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Lucas Reilly at Mental Floss asks Why Do Ghosts Say “Boo”?:

People have screamed “boo,” or at least some version of it, to startle others since the mid-16th century. (One of the earliest examples documented by the Oxford English Dictionary appeared in that 1560s poetic thriller, Smyth Whych that Forged Hym a New Dame.) But ghosts? They’ve only been using the word boo for less than two centuries.

The etymology of boo is uncertain. The OED compares it with the Latin boare or the Greek βοᾶν, meaning to “cry aloud, roar, [or] shout.” Older dictionaries suggest it could be an onomatopoeia mimicking the lowing of a cow.

Whatever its origins, the word had a slightly different shade of meaning a few hundred years ago: Boo (or, in the olden days, bo or bu) was not used to frighten others but to assert your presence. Take the traditional Scottish proverb “He can’t say bo to a goose,” which for centuries has been a slick way to call somebody “timid” or “sheepish.” Or consider the 1565 story Smyth Whych that Forged Hym a New Dame, in which an overconfident blacksmith tries to hammer a woman back into her youth, and the main character demands of his dying experiment: “Speke now, let me se / and say ones bo!” […]

But boo became scarier with time. After all, as the OED notes, the word is phonetically suited “to produce a loud and startling sound.” And by 1738, Gilbert Crokatt was writing in Presbyterian Eloquence Display’d that “Boo is a Word that’s used in the North of Scotland to frighten crying children.”

In 18th century Scotland, bo, boo, and bu would latch onto plenty of words describing things that went bump in the night. According to the Dictionary of the Scots Language, the term bu-kow applied to hobgoblins and “anything frightful,” such as scarecrows. The word bogey, for “evil one,” would evolve into bogeyman. And there’s bu-man, or boo-man, a terrifying goblin that haunted man […] It was only a matter of time until ghosts got lumped into this creepy “muckle boo-man” crowd.

Which is too bad. Before the early 1800s, ghosts were believed to be eloquent, sometimes charming, and very often literary speakers. The spirits that appeared in the works of the Greek playwrights Euripides and Seneca held the important job of reciting the play’s prologue. The apparitions in Shakespeare’s plays conversed in the same swaying iambic pentameter as the living. But by the mid-1800s, more literary ghosts apparently lost interest in speaking in complete sentences. Take this articulate exchange with a specter from an 1863 Punch and Judy script:

Ghost: Boo-o-o-oh!
Punch: A-a-a-ah!
Ghost: Boo-o-o-o-oh!
Punch: Oh dear ! oh dear ! It wants’t me!
Ghost: Boo-o-o-o-oh!

He goes on to talk about the influence of spiritualism and traditions carried overseas by Celtic immigrants: “Scotland was a great exporter of people in the middle of the 1800s, and perhaps it’s thanks to the Scots-Irish diaspora that boo became every ghost’s go-to greeting.” For clickbait, it’s surprisingly informative! And A treatyse of the smyth whych that forged hym a new dame is available here, if you want the whole story; the “which that” in the title is striking.

By the way, if anyone’s interested in Media Cultures of the Russian 1990s: Inventing the Post-Soviet Public Sphere, edited by Maya Vinokour, it’s available for free download from Amherst College Press.

Ilia Simanovsky has a Facebook post that begins (I’ve translated from his Russian and added links):

In the early 1930s, Georgy Shengeli recruited young poets—Arkady Steinberg, Arseny Tarkovsky, Semyon Lipkin, and Maria Petrovykh—to translate, thereby rendering a great service to Russian literature. For the Quadriga (as the friends called themselves), this was an opportunity to make a relatively comfortable living from literary work. Their own muses were not well adapted to Soviet reality: Lipkin was religious, Tarkovsky was criticized for mysticism, Steinberg was assailed for formalism […] For the rest of their lives, the Quadriga depended on translations for their daily bread and in part for self-expression — although, alas, they did not generally have the opportunity to deal with poets of the stature of Milton or Saadi.

