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Remember when I recently announced the publication of Paul Postal’s new book attacking Chomsky and generative grammar? Well, Slavo/bulbul has been reading it and getting increasingly grumpy, and Slavo’s grumpiness produces such eloquence I have no recourse but to quote his Facebook posts in extenso (I have added itals and blockquotes for clarity and fixed some OCR errors). From here:

Aaaand we are at a point where I am reminded that while Postal broke with Chomsky a long time ago and his criticism of Chomsky’s bullshit is 109% valid, Postal himself is a student of Chomsky and thus wholly compromised. Nowhere is this more apparent than in his discussion of NLs as generative systems and the type/token distinction. Postal (2025: 63) argues that

That renders use of NL sentences for communication impossible unless mental tokens of NL sentences are somehow connected to physical things perceptually available to others. It is the function of Expression systems to facilitate this connection. There are different types of known Expression system, the fundamental one evidently being that which links Core elements to the output of vocal tract behavior, that is, to pronunciations. This clearly has biological primacy in humans.

Suddenly we are dealing with Core and Expression systems, but ok, I can dig.

My view then is that while there is an inherent biological connection between the Cores of known NLs and human sound-producing vocal tract gestures, there is no inherent logical connection. I take the existence of the gesture Expression systems of the NLs of the deaf and orthographical Expression systems to justify that conclusion.

Minus five points for the misuse of ‘logical’, but ok. You get the point – the abstract NL can be instantiated as concrete/physical speech, writing or sign language. So far so good. But then:

While I will not be able to address these issues seriously, many linguistic works appear to treat spoken and written expressions as involving separate languages. For instance, De Swart 2010 makes the distinction throughout.

What is it that De Swart is talking about? The fact that spoken French now gets by with pas as the sole verbal negator while in written French, ne is still used!

This is the kind if bullshit this sort of theorizing will led you to. No discussion of the primacy of spoken language, not a syllable on writing as technology, not a beep about where this sort of thinking leads, since the quote from De Swart closes out the section.

From here:
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This is another of those words that are kind of words, being in the dictionary, but also kind of not, since they’re not actually used or understood by anyone (except the very occasional person who decides to deploy them). I’m reading a very interesting book about Bakhtin that has the admirable quality of providing all quotes in the original in footnotes, so the reader who possesses Russian can see what the man actually wrote (I’ll be posting about the book when I finish it), and at one point he’s quoted as saying “hagiography, just like icon painting, avoids any transgredient moments which delimit a human being and render him overly concrete, because they invariably diminish authoritativeness.” I blinked several times on seeing the collection of letters “transgredient” and wondered what the hell Bakhtin’s word was. Thanks to the admirable quality noted above, I just turned to the Russian and found “агиография, как и иконопись, избегает ограничивающей и излишне конкретизующей трансгредиентности, ибо эти моменты всегда понижают авторитетность” (it’s from this text). So OK, there was apparently a word трансгредиентность… except that the only person who’s ever used it appears to be Bakhtin, so how the hell did he expect any readers to understand it?

Well, what about English? It turns out, to my surprise, that the OED has an entry transgredient (“First published 1914; not fully revised”); it’s labeled “rare” and has two senses:

1. Violating a law or obligation.

1837 To paint the other branches of the Church as such slippery transgredient mortals.
S. Smith, Works (1850) 608

2. Passing beyond subjective limits; objective.

1904 Pragmatism..guarantees no objective or social certainty. Its standards are lacking in the essential character of a standard—transgredient reference and verifiability.
Journal of Philosophy, Psychology & Scientific Methods vol. 1 426

Is the second sense what Bakhtin meant? Who knows? What’s odd is that he usually wrote in reasonably clear Russian, sometimes distorted by his translators into indigestible mouthfuls (see my complaints here); if he used разноречие instead of *гетероглоссия for the concept annoyingly translated as “heteroglossia,” why didn’t he find a more transparent way to express what he wanted to say here? Well, it was an early work, and maybe he was still under the spell of Kant…

