lingüística

words & concepts

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  • Aaah, verbs. It is in verbs and conjugations that languages really reveal their richness. Today we'll focus on verbs of a particular type. In Latin they seem to be classified as "semi-deponent":

    Additionally, four Latin verbs (audēre, to dare; gaudēre, to rejoice; solēre, to be accustomed; and fīdere, to trust) are called semi-deponent, because though they look passive in their perfect forms, they are semantically active in all forms.

    Not sure if that is exactly what we're looking for, but close enough. What interests us here are verbs that express in one word (the conjuguated verb itself), in one language, what would take several words in another one.

    Let's start with the solēre [la] example from above. It's very common in Spanish as soler [es] -- to usually do. Yet it does exist in all Latin-derived languages, even in French there is souloir [fr], although it's not in common use.

    The good surprise though is its existence in German: pflegen zu [de].

    Speaking of German, it has the beautiful stimmen [de] -- to be true, as well as gelten [de] -- to be valid.

    Czech, on the other hand, has bodnout [cs] -- to be useful, or even to hit the spot [en], stonat [cs] to be sick (active), ochořet [cs] to get sick (passive). Regarding the latter: enfermarse [es], ammalarsi [it], sich enkranken [de]. Czech also has stydět se [cs] to be ashamed... How would you use the imperative with "to be ashamed" In English? "Be ashamed!"? Bah, no good. Also, zout [cs] -- to take somebody's shoes off. Indeed, how could a language not have a verb for that.

    1. מָשִׁיחַ : messiah [en], which you know thanks to our old buddy Jošua Pomazaný (sorry, the Czech translation of the world's favorite Jewish heretic's name beats the Greek one).

    2. כֶּלֶב : clebs [fr] or clébard [fr], that is: dog [en] -- which, on the other hand, is a false friend with דָּג, fish [en]. Tastes similar I guess, but remember that like סוּס it's not כָּשֵׁר.

    3. פעמיים נקודתיים : double colon [en] or Scope Resolution Operator [en]. Yes, if you're one of those useless idiots who want to boycott Jewish Israeli products, hiding your antisemitic hatred under new names, then start by not posting the boycott calls on facebook, which runs on PHP. You might also ponder how much easier it would be to boycott the products of all the combined enemies of אֶרֶץ יִשְׂרָאֵל‬ , and what it says about why exactly they hate it so much, and why that makes that the worst type of evil.

    4. בָּבֶל : Babel [en], whence babelist [en] (introduced by un servidor [es]), what we've been denouncing relentlessly here.

    5. שֵׁכָר : liquor, but ended up as cider [en].

    6. גָּמָל : camel [en].

    7. אַבָּא : father, the first Hebrew word you learn when learning the hebrew abjad. Ended up as abbé [fr], which is sort of a monk so you can call him father.

    8. פַּרְוָה: pareve, Of food: that has no meat or milk in any form as an ingredient. Well that one's from Yiddish actually, possibly even from Czech párové [cs]? An essential word, e.g. if you're looking for vegan Swiss chocolate, well there is some made pareve (so that it can be enjoyed as dessert right after a meat meal, according to Jewish dietary rules).

    9. אָמֵן : amen [en]

    10. Well more than one, as a bonus, all of the weekdays, just like in Portuguese:
    he#pt
    יוֹם רִאשׁוֹן1-xDomingo
    יוֹם שֵׁנִי2-2Segunda-feira
    יוֹם שְׁלִישִׁי3-3Terça-feira
    יום רביעי4-4Quarta-feira
    יוֹם חֲמִישִׁי5-5Quinta-feira
    יוֹם שִׁישִׁי6-6Sexta-feira
    יום שבתx-xSábado
  • If you think typography doesn't matter, think about how much meaning can be contained in a simple dash.

    Look carefully at the last row of this table.

    What do you think the dash in the second column means?

    Each line is an administrative region of the Soviet Union. The two grouped sections are regions of Ukraine and Kazakhstan.

    The last line is a little different. Лагеря НКВД [ru]. What could it mean? Well let's see what the table is about. It's an executive order, listing quotas of people to either execute (first column) or send to the Лагеря НКВД [ru] (second column). The third column is the total.

    The order is signed by Николай Иванович Ежов, the chief of that same НКВД, under orders from Иосиф Сталин.

