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The topic of the ancient polity known as Caucasian Albania has come up a number of times here at LH (first, I think, in 2004), and I’ve always found it intriguing; now De Gruyter Mouton has published Caucasian Albania: An International Handbook and made it Open Access, so we can all enjoy it. The section of most direct LH relevance is The Heritage of Caucasian Albanian, including the following chapters:

Jost Gippert, The Textual Heritage of Caucasian Albanian 95
Jost Gippert and Wolfgang Schulze, The Language of the Caucasian Albanians 167
Wolfgang Schulze and Jost Gippert, Caucasian Albanian and Modern Udi 231
Igor Dorfmann-Lazarev, The Udis’ Petition to Tsar Peter 261

The other sections are Caucasian Albania in Foreign Sources, The Caucasian Albanian Church, and Architecture and Archaeology. The conclusion of “Caucasian Albanian and Modern Udi”:

As we have seen, many divergences between Caucasian Albanian and the modern Udi language can easily be explained as diachronic changes that were induced either by system-internal factors or by the influence of neighbouring languages, and Albanian may thus well be regarded as an ancestor of Udi. This implies that for the question of their affiliation with other East Caucasian languages, Albanian must be taken as the starting point. However, with the abandonment of class agreement, the introduction of a system of person markers, the abundant use of clause subordination including relative clauses, and many other features, Albanian had already moved away considerably from what can be assumed to have been the common linguistic basis of the Lezgic subgroup of East Caucasian before the translations of biblical texts that we find in the palimpsests were accomplished.

Hooray for Open Access!

Monica Westin writes at Aeon about the prehistory of internet searching, something entirely unknown to me:

Throughout an unusually sunny Fall in 1970, hundreds of students and faculty at Syracuse University sat one at a time before a printing computer terminal (similar to an electric typewriter) connected to an IBM 360 mainframe located across campus in New York state. Almost none of them had ever used a computer before, let alone a computer-based information retrieval system. Their hands trembled as they touched the keyboard; several later reported that they had been afraid of breaking the entire system as they typed.

The participants were performing their first online searches, entering carefully chosen words to find relevant psychology abstracts in a brand-new database. […] Participants had trouble signing on to the system and experienced unpredictable failures, ‘irrelevant output’ and, most of all, not knowing ‘what words to use in a search’. Yet they also found the system intriguing and exciting (‘fun’, ‘thorough’, ‘I dig computers’), and 94 per cent said they would use SUPARS (the Syracuse University Psychological Abstracts Retrieval Service) again if it were available. Several offered to keep the experiment running past its deadline by asking their departments to contribute funding to the project.

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Trick question — it’s both! A couple of links sent in by generous Hatters provide illustrations:

1) AI has brought back 15 languages people haven’t heard for centuries, by Tod Perry for Upworthy:

The folks at Equator AI are giving people a realistic idea of what people in ancient civilizations sounded like by recreating the languages of 15 languages that haven’t been heard in centuries. In the video, the languages are spoken by computer-generated recreations of people who lived in that era.

The languages are Old Norse, Mayan, Latin, Middle Chinese, Old English, Old Japanese, Old Church Slavonic, Proto-Celtic, Middle Egyptian, Ryukyuan, Ancient Greek, Phoenician, Hittite, Quechua, and Akkadian. Yes, some of them aren’t extinct and others are so insecurely reconstructed that you have to wonder how they came up with texts to read — not to mention that it would be nice to see the texts — but still, it’s fun. Thanks, Martin!

2) ChatGPT Is Cutting Non-English Languages Out of the AI Revolution, by Paresh Dave for WIRED:

[…] the dominance of English in global commerce is real. [Pascale] Fung, director of the Center for AI Research at the Hong Kong University of Science and Technology, who herself speaks seven languages, sees this bias in her own field. “If you don’t publish papers in English, you’re not relevant,” she says. “Non-English speakers tend to be punished professionally.”

Fung would like to see AI change that, not further reinforce the primacy of English. She’s part of a global community of AI researchers testing the language skills of ChatGPT and its rival chatbots and sounding the alarm about evidence that they are significantly less capable in languages other than English.

Thanks, Bathrobe!

