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Back in 2005 I mentioned the private language of Maurice Baring and his family, which “in the course of two generations […] had developed a vocabulary of surprising range and subtlety”; now, thanks to Laudator Temporis Acti, I can provide an example, though it’s not clear to me if these words are from the general family language, “The Expressions,” or from a childish offshoot thereof (the quote is from Baring’s 1923 The Puppet Show of Memory):

We, of course, shared the night nursery, and we soon invented games together, some of which were distracting, not to say maddening, to grown-up people. One was an imaginary language in which even the word “Yes” was a trisyllable, namely: “Sheepartee,” and the word for “No” was even longer and more complicated, namely: “Quiliquinino.” We used to talk this language, which was called “Sheepartee,” and which consisted of unmitigated gibberish, for hours in the nursery, till Hilly, Grace, and Annie could bear it no longer, and Everard came up one evening and told us the language must stop or we should be whipped.

1) Dmitry Pruss sent me a link to The Speakers of Indo-European and their World: With interesting abstracts from most likely upcoming publications, which features “On the Evidence for the Tocharian Second Hypothesis,” “The Indo-European origins of Persephone and the Albanian goddess Premtë,” “Towards New Stories: Bringing Archaeological and Archaeogenetic Information Together to Reconstruct Migrations from the Steppe to Southeastern and Central Europe,” “Proto-Indo-Iranian and Proto-Iranian: Different Worlds?” and “Shining in the distance – PIE colour terms revisited.”

2) Slavomír Čéplö (bulbul) posted on Facebook a link to Code-switching and code-mixing in the conditions of Slavic-Slavic language contact: Vershina – a unique Polish language island in Siberia, by Michał Głuszkowski (open access).

If any of that seems interesting, click on through!

I was reading a New Yorker piece in which “tasseography” was used as if it were a perfectly normal word (no explanation provided); having never seen it before, I doubted that, and did some research. The Wikipedia article begins:

Tasseography (also known as tasseomancy, tassology, or tasseology) is a divination or fortune-telling method that interprets patterns in tea leaves, coffee grounds, or wine sediments.

The terms derive from the French word tasse (cup), which in turn derives from the Arabic loan-word into French tassa, and the respective Greek suffixes -graph (writing), -mancy (divination), and -logy (study of).

OK, in the first place, it’s an ill-formed word: -graphy/-mancy words need Greco-Latin bases, not modern French ones. In the second place, I can’t trace it back beyond the 1970s, which of course isn’t to say it doesn’t occur before then — to have a real idea about that, I’d need to consult an OED entry, but there isn’t one, which is another nail in the coffin. No, I don’t like this alleged word. Why not just say “tea-leaf reading” and “reading coffee grounds,” as our revered ancestors did?

Furthermore, “the Arabic loan-word into French tassa” is a bizarre little handwave at an etymology; Wiktionary tells us:

From Arabic طَاس (ṭās) (a shortening of طَسْت (ṭast)), from Middle Persian tšt’ (tašt), ultimately from the past participle of the Proto-Iranian verb *taš- (“to make, construct; to cut”), from Proto-Indo-Iranian *tā́ćšti, from Proto-Indo-European *tḗtḱ-ti ~ *tétḱ-n̥ti, from *tetḱ- (“to create”).

Much more interesting, if true!

Eleanor Pringle in Fortune writes about Jodie Foster’s annoyance with millennials; after the standard complaints (“They’re like, ‘Nah, I’m not feeling it today, I’m gonna come in at 10:30 a.m.’”), she turns to language:

However Foster was also critical of Gen Z’s attitude at work, saying: “Or, like, in emails, I’ll tell them, ‘This is all grammatically incorrect. Did you not check your spelling?’ And they’re like, ‘Why would I do that, isn’t that kind of limiting?’”

Again Foster may be picking up on a wider generational shift being observed by scholars. On Medium, linguistics professor Matthew Veras Barros wrote, “A common misconception about language is the idea that kids, these days, are ruining English or ‘dumbing it down.’” He added: “Gen Z is indeed changing English, but it is also very much a misconception that this constitutes a degradation or ruination of the language. Throughout history, it has always been the younger generations that drive language change, and then grow old enough to complain about kids in their own time.”