Drew Johnson’s “The Eloquent Vindicator in the Electric Room” is a thought-provoking piece about the assassination of Congressman James M. Hinds in 1868 (and if you’re thinking “Who?”… well, that’s his point); what brings it here is this paragraph:

His wife ran a rummage sale posing as an antique store. She and I spoke for just a few minutes but couldn’t figure out just what variety of cousins we were. Then, unbidden, she began to talk about the moment when emancipation and the end of the war freed the people enslaved by the Greears. The family, she said, told the people they had owned that they were no longer bound to them or to the land they had known. Some stayed, some left. That was all she told me, but her voice was sepia-toned, possessed by nostalgia for something she’d never known. Anemoia. A word all Americans ought to know.

I wasn’t familiar with the word, but that’s because it’s not a word at all in the traditional sense; it’s one of the ones coined by John Koenig for his Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows — see the end of this post from last year, where I say “I recently discovered the term occhiolism, ‘The awareness of the small scope of one’s own perspective and the way it limits one’s ability to fully understand the world’ […] I’m not normally a fan of invented words, but I like this one, which represents a concept important to me.” The same goes for this one, so (as I said then) good for Koenig! Wiktionary tells us it’s “Constructed from Ancient Greek ἄνεμος (ánemos, ‘wind’) + νόος (nóos, ‘mind’), with reference to anemosis, the warping of a tree by high wind ‘until it seems to bend backward’”; it really should be anemonoia, but it sounds better as is, so (*bangs gavel*) I’ll allow it. (As for anemosis, it’s not in the OED, but it is in M-W, so it probably is an actual word, though as far as I can tell from Google Books it occurs almost entirely in lexicons.)

It’s a lot spiffier than this antiquated relic of the 2000s, but it covers a congruent mix of language-related topics. The About page features a Chekhov quote and a list of beliefs (Dogs are the best people; All English is Good English; No such thing as a wrong pronunciation); topics include phrasal verbs, No Irish in the House of Commons, The Irish and the definite article, I goes to work: subject-verb agreement, and many more, some of them listed at Kattullus’ MeFi post, from where I got the link (e.g. Shetland or Zetland ?, featuring yogh [Ȝ]). I learned something about my adopted region from this one:

It is almost a rite of passage, for those trained in the English language of New England, to confuse an outsider by using the phrase “downcellar”. This is a phrase that means both generally “downstairs” and also “in the basement”, and can be used regardless of what floor the speakers are on, or whether they are even indoors.

The phrase “down cellar” is not a recent evolution or an informal term, being attested as far back as the 1700s. Rather it is a product of an older and broader use of the preposition “down” which meant “towards”, evolving through the common directional construct “downtown”.

And though the term is not exclusive to New England, being reported by speakers in surrounding regions as well, it dovetails with a broader New England English proclivity for the direction “down.” New Englanders use it as a catch-all for generalized motion towards, saying things like “down the store”, “down the beach” and “down Quincy Market”.

Regardless of where we are geographically, the direction of travel is “down east” or “down town”, with “uptown” being decidedly too fancy a place to go. We even go “down the Cape”, from Western Massachusetts and Rhode Island, though the phrase “down Cape” has a more specific meaning: to the better beaches past Hyannis!

As an old-style blogger, I wish the entries were dated and there were archives (at least, I can’t find any), but never mind the nitpicking, it’s a good find.

My wife asked me why matrimony meant marriage whereas patrimony meant something entirely different, and I had no answer for her, so I googled around. Wiktionary is no help:

From Old French matremoine, from Latin mātrimōnium (“marriage, wedlock”), from mātri(s) (“mother”) + -mōnium (“obligation”). By surface analysis, matri- +‎ -mony. Compare patrimony.

So I tried the OED (entry revised 2001) and found:

< Anglo-Norman matermoine, matremoine, matrimoigne, matrimone, matrimonie and Middle French matremoine, matrimoigne (14th cent.; c1155 in Old French in sense ‘property inherited from one’s mother’: compare 1a) < classical Latin mātrimōnium state of being married < mātri-, māter mother (see matri- comb. form) + ‑mōnium ‑mony comb. form.