I got this from Avva, and I confess that while I was reading it (in Russian), I assumed it was a rant from relatively recent times — say, my grandfather’s day. Imagine my surprise when I got to the end and discovered it was from the 14th century! Thus I made the acquaintance of Richard de Bury’s Philobiblon, online here in an English translation by Ernest Chester Thomas (and here in Latin); here’s the passage (from ch. XVII) quoted by Avva:

You may happen to see some headstrong youth lazily lounging over his studies, and when the winter’s frost is sharp, his nose running from the nipping cold drips down, nor does he think of wiping it with his pocket-handkerchief until he has bedewed the book before him with the ugly moisture. Would that he had before him no book, but a cobbler’s apron! His nails are stuffed with fetid filth as black as jet, with which he marks any passage that pleases him. He distributes a multitude of straws, which he inserts to stick out in different places, so that the halm may remind him of what his memory cannot retain. These straws, because the book has no stomach to digest them, and no one takes them out, first distend the book from its wonted closing, and at length, being carelessly abandoned to oblivion, go to decay. He does not fear to eat fruit or cheese over an open book, or carelessly to carry a cup to and from his mouth; and because he has no wallet at hand he drops into books the fragments that are left. Continually chattering, he is never weary of disputing with his companions, and while he alleges a crowd of senseless arguments, he wets the book lying half open in his lap with sputtering showers. Aye, and then hastily folding his arms he leans forward on the book, and by a brief spell of study invites a prolonged nap; and then, by way of mending the wrinkles, he folds back the margin of the leaves, to the no small injury of the book. Now the rain is over and gone, and the flowers have appeared in our land. Then the scholar we are speaking of, a neglecter rather than an inspecter of books, will stuff his volume with violets, and primroses, with roses and quatrefoil. Then he will use his wet and perspiring hands to turn over the volumes; then he will thump the white vellum with gloves covered with all kinds of dust, and with his finger clad in long-used leather will hunt line by line through the page; then at the sting of the biting flea the sacred book is flung aside, and is hardly shut for another month, until it is so full of the dust that has found its way within, that it resists the effort to close it.

But the handling of books is specially to be forbidden to those shameless youths, who as soon as they have learned to form the shapes of letters, straightway, if they have the opportunity, become unhappy commentators, and wherever they find an extra margin about the text, furnish it with monstrous alphabets, or if any other frivolity strikes their fancy, at once their pen begins to write it. There the Latinist and sophister and every unlearned writer tries the fitness of his pen, a practice that we have frequently seen injuring the usefulness and value of the most beautiful books.

Again, there is a class of thieves shamefully mutilating books, who cut away the margins from the sides to use as material for letters, leaving only the text, or employ the leaves from the ends, inserted for the protection of the book, for various uses and abuses—a kind of sacrilege which should be prohibited by the threat of anathema.

I join him in his anathema!

Via Laudator Temporis Acti, a quote from Iris Origo’s Leopardi: A Study in Solitude:

His interest in his own language, which had begun during his philological studies in his boyhood, was perhaps the only passion of his youth that never failed him.

… Il cor di tutte
Cose alfin sente sazietà, del sonno,
Della danza, del canto e dell’ amore,
Piacer più cari che il parlar di lingua;
Ma sazietà di lingua il cor non sente.*

Certainly the pages of the Zibaldone bear eloquent witness to the fact that, for Leopardi himself this statement was true! Some men have an addiction to drink, some to drugs, some to one particular human being: Leopardi had an addiction to words.¹²

* ‘The heart at last tires of all things: of sleep, dance, song, and even love—pleasures sweeter than the gift of words—but of words themselves, the heart is never tired.’ From Leopardi’s notes to the Canzoni, Poesie e Prose, vol. I, p. 152.

12. ‘The measure of a nation’s genius’, he affirmed, ‘is the richness of its language, and when a language is insufficient to render in translation the subtleties of another, it is a sure sign that it belongs to a less cultivated people.’ Zibaldone, I, pp. 730–1, 25 May 1821.

Works for me. (See the link for a comparison between the Leopardi quotation and a passage in Iliad 13.)

Academia.org provides us with “Toward Proto-Oti-Volta (A Work in Progress),” by one David Eddyshaw, a name that will not be unfamiliar to aficionados of the Hattery. The preface ends with this perhaps excessively modest paragraph:

In many ways the following work is perhaps better regarded as a set of suggestions (some better supported than others) for future directions of investigation, rather than any kind of compendium of settled conclusions. I hope to take up some of these suggestions myself, but would be even more pleased if I succeeded in encouraging others to do so. I have generally tried to err on the side of providing too much in the way of raw language data, rather than limiting myself to what is strictly needed to illustrate any particular point. This particularly the case with my fairly extensive summaries of the verb conjugation systems of the major Oti-Volta branches, where I include many details of perhaps questionable relevance in the hope of preparing the ground for a more rigorous attempt to trace the historical developments which led to such a bewildering variety of systems in the modern languages. At this stage far too much is unclear to me about proto-Oti-Volta to attempt anything more than this preliminary account, and it therefore seems appropriate to “show my work” quite extensively.

The list of references includes half a dozen by Urs Niggli, a wondrous name of which DE himself once said “Switzerland is probably full of them.” Thanks, JC!

