By: Lizzie Furey,
on 10/19/2016
Curse is a much more complicated concept than blessing, because there are numerous ways to wish someone bad luck. Oral tradition (“folklore”) has retained countless examples of imprecations. Someone might want a neighbor’s cow to stop giving milk or another neighbor’s wife to become barren.
The post Blessing and cursing part 2: curse appeared first on OUPblog.
By: Lizzie Furey,
on 9/7/2016
This post has been written in response to a query from our correspondent. An answer would have taken up the entire space of my next “gleanings,” and I decided not to wait a whole month.
The post Our habitat: booth appeared first on OUPblog.
By: Stacy A. Nyikos,
on 1/7/2015
By: Sara Pinotti,
on 10/19/2014
It’s fairly common knowledge that languages, like people, have families. English, for instance, is a member of the Germanic family, with sister languages including Dutch, German, and the Scandinavian languages. Germanic, in turn, is a branch of a larger family, Indo-European, whose other members include the Romance languages (French, Italian, Spanish, and more), Russian, Greek, and Persian.
Being part of a family of course means that you share a common ancestor. For the Romance languages, that mother language is Latin; with the spread and then fall of the Roman empire, Latin split into a number of distinct daughter languages. But what did the Germanic mother language look like? Here there’s a problem, because, although we know that language must have existed, we don’t have any direct record of it.
The earliest Old English written texts date from the 7th century AD, and the earliest Germanic text of any length is a 4th-century translation of the Bible into Gothic, a now-extinct Germanic language. Though impressively old, this text still dates from long after the breakup of the Germanic mother language into its daughters.
How does one go about recovering the features of a language that is dead and gone, and which has left no records of itself in spoken or written form? This is the subject matter of linguistic necromancy – or linguistic reconstruction, as it is more conventionally known.
The enterprise, dubbed “darkest of the dark arts” and “the only means to conjure up the ghosts of vanished centuries” in the epigraph to a chapter of Campbell’s historical linguistics textbook, really got off the ground in the 1900s due to a development of a toolkit of techniques known as the comparative method.
Crucial to the comparative method was a revolutionary empirical finding: the regularity of sound change. Though it has wide-reaching implications, the basic finding is simple to grasp. In a nutshell: it’s sounds that change, not words, and when they change, all words which include those sounds are affected.
Let’s take an example. Lots of English words beginning with a p sound have a German counterpart that begins with pf. Here are some of them:
If the forms of words simply changed at random, these systematic correspondences would be a miraculous coincidence. However, in the light of the regularity of sound change they make perfect sense. Specifically, at some point in the early history of German, the language sounded a lot more like (Old) English. But then the sound p underwent a change to pf at the beginning of words, and all words starting with p were affected.
There’s much more to be said about the regularity of sound change, since it underlies pretty much everything we know about language family groupings. (If you’re interested in finding out more, Guy Deutscher’s book The Unfolding of Language provides an accessible summary.) But for now let’s concentrate on its implications for necromantic purposes, which are immense.
If we want to invoke the words and sounds of a long-dead language like the mother language Proto-Germanic (the ‘proto-’ indicates that the language is reconstructed, rather than directly evidenced in texts), we just need to figure out what changes have happened to the sounds of the daughter languages, and to peel them back one by one like the layers of an onion. Eventually we’ll reach a point where all the daughter languages sound the same; and voilà, we’ve conjured up a proto-language.
There’s more to living languages than just sounds and words though. Living languages have syntax: a structure, a skeleton. By contrast, reconstructed protolanguages tend to look more like ghosts: hauntingly amorphous clouds of words and sounds. There are practical reasons why the reconstruction of proto-syntax has lagged behind. One is simply that our understanding of syntax, in general, has come a long way since the work of the reconstruction pioneers in the 19th century.
