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An interesting tidbit at Nathan Hopson’s LLog post:

I recently received the following delightful question from Hilary Smith (University of Denver) about the origins of the term for protein in Chinese (dànbáizhì) and Japanese (tanpakushitsu). […] The hanzi/kanji used are identical (蛋白質), though in written Japanese the term is often タンパク質 or たんぱく質 because the 蛋 character is not one of the “regular use” kanji (常用漢字 jōyō kanji) selected by the officially announced by the Japanese education ministry for mastery during compulsory education.

Hilary wrote that she had circumstantial evidence from some extant texts that, like a lot of other technical vocabulary, this word was coined in Japan to translate a European term in the late nineteenth or early twentieth century. That language, she suspected, was German. In German, the word is Eiweiß, which breaks down to Ei (egg) weiß (white). This is a perfect match for the Sino-Japanese term’s first two characters; the third means “stuff” or “substance.”

Hilary asked if I could confirm the German origin and comment on the date of coinage in Japanese. […] The standard answer to the origins of 蛋白質 in Japanese is provided by the Nihongo daijiten (“Great Japanese Dictionary” 日本国語大辞典), last edited in 1995. The dictionary cites Shiba Ryōkai’s (司馬凌海 1839-1879) 1862 七新藥 (Shichi shin’yaku, “Seven new medicines”) as the oldest extant use of the term 蛋白質. […]

In digging just a little further I came across an article by Shiba Tetsuo (芝哲夫) that uncovers evidence of the term used a year earlier, in 1861, by Kawakami Kōmin (川本幸民 1810-1871). Kawakami was the translator to Japanese of Julius Adolph Stöckhardt’s (1809-1886) Die Schule der Chemie (“School of Chemistry”), a highly influential text first published in 1846. It went through over twenty editions and was widely translated. Thus far, the German origins hypothesis for 蛋白質 was holding up well, though the date of origin was pushed back far beyond not just the texts Hilary had access to, but even a year past its canonical coinage.

However, Kawakami was not working directly from German. Japan had centuries of skill and knowledge working from Dutch texts (via Rangaku 蘭学, or “Dutch learning”), and Kawakami was a veteran scholar of the Dutch learning. He therefore turned to an existing Dutch expanded translation by Jan Willem Gunning, De scheikunde van het onbewerktuigde en bewerktuigde rijk: bevattelijk voorgesteld en met eenvoudige proeven opgehelderd: derde Nederduitsche uitgave van Stöckhardt’s Schule der chemie (“The chemistry of the organized and unorganized kingdom… 3rd. ed. of Stöckhardt’s Die Schule der Chemie”). Kawakami’s multi-volume translation was published as 化学新書 (Kagaku shinsho, “New book of chemistry”). Therein, he used the term 蛋白質 to translate the Dutch “eiwit,” which is structurally identical to the German Eiweiß.

That Rangaku link was eye-opening; I hadn’t realized that the Japanese, like the Russians, borrowed so much from Dutch (though of course it’s not at all surprising when you think of the history of Western contacts with Japan). And it’s very satisfying to me to see examples of the benefits of dogged research; to quote Robert Caro’s Newsday boss Alan Hathway: “Just remember one thing: Turn every page. Never assume anything. Turn every goddamn page.”

Margaret Talbot has a New Yorker review (archived) of Susannah Gibson’s “intelligent and engrossing” new book, The Bluestockings: A History of the First Women’s Movement; the origin of the term is explained in this section:

The Bluestockings might be best known today, if they’re known at all, as conveners of salons, as hostesses who created the ideal conditions, often in sumptuous homes, for heady conversation. The frequent guests at the salonnière Elizabeth Montagu’s gatherings included diplomats, painters, politicians, and writers, who batted around matters of philosophy, literature, history, art, foreign affairs, and science. The usual festive staples—card playing, tippling, and sexual shenanigans—were forbidden, replaced by tea and lemonade, and witty, erudite talk. The lexicographer Samuel Johnson might chat with the young novelist Frances Burney, the painter Joshua Reynolds with the self-taught classical scholar Elizabeth Carter, the celebrated actor David Garrick with the botanist Benjamin Stillingfleet. It was Stillingfleet, randomly, who bequeathed the name Bluestockings to the group. When he made a beeline from field work to Montagu’s parlor, he’d often neglect to change his casual, blue worsted stockings for the silken white ones that men usually donned for such occasions. The term caught on, Gibson writes, “to imply a kind of informality, a way of valuing intellectual endeavours above fashion,” but it stuck like a burr specifically to women with intellectual aspirations. In time, like other words used to classify unorthodox females, it would acquire a pejorative cast. Later still, that negative connotation would be turned inside out by second-wave feminists of the nineteen-sixties and seventies who gleefully adopted antiquated taunts like “virago” and “shameless hussy” and “Bluestocking” to name their bookstores and presses and journals. (Until reading Gibson, I had no idea that “Bluestocking” owed its origins to the sartorial carelessness of a male botanist; I’d vaguely imagined that it referred to women far wilder than the real Bluestockings, women who might have lifted their skirts and flashed actual ink-splattered indigo tights, preferably with runs in them.)

Like her, I had no idea the term originally referred to a man, and I imagine many of my readers will also be surprised by the information. The OED (entry revised 2013) says:

In sense A.2 [sense 1 is Bluestocking Parliament, “Now historical. The nominated assembly of 1653 […], the members of which wore puritanically plain clothing”] also originally with allusion to blue stockings as worn by men, specifically cheap blue worsted stockings as opposed to more expensive and formal white silk stockings; in early use apparently particularly associated with the attire of Benjamin Stillingfleet, an attender of social assemblies or salons hosted by Elizabeth Montagu (compare 1757 at sense A.2a). The expression came to be used more generally in allusion to social assemblies or literary salons hosted by Elizabeth Montagu, Elizabeth Vesey, and Frances Boscawen, among others, which were characterized by social informality and intellectual exchange. The emphasis on the encouragement of female intellectuals in this circle led to the association of the term blue stocking (and its derivatives) specifically with the involvement of women in the intellectual world. This was later reinforced further by the increasing identification of stockings as an item of female rather than male attire (compare stocking n.²).

By the way, here’s an interesting tidbit about one of the women so nicknamed:

Elizabeth Carter lived at home much of her life, tending to her widowed father, but she also learned Latin, Greek, Italian, Hebrew, German, and Spanish; when she wanted to learn Arabic and couldn’t find instructional books, she made her own Arabic dictionary.

Hatters who are aware of my fanatical regard for Godard may be surprised to learn that I am also a fan of Sergio Leone’s spaghetti westerns, but such is the case, and today I watched For a Few Dollars More with a commentary track by Tim Lucas, who is a master of the form and always opens my eyes to many aspects of a movie I hadn’t known or noticed. However, in this case he made a glaring mistake that I feel it is my duty to publicly correct, so future generations of Leone fans will not be misled. In discussing the Clint Eastwood character, conventionally known as The Man With No Name, Lucas mentions that in one scene he is called Manco, adding that this is the Italian word for ‘monk.’ I grunted in muffled outrage: the word for ‘monk’ is monaco, and manco means ‘left’ (as opposed to ‘right’). What made the error particularly amusing was that Lucas went on to discuss at length the fact that, while Eastwood’s character shoots with his right hand, he does everything else with his left (possibly in an attempt to distinguish him from his character in A Fistful of Dollars, since the producer of that movie had threatened legal action if this one was presented as a sequel). Thus the name, or nickname, was appropriate, and I’m sure Lucas would have enjoyed pointing that out if he’d known.

Incidentally, the Wiktionary etymology for manco is:

From Latin mancus, from Proto-Indo-European *mh₂n-ko- (“maimed in the hand”), from *méh₂-r̥ ~ *mh₂-én- (“hand”).

Anybody know if that is plausible?