Translator Lily Meyer writes about her process for Bright Wall/Dark Room (archived):

Not too long ago, I spoke to a writer acquaintance who is learning to translate. He was worried about a sentence that, as he put it, did not want to go from French to English. All his translations of it either changed the original’s meaning or were too ugly to tolerate. He was looking for permission to change the meaning. I gave it to him. I’d like to say I helped him give it to himself, but the truth is that I just told him to change it. Afterward, though, I walked him through the thought process to which I return every time I decide, as I often do, that a scrupulously or fundamentally correct translation of meaning is hideous, clunky, or in some other way unacceptable, and cannot remain in the English text I am creating.

My process has four parts, three of which I shared. […] First, I remind myself that my intentions toward the project I am translating are fundamentally good. I respect it and want to share it; I understand it; I want my translation to do the work and its author justice. Second, I remind myself—I wish this one were no longer necessary, for me or for anyone else—that translation is an art, and I am, therefore, an artist. My aesthetic judgment matters. Bearing those ideas in mind, I then test myself for literary bias. Do I dislike the sentence at hand because it is too far from the conventions of contemporary English-language prose? Does it make me itchy because it wouldn’t fly in a workshop, or because it might freak a publisher out? If the answer is yes, or could be yes, or if I have the slightest doubt that the answer might not be no, the sentence stays, to be revisited down the line. If I feel in my bones that the answer is no, it goes.

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Last night my wife and I watched If These Knishes Could Talk: Story of the New York Accent, on YouTube here. It’s pretty scattershot, and some of the choices of accompanying music are… odd, but it’s a lot of fun (especially, of course, if you’re NYC-adjacent), and I learned some things, for instance that not only is there a “New York accent” in ASL, but it has a special slang term for Harlem. I chuckled at Pete Hamill’s favorite El Diario headline, SERRANO DICE: YO NO SOY UN SCHMUCK. Oh, and the title is from a line of dialogue in a knish shop: “If these knishes could talk, they’d have a Brooklyn accent.”

The radio show A Way With Words had an episode last year called Gradu or Gradoo, an Unusual Word Meaning Gunk or Schmutz; this interested me greatly, because my wife’s family uses it (I have never heard it from anyone else). It’s only five minutes long, but if you don’t feel like listening, all the actual information is contained in this summary:

Kelly from Cincinnati, Ohio, says her father uses the word gradoo to mean “clutter” or “a bit of litter.” Also spelled gradu or gradeau, our listeners report using this word in a variety of ways, to mean “gunk,” “grime” and even “bits of meat left in a skillet used to make gravy.” It might be related to French gadoue, which once meant “manure.” It might also be somehow connected with the French Canadian expression gras dur [which] literally means “really fatty,” or figuratively “happy” or “lucky” or “fulfilled,” as in Il est gras dur, “He is happy,” although how that sense might connect with gradoo’s negative sense is unclear. What is clear is that it’s not just Kelly’s family who uses the word.

Both the lack of a good etymology and the sparse and seemingly random distribution are interesting, as is the fact that Green’s Dictionary of Slang has it only as “an excl. of frustration or disgust”:

1973 [US] Eble Campus Sl. Nov. 2: gradoo […] (literally bird faeces) : Gradoo, when is he ever going to grow up.

Anybody know anything about this satisfying but mysterious word?

My wife and I are reading Wallace Stegner’s novel Angle of Repose at night and enjoying it greatly; at the point we’ve reached, the narrator’s grandmother (whose story he’s telling) has joined her husband at the remote and brutal town of Leadville, Colorado, in 1879, and there is a mention of the nearby Sawatch Range. Naturally, I wanted to know how “Sawatch” was pronounced, so I googled and found that Wikipedia article, which said /səˈwætʃ/. That sounded a little implausible, so I thought I’d check the reference, which was “Merkl, Dameon (February 26, 2013), “What’s in a Colorado name pronunciation?”, The Denver Post” (archived version). I was glad I looked, because that piece is a treasure trove of unexpected pronunciations and has an amazingly descriptive point of view; some excerpts:

In a diversely populated state where place names stem from English, Spanish, French and American Indian origins, it’s hardly surprising that certain geographical pronunciations vary as much as the languages from which they sprang. But which pronunciations are correct? According to the University of Colorado’s Department of Linguistics chair, professor Andrew Cowell, there are two answers to that question.

“If you’re an academic purist, you might want to say that the pronunciation in the original language is correct. But in reality, I think most people realize that if you move to a new state or a new city, and you start saying something the wrong way, people start looking at you funny, and you eventually say it the way everybody else says it, right?”

Take Louisville, for example. “In Colorado, we say ‘lū ĭs vĭl’ for that town near Boulder,” says Cowell. “But if you go to Kentucky, they say ‘lū ē vĭl.’ If you try to say ‘lū ĭs vĭl’ in ‘lū ē vĭl,’ you’re going to get corrected every single time. So I think the existing local usage is really what has to be considered the correct pronunciation.” […]

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