Which is also no help. I recognize that marriage tends to lead to motherhood, but can anyone explain the Latin formation more effectively? Does it have to do with Roman society, or is it just one of those things?

Jesmyn Ward’s 2011 novel Salvage the Bones was one of my birthday presents this year, and I just got through reading it. If you want the plot laid out, you can read the Wikipedia entry or Parul Sehgal’s NY Times review (archived). Me, I don’t read books for plot, and all I can tell you is that the novel’s architecture and its prose are perfectly fitted to the story being told; I’ll quote a couple of paragraphs, and if you like them you will certainly like the novel:

My mama’s mother, Mother Lizbeth, and her daddy, Papa Joseph, originally owned all this land: around fifteen acres in all. It was Papa Joseph nicknamed it all the Pit, Papa Joseph who let the white men he work with dig for clay that they used to lay the foundation for houses, let them excavate the side of a hill in a clearing near the back of the property where he used to plant corn for feed. Papa Joseph let them take all the dirt they wanted until their digging had created a cliff over a dry lake in the backyard, and the small stream that had run around and down the hill had diverted and pooled into the dry lake, making it into a pond, and then Papa Joseph thought the earth would give under the water, that the pond would spread and gobble up the property and make it a swamp, so he stopped selling earth for money. He died soon after from mouth cancer, or at least that’s what Mother Lizbeth used to tell us when we were little. She always talked to us like grown-ups, cussed us like grown-ups. She died in her sleep after praying the rosary, when she was in her seventies, and two years later, Mama, the only baby still living out of the eight that Mother Lizbeth had borne, died when having Junior. Since it’s just us and Daddy here now with China, the chickens, and a pig when Daddy can afford one, the fields Papa Joseph used to plant around the Pit are overgrown with shrubs, with saw palmetto, with pine trees reaching up like the bristles on a brush.

[…]

Mama taught me how to find eggs; I followed her around the yard. It was never clean. Even when she was alive, it was full of empty cars with their hoods open, the engines stripped, and the bodies sitting there like picked-over animal bones. We only had around ten hens then. Now we have around twenty-five or thirty because we can’t find all the eggs; the hens hide them well. I can’t remember exactly how I followed Mama because her skin was dark as the reaching oak trees, and she never wore bright colors: no fingernail pink, no forsythia blue, no banana yellow. Maybe she bought her shirts and pants bright and they faded with wear so that it seemed she always wore olive and black and nut brown, so that when she bent to pry an egg from a hidden nest, I could hardly see her, and she moved and it looked like the woods moved, like a wind was running past the trees. So I followed behind her by touch, not by sight, my hand tugging at her pants, her skirt, and that’s how we walked in the room made by the oaks, looking for eggs. I like looking for eggs. I can wander off by myself, move as slow as I want, stare at nothing. Ignore Daddy and Junior. Feel like the quiet and the wind. I imagine Mama walking in front of me, turning to smile or whistle at me to get me to walk faster, her teeth white in the gloom. But still, it is work, and I have to pull myself back and concentrate to find anything to eat.

The young narrator, Esch, is a reader, and she is currently absorbed in Greek myth, the Medea story in particular; it is used not for precious parallels but for salutary jolts. And one linguistic point: when I came to a mention of Buras-Triumph, Louisiana, of course I wanted to know how “Buras” was pronounced (anyone who presumes anything about Louisiana place names is a fool — case in point, Natchitoches (/ˈnækətəʃ/). Since the Wikipedia article didn’t tell me, I had to trawl through a number of videos to be sure that the locals say /ˈbjurəs/ (BYOO-rəs), and since I can’t find that corroborated in a printed source that will satisfy the Korinthenkacker at Wikipedia and thus can’t add it to the article, I’m sharing it here. (I did find a video of a woman teaching viewers how to pronounce some of the more opaque Louisiana place names by first parading the wrong versions, often more than once, before triumphantly producing the correct one. Apparently she has no idea that what that does is hammer the wrong forms into your head; when she says “I hear people say X, X, X, X, X, when actually it’s Y!” you’re not going to come away with anything but X. Bah.)