The always excellent Ian Frazier (who has been contributing to the New Yorker for half a century now) has an essay about the Bronx (archived) that includes the following paragraph:

As much as any of America’s so-called Founding Fathers, Gouverneur Morris remade his country and sent ripple effects out into the world. He was born in 1752 in the family’s manor house, which stood at the end of a lane leading inland from its dock, at the mouth of the Bronx Kill. The house had been in the family already for three generations. Morris was a close friend of George Washington and wrote the Preamble to the Constitution. It would not begin “We the People of the United States” or say “in order to form a more perfect union” (those phrases echoing forever) if not for him. Morris served as Ambassador to France during its Revolution, proposed the idea for the Erie Canal, and worked for the canal’s creation. Of a rational and orderly mind, he led the committee that created the street grid for New York City. He suggested a decimal-based system of coinage when the new country was developing its monetary system, and he invented the word “cent,” for penny. Dozens of things all over the Bronx are named for Gouverneur Morris or his family. There’s Morris Heights, Morris Avenue, Gouverneur Place, Gouverneur Playground, Gouverneur Morris Square, and Gouverneur Morris Triangle. The Bronx’s Gouverneur Morris Houses are among the biggest New York City Housing Authority projects in the borough. Morris High School (now Morris Academy for Collaborative Studies), which commemorates him, was the Bronx’s first major public secondary school. His name is everywhere, and yet almost nobody knows who he was.

Of course what struck me was the part about his inventing the word “cent” in the ‘penny’ sense. Checking the OED (entry revised 2016), I found sense 3.a.i. “A monetary unit of the United States, introduced in 1792, equivalent to one-hundredth of a dollar; a coin of this value,” with the first citation

1782 One hundred [units] would be the lowest Silver Coin, and might be called a Cent.
R. Morris & G. Morris, Letter 15 January in R. Morris, Papers (1978) vol. IV. 36

“G. Morris” is of course Gouverneur, and R. is Robert Morris (no relation); the OnlEtyDic says “The word cent first had been suggested by Robert Morris in 1782 under his original plan for a U.S. currency,” and I’m wondering if Frazier simply made a mistake or whether authorship of the word is disputed.

Faithful reader Craig sent me the following anecdote of language-learning:

I’ve been taking ASL for a few weeks now and have noticed that learning ASL is unlocking forgotten Japanese vocabulary. I’ve not studied Japanese for over 30 years, but when I go hunting for a sign, I remember the corresponding spoken Japanese words, although not the kanji.

The topic-comment structure of ASL also feels a lot like the SOV structure of Japanese to me though I can’t imagine that that would be the thread to connect the two.

It should be noted that ASL formally has SVO structure, but topic-comment is also prevalent. Of course, I’m not qualified to speak on ASL grammar yet, so I don’t want to give any wrong impressions.

I thought this was fascinating; I wonder if anyone’s studied this kind of thing, and of course will be interested to hear similar stories from others.

I recently ran across a reference to “buck buck” and was mystified; I asked my wife if she knew the term, and she said “Oh yes, it’s a kids’ game.” So I googled the Wikipedia article and my curiosity was satisfied:

Buck buck (also known as Johnny-on-a-Pony, or Johnny-on-the-Pony) is a children’s game with several variants. One version of the game is played when “one player climbs another’s back” and the climber guesses “the number of certain objects out of sight”. Another version of the game is played with “one group of players [climbing] on the backs of a second group in order to build as large a pile as possible or to cause the supporting players to collapse.”

As early as the 16th century, children in Europe and the Near East played Buck, Buck, which had been called “Bucca Bucca quot sunt hic?” Pieter Bruegel’s painting Children’s Games (1560) depicts children playing a variant of the game.

In the United Kingdom, the game is sometimes called High Cockalorum, but has a large number of different names in various local dialects. These include: “Polly on the Mopstick” in Birmingham, “Strong Horses, Weak Donkeys” in Monmouthshire, “Hunch, Cuddy, Hunch” in west Scotland, “Mont-a-Kitty” in Middlesbrough, “Husky Fusky Finger or Thumb” in Nottinghamshire, “High Jimmy Knacker” in east London, “Jump the Knacker 1-2-3” in Watford, “Wall-e-Acker” or “Warny Echo” in north West London, “Stagger Loney” in Cardiff, “Pomperino” in St Ives, Cornwall and “Trust” in Lancashire. The game is sometimes played in the sergeants’ or officers’ messes of the British Armed Forces.