On top of that, Foster might also be witnessing friction with younger peers on account of the medium itself: email. Gen Z simply doesn’t email said Thierry Delaporte, CEO of IT firm Wipro, at Davos last year: “They’re 25—they don’t care. They don’t go on their emails, they go on Snapchat; they go on all these things.” Instead Delaporte uses Instagram and LinkedIn to speak to staff.

In September last year a study from Barclays also found Gen Z are almost twice as likely (49%) to utilize work instant-messaging platforms as those over 55 (27%), with 97% of respondents between ages 18 and 24 saying they want to show off their personality through office interactions.

I’m glad I’m no longer in the workplace, because I would be strongly tempted to make similar complaints, and I really don’t want to be Grandpa Simpson. At any rate, the stats are interesting, though I personally am not sure what “show off their personality through office interactions” means. (Thanks, cuchuflete!)

A stern statement by Macrobius (Saturnalia 5.14-15) on what it takes to appreciate Vergil:

Has it been proved to you that Vergil cannot be understood by someone who is ignorant of the sound of Latin and is equally distant to one who has not drunk Greek learning deep with the fullest thirst? If I did not fear making you antsy, I could fill huge volumes with the material he translated from the most obscure Greek teachings. But these assertions are enough to support the thesis I have proposed.

probatumne vobis est Vergilium, ut ab eo intellegi non potest qui sonum Latinae vocis ignorat, ita nec ab eo posse qui Graecam non hauserit extrema satietate doctrinam? nam si fastidium facere non timerem, ingentia poteram volumina de his quae a penitissima Graecorum doctrina transtulisset implere: sed ad fidem rei propositae relata sufficient.

Yes, “these assertions are enough to support the thesis I have proposed” would get him an F in a logic class. But he’s right — you can’t appreciate great poetry without the necessary background, although you can enjoy some pleasant sounds and noble thoughts. (Also, I like “make you antsy” for fastidium facere.)

Andrew Coletti writes for Gastro Obscura about Why Italy Fell Out of Love With Cilantro; the culinary history is interesting (in a nutshell, “when a distinct Italian culinary identity emerged with the unification of the modern nation in the 19th century, long-abandoned coriander was not revived, but left behind”), but what brings it to LH are these passages:

Native to Europe, Asia, and North Africa, coriander has a long and widespread history of human cultivation. Latin coriandrum, the source of many modern names for the plant, was borrowed from the Ancient Greek koriandron or koriadnon. The Romans developed a taste for the ingredient through the extensive Greek influence on their cuisine.
[…]

Coriander leaf was already mostly absent from Italian cuisine by the Renaissance, but the seeds continued to be used as a spice. They were also coated in sugar to make confetti, or “comfits” in English. These were chewed at banquets as an after-dinner mouth freshener and digestive, similar to mukhwas, the mixture of sweetened whole spices chewed in South Asia today for the same purpose. At festive celebrations, coriander comfits were thrown and scattered, giving rise to the English word “confetti” for the paper particles that later replaced them. In modern Italy, paper confetti is still called coriandoli, meaning “coriander seeds,” while confetti usually refers to a different kind of comfit, the sugared almonds given out at weddings and communions.

I had no idea about the origin of confetti! (That last link goes to Italian False Friends by Ronnie Ferguson, which looks like a useful book; we discussed coriander/cilantro back in 2004.)

This is another of those questions so niche I can’t even believe I’m asking it, but Hatters have come up with some pretty recherché answers before, so here goes. I was looking up the credits for Raymond Pellegrin (who’s in Le deuxième souffle, which I recently watched as part of my Melville mania) when I noticed a weird entry: “Dtàt lìam pét (1971).” Of course I had to find out more, so I googled it and discovered it’s a Thailand/Hong Kong coproduction also known as H-Bomb and Scramble Operation Alpha. (Christopher Mitchum’s Wikipedia page, which IDs it as H-Bomb, also says 1971, but IMDb says it’s from 1976 and this site says 1977!) I think the title Dtàt lìam pét is Thai, but I have no idea what it means and no way of finding out, since that transliteration only gets me the movie and I don’t have it in the Thai alphabet. And Thai Wikipedia (Google translate) calls it “Diamond cut” (and says it’s from 1975)! I don’t expect anyone to be able to clarify the dating, but if anyone knows Thai and can tell me what the title actually means, I’ll be grateful.