In 1934, the aspiring translators Tarkovsky and Steinberg befriended the Montenegrin communist and poet Radule Stijenski, who had emigrated to the USSR seven years earlier. There was no doubt that Stijenski was a communist, but the world hadn’t suspected until then that he was a poet. The three of them immediately realized this was an opportunity. The revolutionary Montenegrin hadn’t yet appeared on the Soviet book market, and it could be expected that if things were approached in the right manner, one book after another would be published, with the author and translators rejoicing in the royalties.

True, there were certain obstacles. Neither Tarkovsky nor Steinberg knew Serbian, and the poet turned out to be so ungifted that even the Montenegrin flavor allowed no hope that anyone would agree to voluntarily read his poems. As it happened, however, these circumstances were actually advantages. Both translators had plenty of talent seeking an outlet, and there was no need to worry about the translations’ similarity to the original—after all, Stijenski had never published in his native language (and remains a phenomenon confined to Russian literature). And speaking of originals, the questions of whether they existed or not, and what we mean by “originals,” have not been entirely cleared up. […]

The translators’ work was easy and creative—unable to publish their own poems, Arkady and Arseny had a great time. It turned out so well that Soviet critics were delighted, and children loved it.

Unfortunately, it ended in lawsuits and the Gulag; I don’t have the heart to translate the rest of the story, but you can get the basics from the Arkady Steinberg link above. (I posted about Maria Petrovykh here, and Boris Dralyuk wrote about Georgy Shengeli here.)

It’s time to play Biblical Crux once again! (Cf. Daughter of Greed, from 2019.) I’m reading Mikhail Shishkin’s 2010 Письмовник (‘Letter-writing manual,’ translated by Andrew Bromfield as The Light and the Dark) despite the concerns about Shishkin’s novels I expressed here, and so far I’m enjoying it (though already there’s a worrying amount of “Oh how I love you! I can’t live without you!” — Shishkin seems to think that’s pretty much what women’s mental life amounts to). In form the novel is epistolary, with alternating letters from a man and a woman, and at one point the woman writes: “Я была уродка из семейства плеченогих, крыложаберных и мшанок. А она — хоровод Манаимский с глазами, как озера Есевонские, что у ворот Батраббима” [I was a freak from the family of brachiopods, pterobranchs, and Bryozoa; she was the dance of Mahanaim, with eyes like the pools of Heshbon by the gate of Bath-rabbim]. I knew about Heshbon (though it’s annoying that Bath-rabbim redirects to that page, when there’s no mention of Bath-rabbim there), but what was this dance of Mahanaim?

It turns out that at the end of Song of Songs 6 or the beginning of 7, depending on the tradition, there’s an obscure passage about “the Shulamite” which doesn’t seem to have attracted many commentators. I haven’t done a deep dive, but the only discussion I’ve found that’s neither antiquated (like Thomas Robinson’s) nor amateur/popular (like Archie W. N. Roy PhD’s) is by J. Cheryl Exum, who just died last year; in her Song of Songs: A Commentary, pp. 225ff., she writes:
[Read more…]

Ashifa Kassam reports for the Guardian on some research that falls very much in the remit of this blog:

When researchers asked people around the world to list every taboo word they could think of, the differences that emerged were revealing. The length of each list, for example, varied widely. While native English speakers in the UK and Spanish speakers in Spain rattled off an average of 16 words, Germans more than tripled this with an average of 53 words ranging from intelligenzallergiker, a person allergic to intelligence, to hodenkobold, or “testicle goblin”, someone who is being annoying. […]

“These words can be more offensive, or less, they can be loaded with negativity or with irony,” said Jon Andoni Duñabeitia, a cognitive scientist and professor at Madrid’s Nebrija University. “But taken together, they offer small snapshots of the realities of each culture.”

When it came to the differences between Spanish and German speakers, Andoni Duñabeitia had two theories. German, with its seemingly endless capacity to build new compound words, could simply offer more options, he said. “But it could also be that some people [speaking other languages] just don’t have these words readily available, or it’s harder for them when asked to produce them in a very neutral environment,” he said.