Another is that there is nothing quite like the regularity of syntactic change in syntax: how can we tell which syntactic structures correspond to each other across languages? These problems have led some to be sceptical about the possibility of syntactic reconstruction, or at any rate about its fruitfulness. Nevertheless, progress is being made. To take one example, English is a language that doesn’t like to leave out the subject of a sentence. We say “He speaks Swahili” or “It is raining”, not “Speaks Swahili” or “Is raining”. Though most of the modern Germanic languages behave the same, many other languages, like Italian and Japanese, have no such requirement; speakers can include or omit the subject of the sentence as the fancy takes them. Was Proto-Germanic like English, or like Italian or Japanese, in this respect? Doing a bit of necromancy based on the earliest Germanic written records suggests that Proto-Germanic was, like the latter, quite happy to omit the subject, at least under certain circumstances.Of course the issue is more complex than that – Italian and Japanese themselves differ with regard to the circumstances under which subjects can be omitted.
Slowly but surely, though, historical linguists are starting to add skeletons to the reanimated spectres of proto-languages.
The post Linguistic necromancy: a guide for the uninitiated appeared first on OUPblog.
By: Jennie,
on 10/5/2012
You gotta love a book that references Leonard Cohen on the second page. With a big ol' picture of him, too.
Tim's a student who sees the woman of his dreams. He doesn't know her, but her address falls out of her bag, so he takes a risk and emails her. Only... it wasn't her email address. Amelie is NOT the girl of Tim's dreams, but her reply charms him, so he writes back and writes back, until she caves. It's a very sweet relationship the develops as Amelia tries to figure out what to do about her new feelings for Tim and some negative feelings with her very serious long-distance boyfriend.
Format wise, this one's much closer to Middle School is Worse than Meatloaf as we get a much better visual on the notes, flowers that are also sent, phones used in text messages (you actually tell the who's texting who because their phones are different.)
Interestingly, even though this is a German book, it takes place in Canada.
It's a short, sweet read that's a great use of the stuff format.
Book Provided by... my wallet
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By: Melissa Wiley,
on 9/10/2012
New Thicklebit: Tats for Tots.
New interview: Writing on the Sidewalk.
Foreign language app we are finding irresistible, with a deliciously mockable edge: Earworms. (I learned about it at GeekMom. Rose and Beanie are using the German; Jane, the Japanese. Rose likes it so much she ponied up her own funds for the Arabic.)
Other resources Jane is using to learn Japanese (answering Ellie‘s question from my learning notes blog): Pimsleur Approach audio program (check your library for these); Free Japanese Lessons; Learn Japanese Adventure (another free site).
I had such a fun time yesterday recording a Brave Writer podcast with Julie Bogart and her son. I’ll let you know when it goes live! The Prairie Thief is the October selection for Brave Writer’s Arrow program—a monthly digital language arts curriculum featuring a different work of fiction in each installment. Brave Writer is one of the first resources I ever gushed about on this blog, way back in 2005. 
And as you’ll discover in the podcast, Julie Bogart was the blogger who inspired me to start Bonny Glen in the first place!
By: Alice,
on 2/15/2012
Unlike hogwash or, for example, flapdoodle, the noun balderdash is a word of “uncertain” (some authorities even say of “unknown”) origin. However, what is “known” about it is probably sufficient for questioning the disparaging epithets. We can dismiss with a condescending smile all kinds of imaginative rubbish (balderdash?) proposed by those who believed that knowing one or two old languages is enough for discovering an etymology, but one such guess is curious. According to it, the English noun goes back to Hebrew Bal, allegedly contracted from Babel, and dabar. The “curiosity” consists in the fact that there is a German verb (aus)baldowern “to nose out a secret or some information” (aus- is a prefix), from the language of the underworld. It goes back to Yiddish, ultimately Hebrew, ba’al-dabar “the lord of the word or of the thing” (ba’al has nothing to do with Babel). Thus, a fanciful etymology suggested for one word in English fits a German word of similar structure.
