motivation and agency in Homeric characters. For Snell, according to Stocking, “the plurality of forces parallels [Snell’s] other observations on the plurality of sight and cognition….[which] are symptomatic of a “primitive” form of “self-consciousness” which is not yet capable of unifying “self-conscious thought…[playing] a critical role in Snell’s overall argument that “Homeric man” is incapable of understanding himself as a single, unified individual, neither in body nor mind” (2023, 3).

What Stocking is getting at in his introduction, is that Snell uses the multiple words for force and their applications in epic to argue that Homer depicts people as subject to a number of external powers in a fragmentary way that implies they are incapable of imagining themselves as singular wholes. This argument–connected to a rather particular mid-century, European model of human development that is radically out of step with modern physical anthropology, human cognition, and more, was extremely influential in the 20th century. The most egregious–and amusing–example of an author taking Snell very, very seriously is Julian Jaynes in his The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind (his use of Greek material is not good).

(Anybody who snarks about Julian Jaynes is a friend of mine!) He goes on to say:
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That fine poet and Hattic truffle-hunter Trevor Joyce sent me an image of “An ad from 1910, I gather,” adding:

Since you dealt with the chip hat recently, this caught my attention
in a FB group (Dublin in photos/memories past & present), and I’m
stopped short by the cluster of other terms. Putty is presumably just
a light greyish brown, and trimmed just means something hattish, but
the rest?

Alas, I don’t know how to share the image, but the text reads:

MILLINERY

Soft Flexible Chip, Trimmed Velvet. In all
 self colours and putty, and new burnt
  trimmed, all shades, 5/11

 MANSFIELD
  SISTERS
 THE RECOGNISED MILLINERS,
28 Wicklow Street.

Anybody know what that “self colours and putty, and new burnt” stuff means? (Amusingly, if you google “soft flexible chip” you get hits like “Professor George Malliaras, who worked on the soft, flexible chip from the University of Cambridge’s Department of Engineering…”)

I got another great word from Douchet’s Nouvelle Vague (see this post) — in Jean-Luc Godard’s knuckle-rapping 1958 review of Kubrick’s The Killing (“C’est le film d’un bon élève, sans plus”), he writes:

Et je ne citerais pas Ophuls, qui n’a rien à voir dans l’affaire, si Stanley Kubrick ne se réclamait de son influence par des agaçants mouvements d’appareil, tels que les aimait le metteur en scène du Plaisir. Mais ce qui chez Ophuls correspondait à une certaine vision du monde, chez Kubrick n’est qu’esbroufe gratuite.

I didn’t recall seeing the word esbroufe before; my big bilingual Larousse translates it as “bluff,” but that’s clearly inadequate, given Dictionnaires Le Robert’s definition “Étalage de manières prétentieuses et insolentes.” Wiktionary has “faff; jibber-jabber,” which is just silly, and doesn’t venture an etymology; Wiktionnaire says “(Familier) Manières fanfaronnes et bruyantes, hâbleries de gens qui veulent en imposer aux autres” and gives the etymology “De l’occitan provençal esbroufo / esbrofa (« s’ébrouer »). Lui-même de l’italien sbruffare (« asperger »).” That linked page on the Italian word calls it onomatopoeic, but I don’t believe it; the Dizionario Etimologico says it’s from Latin ex- + proflare, which may or may not be true, but at least they’re trying.

Oh, and right above esbroufe in that bilingual Larousse is esbigner, also a great word unknown to me; they render s’esbigner as “to skedaddle; to make ᴏᴜ to clear off,” and Wiktionnaire gives a bifurcated etymology:

De l’argot italien svignare (« décamper, sortir de la vigne ») de vigna mais « le passage de v à b fait cependant difficulté. »
Ou de l’occitan s’esbinhar (« se débiner, s’esquiver, s’évader, s’éclipser, décamper, détaler, déguerpir, prendre la fuite, s’enfuir, fuir; filer à l’anglaise; se dérober, se soustraire aux regards ») dérivé de binhar, avec le préfixe es- → voir ex- et bigner (« regarder »).

If only I thought I could remember these satisfying words!