The study, which looked at taboo words in 13 languages from Serbian to Cantonese and Dutch, and across 17 countries, revealed other differences. The word “shit”, or its translated equivalent, for example, ranked among the most frequently used in several languages, including English, Finnish and Italian, but was not in the top rankings in French, Dutch, Spanish or German.

In contrast, words that sought to disparage women, such as “bitch,” turned up across cultures. “I think it comes down to the terribly sexist traditions of many countries,” said Andoni Duñabeitia, who was among the four dozen researchers involved with the 2024 study. “The vocabulary reflects the reality of societies where women have been mistreated, removed from everyday tasks and relegated to the background.”

Click that last link for the study (which is open access); thanks, Trevor!

Frequent commenter cuchuflete writes:

There is an expression heard with some frequency in these parts, “little by slowly”. When I first heard it a quarter century back, it was disconcerting to my Midwestern/Middle Atlantic ears. It, or more aptly I, have now become naturalized and it is ‘normal’ to my ears. Same goes for my Nottingham raised lady. We both savor it.

Last week I googled it. Top of results page was some AI slop declaring it a mistaken form of little by little. Little by slowly has additional meaning, whatever its origins. […] I haven’t been able to find anything about the origin of the phrase.

He cites a Stephen King use: “Now after reading this I’m going to step up my routine, little by slowly (as we say heah in Maine) to improve my distance.” Anybody know anything about the history of this quaint phrase?

I was reading a story by Carolyn Brown in our local paper (how could I resist the title “History told through hats”?) that began:

In the 1870s, the largest palm leaf hat factory in the world, which produced hundreds of thousands of hats each year, was based in Amherst. A new history exhibit is celebrating Amherst’s connections to millinery (hatmaking) in venues around the town.

And I suddenly realized I didn’t know where milliner came from. So I headed for the OED, where I found (entry revised 2002):

1. † With capital initial. A native or inhabitant of Milan, a city in northern Italy. Obsolete.

1449 That every Venician, Italian..Milener..and all other Merchants straungiers..paye to you..vi s. viii d.
Rolls of Parliament vol. V. 144/2
[…]

1604 You knowe we Millaners loue to strut vpon Spanish leather.
T. Dekker & T. Middleton, Honest Whore i. ii. 32
[…]

1871 Mediolanum, the old Roman city of the ‘half-fleecy sow’, in process of time, became Milano, the city of milaners or milliners.
Ladies’ Repository September 163/2

2. Originally: a seller of fancy wares, accessories, and articles of (female) apparel, esp. such as were originally made in Milan. Subsequently: spec. a person who designs, makes, or sells women’s hats.

1530 Paied to the Mylloner for certeyne cappes trymmed..withe botons of golde.
in N. H. Nicolas, Privy Purse Expences Henry VIII (1827) 33
[…]

a1616 No Milliner can so fit his customers with Gloues.
W. Shakespeare, Winter’s Tale (1623) iv. iv. 193
[…]

1713 The Milliner must be thoroughly versed in Physiognomy; in the Choice of Ribbons she must have a particular regard to the Complexion.
J. Gay in Guardian 1 September 2/1
[…]

1884 A black butterfly is unknown to entomologists, but at present is a favourite insect with milliners.
West. Daily Press 29 May 3/7

1911 There is your public, the readers of the Post—shop-clerks, stenographers,..drummers, milliners.
H. S. Harrison, Queed 151

1986 Her life at home with Mother, who had, surprisingly, been a designer of hats and a court milliner.
A. Brookner, Misalliance x.153

So like jeans coming from Genoa, milliner comes from Milan. I had no idea! (If you’re wondering, as I was, about the odd-looking Queed, Wikipedia has you covered: “Queed is a 1911 novel by Henry Sydnor Harrison, which was the fourth-best selling book in the United States for 1911, and is considered one of Harrison’s best novels, along with 1913’s V.V.’s Eyes.” So many best-sellers lying, covered with dust, in oblivion…)