An equally ingenious attempt to supply balderdash with divine ancestry takes us all the way to the north. Engl. jovial, from French, from Italian, from Latin, was coined with the sense “under the influence of the planet Jupiter” (which astrologists regarded as the source of happiness”; compare by Jove!). The name of the most beautiful Scandinavian god was Baldr, Anglicized as Balder. Inspired by those facts, a resourceful author wrote in 1826: “The vilest of prose and poetry is called balder-dash; now Balder was among the Scandinavians the presiding god of poetry and eloquence.” Poor Baldr (who, incidentally, had nothing to do with poetry and eloquence)! As though it was not enough to be murdered at the Assembly with the mistletoe… He also had to bear the responsibility for enriching the English language with the word balderdash, which surfaced only at the end of the sixteenth century, millennia after the heinous deed.
As often in such cases, it remains unclear whether the word under discussion is native or borrowed. Not surprisingly, Spanish baldon(e)ar “to insult” and Welsh baldorddus “tattling” have been cited as possible etymons of balderdash. The trouble with Celtic words is that, even when the connection looks good, we cannot always ascertain the direction of borrowing (for example, from English to Welsh or from Welsh to English?). The history of English etymology is full of the Celtomaniacs who traced hundreds of words to Irish Gaelic, and of passionate deniers, who refused to believe that any Celtic language had the power to influence English. Besides, as one should never tire of repeating, it is not enough to point to a similar-sounding word in a foreign language without reconstructing the path of penetration. When and in what circumstances could a Spanish verb become so popular in England that English speakers adopted it as their slang (and a noun into the bargain)?
Pushkin’s Balda watching the old devil’s grandson who is trying to carry a mare after Balda easily “carried” it between his legs (that is, simply rode it).
By: Michael Thorn,
on 12/13/2011
The Helpful Elves by August Kopish, one of many classic children's book reprints given a fresh existence by the splendid Floris Books
'Based on a well-known poem by Kopisch (1799-1853) and illustrated in muted tones by Braun-Fock (1898-1973), the charm of this tale lies in the tiny elf tabs found at the top of each page. Together in a row, 10 elves are perched expectantly -- each made distinct with a different smile or a long white beard -- forming a miniature audience to watch readers. One can almost hear them gleefully giggling at the comeuppance they know is coming at the end. An enchanting, if abrupt, piece of German lore brought to a new audience. The lesson, curiosity killed the cat, rings true in all cultures.' -- KIRKUS
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By: admin,
on 10/31/2011
The Weed That Strings the Hangman’s BagBradley, Alan. (2010) The Weed That Strings the Hangman’s Bag. (The Flavia de Luce Series) Bantam, division of Random House. ISBN 978-0385343459. Litland recommends ages 14-100!
Publisher’s description: Flavia de Luce, a dangerously smart eleven-year-old with a passion for chemistry and a genius for solving murders, thinks that her days of crime-solving in the bucolic English hamlet of Bishop’s Lacey are over—until beloved puppeteer Rupert Porson has his own strings sizzled in an unfortunate rendezvous with electricity. But who’d do such a thing, and why? Does the madwoman who lives in Gibbet Wood know more than she’s letting on? What about Porson’s charming but erratic assistant? All clues point toward a suspicious death years earlier and a case the local constables can’t solve—without Flavia’s help. But in getting so close to who’s secretly pulling the strings of this dance of death, has our precocious heroine finally gotten in way over her head? (Bantam Books)
Flavia De Luce is back and in full force! Still precocious. Still brilliant. Still holding an unfortunate fascination with poisons…
As with the first book of the series, The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie, we begin with a seemingly urgent, if not sheer emergency, situation that once again turns out to be Flavia’s form of play. We also see the depth of her sister’s cruelty as they emotionally badger their little sister, and Flavia’s immediate plan for the most cruel of poisoned deaths as revenge. Readers will find themselves chuckling throughout the book!
And while the family does not present the best of role models (smile), our little heroine does demonstrate good character here and there as she progresses through this adventure. As explained in my first review on this series, the protagonist may be 11 but that doesn’t mean the book was written for 11-year olds :>) For readers who are parents, however (myself included), we shudder to wonder what might have happened if we had bought that chemistry kit for our own kids!