I noticed that the Wikipedia article is under that spelling and thought that was very odd, since I’ve never seen it in English — Wiktionary has it under jujitsu and says:

Borrowed from Japanese 柔術 (jūjutsu). Popular spelling jitsu (instead of less popular jiutsu or jutsu) could reference to allophonic [d͡ʑɨ] or [d͡ʑi] (in Shitamachi dialect). First mentioned in The Japan Mail (1875, page 133), before the widespread use of the Hepburn system.

So that answered (more or less) my question about why we spell it with -jit-, but left me to wonder why Wikipedia used that bizarre spelling. Never fear, there was a long and contentious Talk page discussion about it back in 2010! It starts off with the following exchange:

Isn’t the spelling jujitsu more common in English as found on thefreedictionary?. Unless I get any opposing views soon, I intend to rename the article with this spelling.–Chrono1084 (talk) 16:20, 11 April 2010 (UTC)

No, “jujitsu” is a common misspelling, and is incorrect. Interestingly, this mistake is currently only really made by non-Japanese practitioners of jujutsu. The kanji for “jutsu” is the same one used by every Japanese martial art like iaijutsu, kenjutsu, ninjutsu, etc. Asymnation (talk) 16:20, 1 June 2010 (UTC)

The rest of the discussion consists of various people supporting one or the other of these opposed views; the first is obviously correct (jujutsu is not a standard English spelling, end of story), but there were so many aggrieved proponents of the “incorrect misspelling” view that the final resolution was:

Since there seems to be a majority of users who opposes the renaming, the actual title will be kept.–Chrono1084 (talk) 00:51, 11 July 2010 (UTC)

I’m just glad I don’t bother my head about Wikisquabbles any more — I could easily have gotten sucked in and lost my temper.

Robert Cioffi’s LRB review (8 May 2025; archived) of The Red Sea Scrolls: How Ancient Papyri Reveal the Secrets of the Pyramids by Pierre Tallet and Mark Lehner describes the excavations at Wadi al-Jarf:

Wadi el-Jarf​ lies two hundred kilometres south-east of Cairo on a pristine stretch of the Red Sea coast. It dates from the time of the pharaoh Sneferu, the father of Khufu, builder of the Great Pyramid of Giza, who used it as a staging post for expeditions to the Sinai Peninsula in search of turquoise and copper ore. For the past 4500 years, it has lain dormant. To the untrained eye, the port is hardly visible: deep galleries carved out of limestone bluffs, the low walls of a few comb-like structures, a sandy beach, the rocky remnants of an ancient jetty. But on 12 March 2013, a team of French and Egyptian archaeologists led by Pierre Tallet discovered six fragments of papyrus in a depression near the limestone cliffs five kilometres from the shore. Hundreds of thousands of texts written on papyrus have been discovered in Egypt – ritual and religious instructions for the afterlife, works of literature, bills, contracts, tax receipts, lawsuits and orders for grain – but none as old as these. Over the next month, Tallet’s team uncovered more than a thousand fragments of papyrus. They had found, almost by accident, a first-hand account of the men who built the Great Pyramid of Giza. […]

The most enduring mystery of the pyramids is the fact of their existence. There has been serious scholarly disagreement over the number of workers, their status and how they went about their monumental task. Herodotus, who stands roughly equidistant between Khufu’s time and ours, writes that Khufu ‘drove [the Egyptians] into complete misery’, with teams of a hundred thousand men compelled to haul stones for three months at a time. As Herodotus has it, workers first built a set of steps and then used levers to fill in the gaps and produce the pyramid’s smooth sides. Four hundred years later, Diodorus Siculus, a Sicilian who wrote in Greek, proposed that the stones were moved on earthen ramps, so that the pyramid seemed ‘not the slow labour of humanity, but a sudden creation of some god, set down in the surrounding sand’. The whole project, Diodorus and Herodotus agree, took twenty years. Archaeologists have found evidence – ranging from the remains of ramps to modern trials with levers and ropes – for techniques similar to those they describe, but both accounts, written two thousand years after the fact, leave much to be desired.

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