Erin Maglaque, last seen here in 2023 discussing Aldus Manutius, reviews several books on the Renaissance — Nine Hundred Conclusions by Giovanni Pico della Mirandola (edited and translated by Brian P. Copenhaver), The Grammar of Angels: A Search for the Magical Powers of Sublime Language by Edward Wilson-Lee, and Inventing the Renaissance: Myths of a Golden Age by Ada Palmer — for the LRB (Vol. 47 No. 18 · 9 October 2025; archived), and it’s full of good things. Some excerpts:

Giovanni Pico​, count of Mirandola and Concordia, was 23 when he travelled to Rome to become an angel. It was 1487. Christendom’s most important priests would be there; the cleverest theologians would debate him. The pope would watch. Pico was going to dazzle them all. He planned to begin with a poetic, densely allusive speech, which almost no one would understand; then he would make nine hundred pronouncements, each more cryptic than the last, e.g. ‘251. The world’s craftsman is a hypercosmic soul’ and ‘385. No angel that has six wings ever changes’ and ‘784. Doing magic is nothing other than marrying the world’ and ‘395. Whenever we don’t know the feature that influences a prayer that we pray, we should fall back on the Lord of the Nose.’ In an ecstatic trance he was going to leave behind his worthless, handsome body and ascend a mystical ladder to join with the godhead, the transcendence of his soul so absolute that his body might accidentally die. This was the Death of the Kiss. […]

Pico’s life touched much of what made the Renaissance the Renaissance. There were the people: Lorenzo de’ Medici, a Borgia pope (Alexander VI), Savonarola. There was the arcane classical scholarship: before Pico, no Christian had studied the Jewish Kabbalah. There was his reputed physical beauty: in paintings he looked like one of Botticelli or Raphael’s angels, pale and androgynous, with intricate golden curls. There was his immersion in the utterly bizarre world of Florentine Neoplatonism. He was friends with Marsilio Ficino, who taught his students to hallucinate by chewing laurel leaves while playing the lyre, who dressed up in a cape made of feathers so that he could be ‘a true Orpheus’. There were love affairs with men and women; there was intrigue and – finally – murder.

The speech with which Pico planned to open his performance in Rome is popularly known as the Oration on the Dignity of Man. The text, with its emphasis on human freedom and the intrinsic value of the individual, has been taught to generations of students as the canonical expression of the Italian Renaissance; it was ‘one of the noblest legacies of that cultural epoch’, according to the 19th-century historian Jacob Burckhardt, who did much to give the book its status. And yet Pico’s writings, as Brian Copenhaver has persuasively shown, are in essence medieval. […]

Pico never delivered his Oration. And it turns out that this most famous speech of the Renaissance isn’t really about the dignity of man at all. It’s about destroying personhood in pursuit of a melting with the One. It’s a script for mystical self-annihilation, the opposite of a humanist argument for man’s distinction in a secularising age. The Oration contravenes the very idea of human possibility that we think the Renaissance is about – yet we think of the Renaissance this way partly because of a centuries-long misreading of it. In which case, does Pico really belong to the Renaissance? Or is our whole idea of the Renaissance hopelessly flimsy, nothing but a collection of fantasies about what it means to be modern and human?

[Read more…]

Bianca Giacobone and Guido G. Beduschi report on an intriguing acquisition:

In 2011, Earle Havens, Director of the Virginia Fox Stern Center for the History of the Book in the Renaissance at Johns Hopkins, had a mission: He needed to convince his university to buy “an enormous collection of fake stuff.” The collection, known as Bibliotheca Fictiva, comprised over 1,200 literary forgeries spanning centuries, languages, and countries — beautifully bound manuscripts carrying black ink annotations allegedly penned by Shakespeare; works written by Sicilian tyrants, Roman poets, and Etruscan prophets; poems by famous priests and theologians — all of them in part or entirely fabricated.

It was an unusual task for a scholar dedicated to studying the truth, but Havens was adamant. “We have never before needed a collection like this more than we need it right now,” he told the Dean of Libraries at the time. The internet and the increasing popularity of social media were changing how information was written, disseminated, and consumed, giving rise to the phenomenon of fake news as we now know it. In such a “crazy, rapid-fire information world,” the collection of ancient lies and misrepresentations of facts contained in the Bibliotheca Fictiva could offer guidance on how to navigate the moment, demonstrating that “what’s happening now has, in fact, been happening since the very invention of language and writing,” Havens said.