The article continues with further “national names and variants”; I confess I have my doubts as to whether all of them are actually variants of a single game or whether a bunch of vaguely similar games are being lumped together, but perhaps that’s more of a philosophical issue than a practical one. At any rate, I figure I’m probably not the only person unfamiliar with it, so I’m sharing my discovery here. I’ll add that the OED’s cockalorum entry (revised 2019) defines it first as an interjection “Announcing the climax of a conjuring trick or a sudden transformation. Cf. hi cockalorum int. Now rare,” then as a noun meaning 1 “Self-important behaviour; conceitedness, vanity. Now rare” and “Nonsense, silliness; rubbish” (1936 “Was there ever such cockalorum as now attends our public criticism of the B.B.C.?” World Film News August 8/2) and 2 “A person likened to a small or young cockerel or rooster; a pompous or self-important person. Also (esp. in high cockalorum): an important person; a boss or chief.” The etymology is extensive, verging on loquacious:
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Jessica Roy writes for the NY Times (archived) about the increasing public acceptance of a term. The story’s headline is “A Wildly Obscene Term’s Path to Mainstream Usage,” and you know that’s bullshit because if it were wildly obscene the Times wouldn’t touch it, but it does relate to sex, so I guess they feel daring for running with it:

If you suddenly feel like you’re noticing the term “rawdogging” used widely and in surprising contexts — online, in the office, at the bar — you’re not alone.

Over the last few months, the slang term, which has historically been used to refer to sexual intercourse without a condom, has been adopted to describe almost any activity accomplished without the assistance of a buffer. Now, you can rawdog the flu by refusing medication; you can rawdog cooking by not using a recipe; you can even rawdog life, by being sober.

The most obvious example of the term’s spread is the phenomenon of “rawdogging” flights. The trend, which was written about last month by GQ, has been cropping up across social media platforms like TikTok and X, with people — mostly men — enduring long flights without indulging in any entertainment other than staring at the in-flight map. The concept, which was the subject of a viral tweet in 2022, has come as a shock to some commenters who couldn’t imagine why someone would put themselves through something so boring.

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Dmitry Pruss sent me this press release from Leiden University:

Five thousand years before the common era (BCE), Proto-Indo-European, the mother of many languages that are spoken today in Europe, Central Asia and South Asia, originated in eastern Europe. PhD candidate Axel Palmér has combined a 175-year-old hypothesis with new techniques to demonstrate how descendants of this proto-language ended up in Asia. […]

‘Proto-Indo-European was probably spoken five thousand years ago between the Caspian Sea and the Black Sea, north of the Caucasus,’ says Palmér, pointing to the blue area on the map. ‘We know it was subsequently also spoken in the area around the Ural Mountains, shown here in pink, and we suspected that it then spread further towards the south.’

This means that the languages would have made a large loop, instead of taking a more direct route through present-day Turkey. This hypothesis is partly based on DNA evidence. In 2015 researchers compared the DNA of people who lived along the route that Proto-Indo-European may have taken, with the DNA of human remains from the steppe where it first originated. ‘They also saw a pattern of people who did not go to Asia directly through Turkey, but first migrated towards the west and north,’ explains Palmér.

A problem with this DNA evidence, however, is that it doesn’t show which language the genetically related people actually spoke. Palmér therefore unearthed a different hypothesis, from 175 years ago. ‘The idea already existed that the Indo-Iranian language family was closely related to the Balto-Slavic language family, both descendants of Proto-Indo-European.’ A kinship of this kind between these language families would mean that there was indeed language contact between people living along the ‘loop’, which runs from the present-day Balkans to present-day India.

Palmér therefore scrutinised the vocabulary of both Balto-Slavic and Indo-Iranian and arrived at a list of 55 words that are only found in these families. […] Palmér also found another indication in favour of this hypothesis in the meaning of words. ‘In both Indo-Iranian and Balto-Slavic, I found words relating to agriculture,’ he says. ‘In the blue area you don’t find any evidence of agriculture.’ This would again suggest that the speakers of Proto-Indo-European migrated around the blue area in present-day Ukraine.

Dmitry is curious about Hatters’ thoughts on this, as am I. (The map referred to is at the link.)

I picked the post title at random from the top row of words at this site, which features “Swear words and profanities from around the world,” because the apparent page title, &$!#%, didn’t work for me. The “Questions & Answers” section at the bottom says:

It’s a celebration of swearing. Because swearing is great!