    Лагеря is the plural of Лагер, which is literally the German word Lager [de], as in Konzentrationslager [de].

    НКВД's Lagers: the concentration camps administered by the NKVD, Stalin's political police, also known as the Gulag. The term Gulag is a semi-acronym, ГУЛаг, in which Лаг is short for Lager: it means simply the Main Administration of the Lagers -- of the concentration camps.

    The Czechs, who suffered both German and Russian flavors of socialist totalitarianism, also refer to those camps as lágr [cs], directly borrowed from German, and use the term to refer to both versions of the totalitarian camps. In some cases, the very same camps, conveniently placed close to uranium mines, switched directly from the National Socialist to the Socialist regime*. The term can also be applied to North Korea's contemporary concentration camps.

    So the last line is the camps itself, hence the dash: even among the zek population, there were still death quotas to be met (to pick among those lucky enough to have survived transportation, extreme cold, hunger, maltreatment, and a work sometimes consisting of literally digging a useless canal with bare hands).

    Does it make sense to list it as a region? Well Солженицын thought so: in his magnum opus [la] Архипелаг ГУЛАГ [ru] (it only rhymes in Russian), he describes the camp system as a separate country, a chain of islands:

    Мы поняли потому, что сами были из тех присутствующих, из того единственного на земле могучего племени зэков, которое только и могло охотно съесть тритона.

    А Колыма была — самый крупный и знаменитый остров, полюс лютости этой удивительной страны ГУЛАГ, географией разодранной в архипелаг, но психологией скованной в континент, — почти невидимой, почти неосязаемой страны, которую и населял народ зэков.

     

    We understood because we ourselves were the same kind of people as those present at that event. We, too, were from that powerful tribe of zeks, unique on the face of the earth, the only people who could devour prehistoric salamander with relish.

    And the Kolyma was the greatest and most famous island, the pole of ferocity of that amazing country of Gulag which, though scattered in an Archipelago geographically, was, in the psychological sense, fused into a continent — an almost invisible, almost imperceptible country inhabited by the zek people.

    The Czech translation of the same passage is also interesting:

    Pochopili jsme to proto, že jsme sami patřili k oněm přítomným, k onomu mohutnému, na celé zeměkouli ojedinělému kmeni zeků neboli muklů, kteří jedině byli s to s chutí pozřít mloka.

    Kolyma byla největší a nejproslulejší ostrov, pól krutosti oné podivné země Gulag, roztříštěné svou geografií na souostroví, avšak stmelené svou psychologií v kontinent, oné skoro neviditelné a nehmatatelné země, jež byla zalidněna národem zeků.

    It introduces an alternate term for zek, mukl, which is a reverse acronym for muž určený k likvidaci [cs] (man destined for liquidation), and was used in relation to the Czechoslovak equivalent of the Gulag, the TNPs.

    How did you immigrate into this particular country? Well, as Солженицын says, the fastest way was through арест [ru] -- arrest in English, same Old French etymology through German. But how to get arrested? Well, you had to become an enemy of the people (враг народа), ideally an enemy of the workers (враг трудящихся). The concept dates back all the way to the Roman republic (hostis publicus [la]), but was undoubtedly given its lettres de noblesse [fr] through Robespierre as ennemi du peuple [fr] during la Terreur [fr].

    How did you become an enemy of the people? Well that was quite easy -- only three people to convince (or at least two of them!), a тройка [ru] or trojka [cs], which somehow were considered valid representatives of The Will of The People -- a linguistic anti-concept in itself.

    * The Czechoslovak uranium mines were of strategic importance both to the National Socialists and the Soviet Socialists. The Czechoslovak production was directly shipped to the Soviet Union, of course. Political prisoners were literally worked to death, mining and sorting uranium without any special protective clothes. The same policy was practiced in the Soviet Union itself:

    Under the supervision of Lavrenty Beria who headed both NKVD and the Soviet atom bomb program until his demise in 1953, thousands of zeks (Gulag inmates) were used to mine uranium ore and prepare test facilities on Novaya Zemlya, Vaygach Island, Semipalatinsk, among other sites.

    Of course, there was some consistency in that: the environment wasn't treated any better, as shown by disasters such as Lake Karachay and Kyshtym. And what could make more sense than to destroy the environment and use up antisocialist workers, in order to build an atomic program based on technology stolen from the capitalists, in order to prove the superiority of socialism over capitalism? And what could be more consistent than to literally murder people by making them mine uranium, in order to build weapons of mass destruction such as to be able to potentially murder even more people, not to mention a nuclear apocalypse and quasi-annihilation of the human species? The ends are the means, товарищ [ru].