His pitch was successful. Johns Hopkins University acquired the collection for an undisclosed amount and housed it in the wainscoted library room of the Evergreen Museum and Library, a 19th-century mansion in Baltimore.

The sellers were Arthur and Janet Freeman, a couple of book merchants who made their name in the tight-knit world of antiquarian booksellers by collecting fascinating literary forgeries. Their venture started in 1961, when Arthur Freeman, then a graduate student of Elizabethan drama at Harvard University, began acquiring sources on John Payne Collier. Collier, a well-respected 19th-century scholar, had caused a ruckus among his contemporaries when he claimed to have found thousands of annotations to a copy of Shakespeare’s Second Folio, which he said had been penned by a contemporary of Shakespeare — but was in fact forged by Collier himself.

In the decades that followed, Freeman, who died in 2025, assembled a vast array of literary fakes, collecting books whose content is deceiving in nature. These included poetry purported to have been written by Martin Luther, who was not much of a poet, or reports of Pope Joan, a woman who, in the Middle Ages, disguised herself as a man and was elected Pope, only to be caught out when she suddenly gave birth in the middle of a procession in Rome. The latter myth was perpetuated for centuries and was not firmly debunked until the 17th century.

There’s more at the link; we’ve discussed imaginary books (not quite the same thing) in 2014 and 2024. Thanks, Nick!

Another intriguing Facebook post by Nelson Goering (I’ve added itals where appropriate):

Einar Haugen has this to say about the fate of ð/d in later Scandinavian:

“In all Sc except Ic it normally disappeared after vowels, e.g. CSc veþr weather > veðr > NW vær/Sw dial vär… In Da Sw NN DN it was later restored in the spelling of a number of words, and from this developed a spelling pronunciation with d… In its function as a preterite suffix -ð- was often preserved, or even sharpened to -t-, e.g. CSc svaraði > Da svarede/Sw svarade/DN svārte, but NN svara (older svarade).” (The Scandinavian Languages, pp. 266-7, Sect. 11.3.15)

My question is about the last part, the “sharpening”. Is this usually regarded as a phonological development (and if so, are there any parallels from other morphological contexts), or as (like I’ve sort of vaguely been assuming, without having ever given any real thought to it) an analogical generalization from those verbs in which -t- developed regularly (e.g. vakþi/vakti > vakte). I grant that such verbs aren’t all that numerous in the grand scheme of things, but there are a certain number, and if speakers were looking for a more characterized preterite at the time of d-loss, they’d be a ready source.

I’ll copy Nelson’s conclusion: Any thoughts, or pointers to interesting discussions?

A University of Copenhagen press release reports on what could be an exciting discovery:

Christophe Helmke and Magnus Pharao Hansen have taken the first steps toward solving a major archaeological mystery surrounding the ancient Mexican city of Teotihuacan. Until now, the language of Teotihuacan has been unknown. […] By analyzing the signs on Teotihuacan’s colorful murals and many other artefacts, they have concluded that the signs constitute an actual writing system, and they believe that this writing records an early form of the Uto-Aztecan language, which a thousand years later developed into the languages Cora, Huichol, and Nahuatl, the language of the Aztecs.

The paper, “The Language of Teotihuacan Writing,” is paywalled, but a free preprint, without the commentaries, is here; there’s Reddit commentary here (“Magnus is an excellent scholar and Nahuatl linguist and I take his ideas seriously”) and here (“it is the first time i see an abstract with a version in nahuatl (beside english and spanish). neat”). Thanks for the great collection of links go to Y, who adds:

The crux is that the rebus principle which has been tried before to interpret the script had assumed a language similar to Classical Nahuatl. Pharao Hansen has been working for a while on strengthening the evidence for a Nahuatl-Corachol subfamily. They argue that the protolanguage yields a better fit for the Teotihuacan rebuses than the Nahuatl of a thousand years later.

I hope it turns out to work as well as the Linear B decipherment!