Alas, the story has much more to it than mere chemistry. The author’s writing style is incredibly rich and entertaining, with too many amusing moments to even give example of here. From page 1 the reader is engaged and intrigued, and our imagination is easily transported into the 1950’s Post WWII England village. In this edition of the series, we have more perspective of Flavia as filled in by what the neighbors know and think of her. Quite the manipulative character as she flits around Bishop’s Lacy on her mother’s old bike, Flavia may think she goes unnoticed but begins to learn not all are fooled…
The interesting treatment of perceptions around German prisoners of war from WWII add historical perspective, and Flavia’s critical view of villagers, such as the Vicar’s mean wife and their sad relationship, fill in character profiles with deep colors. Coupled with her attention to detail that helps her unveil the little white lies told by antagonists, not a word is wasted in this story.
I admit to being enviou
By: Lauren,
on 5/25/2011
Because of the frequency of the words the, this, that, these, those, them, their, there, then, and with, the letter h probably occurs in our texts more often than any other (for Shakespeare’s epoch thee and thou should have been added). But then of course we have think, three, though, through, thousand, and words with ch, sh, ph, and gh. Despite the prominence of h in written English its status is entirely undeserved, because it performs its most important historical task, namely to designate the sound in words like have, hire, home, and so forth only in word and morpheme initial position (the latter as in rehire, dehydrated, and the like).
The history of h is dramatic. Germanic experienced a change known as the First Consonant Shift (a big shock, as the capitalization above shows). When we compare Latin quod “what” (pronounced kwod) and its Old English cognate hwæt (the same meaning; pronounced with the vowel of Modern Engl. at), we see that Engl. h corresponds to Latin k. A series of such regular correspondences separates Germanic from its non-Germanic Indo-European “relatives,” and this is what the shift is all about. The k ~ h pair is only one of nearly a dozen. When the shifted k arose more than two thousand year ago, it had the sound value of ch in Scots loch, but then the weakening of Germanic consonants set in (linguists call this process lenition), and the guttural sound was one of its casualties: it stopped being guttural and became “mere breath,” as we now have in home and hell. Degraded to breath, or aspiration, h began to disappear. In no other Germanic language has the habit of dropping one’s h’s advanced as far as in English, but it can be observed in all its modern and medieval neighbors, especially in popular speech. For example, in the delightful Middle Dutch narrative poem about the arch-scoundrel Reineke Fox (the French call the beast Reynard) h is dropped on a scale unthinkable in Modern Dutch. Standard English frowns upon h-less words, but in a few cases they managed to assert themselves. For instance, the form preceding modern them was hem, and that is why we say tell’em: it is not th that has been shed, but h. However, what the sound h has lost in pronunciation, the letter h has more than regained on paper.
Each case—the introduction of ch, sh, and gh—deserves a special essay, but I will devote this post only to th. Today th designates a voiceless consonant (as in cloth) and a voiced one (as in clothe). Both sounds existed in Old English, though their occurrence and distribution were partly different from what we find in the modern language, and there were special letters for them—þ (voiceless) and ð (voiced). They go back to the form of two ancient runes. But from early on the Romance tradition became dominant in Germanic scriptoriums: in German, Dutch, and English we find the digraphs (that is, two-letter groups) dh and th. Dh did not stay anywhere, but th did and is ambiguous, for, at least theoretically, it could be used f
By: Lauren,
on 5/18/2011
(The first word was larrup.)
Lunker seems to be well-known in the United States and very little in British English. Mark Twain used lunkhead “blockhead.” Lunker surfaced in books later, but lunkhead must have been preceded by lunk, whatever it meant. In today’s American English, lunker has several unappetizing and gross connotations, and we will let them be: one cannot constantly deal with turd and genitals. Only two senses bear upon etymological discussion: “a very big object” and “big game fish.” From the meager facts at my disposal I am apt to conclude that “big fish” is secondary, so that the word hardly arose in the lingo of fishermen. Also, lunkhead probably alluded to someone with a big head “typical of an idiot,” as they used to say.