I was reading Blake Morrison’s LRB review (archived) of a couple of books by recent Nobelist Jon Fosse when I noticed that his translator, Damion Searls, renders the name of the Norwegian city Bergen as Bjørgvin, presumably reproducing the form in the original text. The Wikipedia article explains:

The Old Norse forms of the name were Bergvin [ˈberɡˌwin] and Bjǫrgvin [ˈbjɔrɡˌwin] (and in Icelandic and Faroese the city is still called Björgvin). The first element is berg (n.) or bjǫrg (n.), which translates as ‘mountain(s)’. The last element is vin (f.), which means a new settlement where there used to be a pasture or meadow. […] In 1918, there was a campaign to reintroduce the Norse form Bjørgvin as the name of the city. This was turned down – but as a compromise, the name of the diocese was changed to Bjørgvin bispedømme.

(Why [w] for v in the Old Norse forms?) Oddly, there are both a Bjørgvin Prison and a Bergen Prison, right next to each other. This passage from the review is of Hattic interest:

Fosse writes in New Norwegian, Nynorsk, one of Norway’s two written forms (Bokmål is the other), most common in western Norway. The fidelity of Damion Searls’s translation is impossible for an outsider to judge but it reads very fluently; it seems Searls is to Fosse what Anthea Bell was to W.G. Sebald, the best possible intermediary. There’s such carry in the prose that you quickly stop noticing the lack of full stops, though if you pause to examine the resources Fosse uses to move things along from one observation to the next it’s striking to see the alternatives he finds to the ever dependable ‘and’ and ‘but’. On one page I counted ‘I think’ more than a dozen times and – perhaps with a nod to Molly Bloom – there’s many a ‘yes’, as in ‘yes, maybe yes, yes maybe it’s a distance, he thinks, and now he has to go pour himself a little drink’. Joyce had fun with sentencelessness and so more recently did Mike McCormack in Solar Bones and Lucy Ellmann in Ducks, Newburyport. But Fosse’s way with it is more inward and incantatory.

I’ve heard good things about Fosse, but eight hundred pages of “smallish print and narrow margins” with “no paragraphs or full stops” sounds daunting. Maybe in another lifetime.

Back in 2007 I noted the following development in lexicography:

It has long been a fixture of my mental furnishings that the longest entry in the OED was for the verb set. I don’t know how many times I’ve trotted out this bit of trivia, but I’ll have to try not to do it any more, because I learn from the Revisions page of the OED newsletter that it is no longer true, and has not been for some years: “For many years the verb to set has been cited as the longest entry in the OED. But a recheck shows that it has at last been toppled from this position. The longest entry in the revised matter is represented by the verb to make (published in June 2000).”

But that information has been rendered inoperative in its turn; David Crotty writes for The Scholarly Kitchen:

Pity the poor Oxford English Dictionary editor who was assigned to cover the word “run”. In the dictionary’s upcoming edition, run has some 645 use cases for the verb form alone, and its definitions run some 75 columns of type. According to Reader’s Digest, run alone took one lexicographer nine months of research to complete.

Interestingly, in the 1928 edition, the word with the most definitions was “set” (200 meanings and 32 pages). Perhaps the switch from set to run says something about changes in the pace of life over the last century.

There’s a video showing some of the varied uses of run. Thanks, Trevor!

Zahra Fatima reports for BBC News about the sort of contretemps that I can imagine myself falling victim to, should I ever take up a life of crime:

A would-be burglar in Rome was caught after stopping to read a book on Greek mythology in the middle of a robbery, Italian media report. The 38-year-old reportedly gained access to a flat in the Italian capital’s Prati district via the balcony but became distracted after picking up a book about Homer’s Iliad on a bedside table.

The 71-year-old homeowner is said to have awoken and confronted the alleged thief, who was engrossed in the book. News of the failed robbery attracted the attention of the book’s author, who told local media he wanted to send the man a copy so he could “finish” his read. […]

Giovanni Nucci, the author of The Gods at Six O’Clock, which explains the Iliad from the perspective of the gods, told Il Messaggero: “It’s fantastic.”

“I’d like to find the person caught red-handed and give him the book, because he’ll have been arrested halfway through reading it. I’d like him to be able to finish it. It’s a surreal story, but also full of humanity.”

Thanks, Bonnie!