I saw a reference to bootleg records and wondered, for the hundredth time, why they were called that. Obviously it had to do with bootleg booze, but why was that called “bootleg”? And what was the chronology? So I went to the OED, which happily revised its entry just this year (I’ll interleave the corresponding adjective citations for easy comparison):

1. The part of a boot that covers the lower leg; the leather material used for this. Also: a gaiter or greave that covers the lower leg.

1575 [Paid for o]n paire of boote ledges to make [bawdricks] withall.
in J. E. Farmiloe & R. Nixseaman, Elizabethan Churchwardens’ Accounts (1953) 63
[…]

2.a. Alcohol that has been illegally produced, distributed, or sold, esp. during a time of prohibition. Also: a club or establishment selling such alcohol.
Now chiefly in historical contexts.
[On the origin of use in this sense see discussion in Etymology.]

1844 9 Puncheons of Old Rum (real New England ‘boot-leg’), the balance of a very large stock that has gone off very freely.
Subterranean & Working Man’s Advocate 16 Nov.

[adj.] 1861 The vials of wrath spoken of by the sacred writers, as at some future time to be poured out upon mankind, are supposed to be bottles of boot-leg whisky.
Topeka (Kansas) Tribune 9 February
[…]

1928 Gradually I’m becoming acquainted with all the brands of bootleg that the Westcoast offers.
H. Crane, Letter 31 January (1965) 315
[…]

[adj.] 2019 More than 100 people have died after drinking bootleg alcohol in northern India and hundreds more have been put in hospital.
Times 12 February 34/4

2.b. An unauthorized or illicitly traded item; a counterfeit.
Frequently with the implication that the item is a poor quality imitation of a superior product.

[adj.] 1921 War against ‘bootleg’ milk, in an attempt to make all milk sold in the city properly inspected.
Oklahoma News 4 January 1/1

1923 The printing on the base of the tube is frequently badly smudged on the bootleg, whereas on the genuine it is quite clear and readable.
Brooklyn Daily Eagle 12 August 8c/5
[…]

2.c.i. An unauthorized audio or video recording, esp. one that has been illicitly recorded at a live concert or cinema screening. Also: a record, DVD, etc., that has been distributed or reproduced without authorization.

[adj.] 1926 Bootleg jazz records with risque verses distributed.
Dothan (Alabama) Eagle 12 June 2/2 (headline)

1951 Victor presses bootlegs!
Record Changer (New York) November 1 (heading)

1971 This album of the Experience recorded at the Albert Hall in ’69 is not a bootleg (although there’s an inferior bootleg in mono selling at the same price), it’s an official German release.
It 2 June 18/1
[…]

2.c.ii. A piece of music created by merging two or more existing pieces of popular music, esp. the isolated vocals of one piece and the instrumental backing of another. Cf. mash-up n. 2.

1998 Holiday New Bootleg!.. Thomas Bangalter..put out this amazing song called Music Sounds Better With You… There is a bootleg mix that has the vocal from [sc. Madonna’s] Holiday on it.
alt.fan.madonna 30 August (Usenet newsgroup, accessed 13 Aug. 2024)

There are further senses (coffee, football, trousers), but they don’t interest me at the moment. So let’s “see discussion in Etymology”:
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Nitsuh Abebe writes in the NY Times (archived) about a kerfuffle that had hitherto escaped me but is obviously in my wheelhouse, “Whose Punctuation Is More Human: Yours or A.I.’s?”:

There are countless signals you might look for to determine whether a piece of writing was generated by A.I., but earlier this year the world seemed to fixate on one in particular: the em dash. ChatGPT was using it constantly — like so, and even if you begged it not to.