Choosing the right swear word is one of life’s great pleasures. Perhaps it’s a muttered “dickhead” when you see that guy on the telly, or shouting “MOTHERFUCKER” with tears streaming down your face when you stub your toe on the bed for the third time in one morning. But the right word at the right time is a uniquely human joy.
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I know the best swear word! Can you add it?

I would love to add your rude words. I’d especially like to hear more non-English swear words (so I can swear around the kids without them knowing) and obscure or regional vulgarities.

How did you decide how rude a word is?

Rudeness is complicated. In one sense, rudeness is highly subjective: what offends me might not offend you. But swearing is based on the breaking of taboos that are created by society at large, so there’s definitely a hierarchy of sorts, even if it’s unspoken and vague.

I reckon we in the UK could all agree that bonk is less rude than shag, which is less rude than fuck — the difficulty would be in putting an exact number on how vulgar a word is. So I’ve intentionally chosen a format that’s imprecise, and leaves room for your interpretation.

Obviously, this is my kind of site; I found it at MetaFilter via another post by the indefatigable and irresistible chavenet. …And on preview I discover that there is a different row of words at the top — I guess it changes constantly — so consider my title a snapshot of one magic moment in &$!#% history.

When I first learned about Juan Filloy’s novel Caterva, I was intrigued, and now that I’ve finished it I’m glad I tackled it, even though for quite a while it looks like it’s a road to nowhere, just a jovial group picaresque. Paul Pickering describes it well in the TLS review quoted in that LH post (and available in full here):

As the book opens, a ragbag of magnificent drifters appears under a road bridge: “Not clustered in a heap like stones and boulders that just come rolling randomly along… but rather washed there by virtue of a secret current”. The wind blows like “a swarm of flies” and the glowering clouds “smell of sex”. There are seven drifters in total, a number that occurs throughout Filloy’s work, it being the number of letters in Joyce’s Ulysses, a novel that had a profound influence on Caterva with its bittersweet encyclopedic comedy and epic sweep. But this book is more uncompromising than Joyce’s novel, more akin to the gallows humour of Samuel Beckett.

These vagabonds travel under assumed names: Aparicio, “spectre”, is a veteran of the Uruguayan civil war; Dijunto, “dead man”, is a Spanish dirt farmer; Abd-ul “Katanga” ben-Hixem, “dung beetle”, is an exile from the Armenian massacres; Fortunato is from Prague; Longines is a Swiss cryptographer; Lon Chaney a Parisian jack-of-all-trades; and Viejo Amor an increasingly embarrassing Italian satyr. There is a tremendous energy to the vicious humour but also a lightness of touch as the rebel, left-wing band travel in box cars across the stark, forbidding Pampas, accused of giving money to striking miners, letting off bombs and incompetently fomenting revolution. They set out as “purposeful beggars” on “an ideal tour for the sake of others”. But Filloy is more concerned with his characters’ farcical inner lives than their political ones. On one level, the efforts of the gang to make good are a satire on Argentina and the South American condition: both travel great distances to arrive at the same place.

Spiky dialogue pinballs back and forth, sometimes obscene, sometimes philosophical. “There ought to be something like a poste restante for the soul! Places where the emotions of mysterious metapsychic correspondents can be rescued from oblivion or silence”, says Katanga, a “nudist by nature” who does exercises that “mimicked the beauty of the Muslim liturgy”. Occasionally, they are seduced by the scenery: “The pleasure produced by nature left them speechless. They turned their heads in slow, lingering delight. They drank it in. Perfumes of spearmint and peppermint. Warm exhalations from the nearby cliffs”.

There are a multitude of demented sub-plots on the journey, swirling around matters as disparate as the newly invented Swiss Army knife and a Nazi intrigue that involves the British Entomological Society and a very strange code–but these are not the point. It is the impossible solidarity of individuals that is important, as seen at Fortunato’s wake, which echoes a hospital drinking scene in Ulysses.

That should give you an idea of whether this is your sort of thing; if it is, I recommend you give it a try. I’ll add some passages of particular LH interest; first, a bit on cursing:
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