  • Have you ever wondered whence the name Jesus Christ comes from? As a series of characters, in Latin alphabet, with a given pronunciation in the English language? I mean, the guy spoke Aramaic*: you can be quite sure that no one, ever, called him Jesus Christ.

    * I haven't started Hebrew yet, so consider this part of the etymologycal digging still opened. From what I gather though, anno zero [it] contemporaneous Hebrew and Aramaic are pretty close and their abjads are similar.

    Jesus

    Let's start with the first name. In a spelling closer to original pronunciation, it's something like Yeshua from Hebrew or Eashoa from Aramaic. The spelling drifted after two transliterations, through Greek to Latin. But mere transliterations don't explain the whole difference: part of it is also due to Greek grammar:

    Since Greek had no equivalent to the semitic letter ש‎ shin [ʃ], it was replaced with a σ sigma [s], and a masculine singular ending [-s] was added in the nominative case, in order to allow the name to be inflected for case (nominative, accusative, etc.) in the grammar of the Greek language.

    So we have an English evolution of a Latin name transliterated from Greek transliterated and adapted from Hebrew/Aramaic.

    Why not just use a direct transliteration from Hebrew/Aramaic?

    Christ

    Last name gets even more interesting:

    From Ancient Greek Χριστός (Khristós), proper noun use of χριστός (khristós, “the anointed one”), a calque of Hebrew מָשִׁיחַ (māshīaχ, “anointed”).

    So we have an English evolution of a Latin transliteration from Greek, with the Greek itself being a calque/translation of a Hebrew/Aramaic word.

    Now since that is but a regular word, we have three options, from worst to best:

    • use a correct transliteration from Greek;

    • use a correct transliteration from Hebrew/Aramaic;

    • use an actual translation/calque.

    Transliteration from Greek

    χριστός (khristós, “the anointed one”)

    Well, that's actually a tough one. Notice that the Greek χ gets transliterated as kh, whereas the Latin was ch. Apparently (we can't really know for sure now, can we?) the pronunciation of both the Greek χριστός and the Latin Christus was indeed kh.

    Now here it gets interesting. The pronunciation of most European languages drifted towards a plain k, as in Christ [en], Christ [fr], Kristus [cs], etc.

    On the other hand, Greek kept the same spelling, but the χ pronunciation evolved from Ancient Greek to Modern Greek from kh to ch (as in loch ness [en], or all German or Czech ch.)

    Russian gets real fun though. The pronunciation is consistent with the modern Greek one -- but why?

    The Russian х matches the Modern Greek χ in visual appearence and current pronucunciation -- but not Ancient Greek. Strangely enough though, English and French transliterations of Russian seem to match the Ancient Greek pronunciation of the letter. Go figure.

    Transliteration from Hebrew/Aramaic

    Hebrew מָשִׁיחַ (māshīaχ, “anointed”)

    Doesn't that sound familiar? Indeed:

    From Latin Messias, from Hellenistic Ancient Greek Μεσσίας (Messías), from Aramaic משיחא (məšīḥā), from Biblical Hebrew מָשִׁיחַ (māšîaḥ, “anointed”).

    Messiah! Wait now, does that imply people commit pleonasms -- a sin akin to blasphemy in my book -- whenever they write Our Messiah Jesus Christ? Yes, it does.

    Actual translation

    Hebrew מָשִׁיחַ (māshīaχ, “anointed”)

    I mean, come on, Yeshua The Anointed [en] doesn't sound so bad. Better than Jošua Pomazaný [cs], and definitely better than Josué-le-Oint (L'oint [fr], from beautiful French verb oindre [fr]), maybe "Ouin-Ouin" pour les intimes [fr]?

    Jesus H. Christ!

    Are these transliteration and translation drifts deliberate? If we consider the renaming of all saints (e.g. John, Juan, João, etc.), it seems more likely that there was a deliberate design to make the religion look more local and not from abroad -- the bad kind of abroad, of course. And especially, to make it a distinct local tradition séculaire [fr], that is, our own local religion -- as opposed to the heresy of some Jewish "foreigners" in some Middle East one-horse town some two odd thousand years ago.