As this observation traveled the internet, a weird consensus congealed: that humans do not use dashes. Posters on tech forums called them a “GPT-ism,” a robotic artifact that “does not match modern day communication.” Someone on an OpenAI forum complained that the dashes made it harder to use ChatGPT for customer service without customers catching on. All sorts of people seemed mystifyingly confident that no flesh-and-bone human had any use for this punctuation, and that any deviant who did would henceforth be mistaken for a computer.

Those deviants were appalled, obviously. I am one; I am, even worse, a former proofreader who could speak at length and with passion about the uses of the narrower en dash. I understand very well that this dash-happy lifestyle is maybe atypical, but I had not expected to see its whole existence questioned. The dash is a time-honored and exceedingly normal tool for constructing sentences! Dickens, Dickinson, Nietzsche, Stephen King novels, this magazine — all strewn with dashes. Part of what makes them popular, in fact, is that they can feel more casually human, more like natural speech, than colons, semicolons and parentheses. Humans do not think or speak in sentences; we think and speak in thoughts, which interrupt and introduce and complicate one another in a neat little dance that creates larger, more complex ideas. (Or, sometimes, doesn’t: The copious dashing in J.D. Salinger dialogue is a great illustration of all the thoughts we leave unfinished.) This is the whole thing punctuation is for. […]

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I heard a piece by the American composer and clarinetist Derek Bermel and liked it, so I looked him up and discovered he’d written a piece called “Language Instruction” that you can read about, and hear a snippet of, here. One of the quotes on that page is an excerpt from Allan Kozinn’s NY Times review (Dec. 8, 2003; archived) of a performance:

For all one hears about the classical music world being a museum culture, there is an alternative musical world in New York, just outside the spotlight focused on the big performing institutions.

Virtually every night new music is on offer, usually in the smaller halls (or in places that specialize in it, like the Kitchen and Roulette), performed by musicians whose interpretive interests draw them toward what’s next rather than what has been. […]

The centerpiece was Derek Bermel’s “Language Instruction” (2003), an amusing full ensemble work based on the rhythms and gestures of language tapes. The clarinet was, in effect, the voice on the tape, and the other instruments were the students — variously willing or difficult, competent or bumbling — who must repeat the phrases. Mr. Bermel spins this interaction into an increasingly chaotic fantasy that would have been perfectly at home on a program with Berio’s Sequenza III and the works by Ms. La Barbara, Mr. Aperghis and Mr. Gal.

It sounds like a lot of fun (I enjoyed the audio clip), and I’m very glad our local classical station plays a good deal of contemporary music instead of sticking with the mossy 18th- and 19th-century standbys. (And if you’re curious, as I was, about the surname Bermel, it’s a “habitational name from a place in Rhineland named Bermel.”)

I was over at XIX век and happened to glance at the list of Russian literature sites in the right margin, and my eye fell on the obdurately lowercase obdurodon. When I clicked through, I found an amazing collection of “Digital humanities projects,” many of them Russian-related, from The annotated Afanas′ev library (“Selected Russian fairy tales from the Aleksandr Afanas′ev collection with glosses and linguistic and cultural annotation”) to Twitter register variation (“Corpus-based study of linguistic properties of English-language tweets”). It’s well worth checking out. And “obdurodon”? Per Wikipedia, it’s “a genus of extinct platypus-like Australian monotreme which lived from the Late Oligocene to the Late Miocene”:

The holotype tooth was placed into the newly erected genus Obdurodon upon description in 1975 by American palaeontologists Michael O. Woodburne and Richard H. Tedford. They named the genus from the Latin obduro “persist” and the Greek ὀδών (odṓn) “tooth”, in reference to the permanency of the molars, a feature which is lost in the modern platypus.

So it’s a bastard formation, but if I can take “television,” I guess I can take “obdurodon.” (It’s not in the OED yet even though it’s been known and named for half a century.) I have no idea why the site is called that, but there’s an image of a pair of them at the top of the main page, and it’s quite cute.