In dictionaries I was able to find only one conjecture on the origin of lunker. The Random House Unabridged Dictionary (RHD) suggested that it might be a blend of lump and hunk. Unless we know for certain that a word is a blend (cf. smog, brunch, motel, blog, gliberal, Eurasia, Tolstoevsky, and the like), it is impossible to prove that some lexical unit is the product of merger: for instance, squirm is perhaps a blend of squirt and worm but perhaps not. I suspect that RHD’s idea was suggested by The Century Dictionary, which, although it offers no derivation of lunkhead and does not list lunker, refers under lummox “an unwieldy, clumsy, stupid fellow” (“probably ultimately connected with lump”) to British dialectal lummakin “heavy; awkward.” Lump turned up first only in Middle English. It has numerous cognates in Dutch, German, and the Scandinavian languages and seems to have developed from the basic meaning “a shapeless mass.” No impassable barrier separates lunk- from lump-, for n and m constantly alternate in roots, and final -p and -k are also good partners (see the previous post). German Lumpen means “rag,” and a rag may be understood as a shapeless mass or something hanging loose. It is the semantics that complicates our search for the etymology of lunker: we need cognates that mean “a big thing,” and they refuse to appear. Lump does provide a clue to the history of lunker; by contrast, hump may be left out of the picture: we have enough trouble without it.
Joseph Wright included lunkered (not lunker!) in The English Dialect Dictionary, but without specifying his sources or saying, as he often did: “Not known to our informants.” His definition is curt: “(of hair) tangled; Lincolnshire.” He also cited several other similar northern (English and Scots) words, of which especially instructive are lunk “heave up and down (as a ship); walk with a quick uneven, rolling motion; limp” and lunkie “a hole left for the admission of animals.” Unlike larrup, discussed in the previous post, lunker did find its way into my database. A single citation occurs in The Essex Review for 1936. The Reverend W. J. Pressey quotes a 1622 entry in a diary: “Absent from Church, and for ‘lunkering’ a poor woman’s house in great Sampford, to the great fear and terror of the said poor woman.” He comments:
“This word is derived from the Scandinavian. ‘Lunkere
By: Lauren,
on 3/2/2011
The surprising thing about the runic alu (on which see the last January post), the probable etymon of ale, is its shortness. The protoform was a bit longer and had t after u, but the missing part contributed nothing to the word’s meaning. To show how unpredictable the name of a drink may be (before we get back to ale), I’ll quote a passage from Ralph Thomas’s letter to Notes and Queries for 1897 (Series 8, volume XII, p. 506). It is about the word fives, as in a pint of fives, which means “…‘four ale’ and ‘six ale’ mixed, that is, ale at fourpence a quart and sixpence a quart. Here is another: ‘Black and tan.’ This is stout and mild mixed. Again, ‘A glass of mother-in-law’ is old ale and bitter mixed.” Think of an etymologist who will try to decipher this gibberish in two thousand years! We are puzzled even a hundred years later.
Prior to becoming a drink endowed with religious significance, ale was presumably just a beverage, and its name must have been transparent to those who called it alu, but we observe it in wonder. On the other hand, some seemingly clear names of alcoholic drinks may also pose problems. Thus, Russian vodka, which originally designated a medicinal concoction of several herbs, consists of vod-, the diminutive suffix k, and the feminine ending a. Vod- means “water,” but vodka cannot be understood as “little water”! The ingenious conjectures on the development of this word, including an attempt to dissociate vodka from voda “water,” will not delay us here. The example only shows that some of the more obvious words belonging to the semantic sphere of ale may at times turn into stumbling blocks. More about the same subject next week.
Hypotheses on the etymology of ale go in several directions. According to one, ale is related to Greek aluein “to wander, to be distraught.” The Greek root alu- can be seen in hallucination, which came to English from Latin. The suggested connection looks tenuous, and one expects a Germanic cognate of such a widespread Germanic word. Also, it does not seem that intoxicating beverages are ever named for the deleterious effect they make. A similar etymology refers ale to a Hittite noun alwanzatar “witchcraft, magic, spell,” which in turn can be akin to Greek aluein. More likely, however, ale did not get its name in a religious context, and I would like to refer to the law I have formulated for myself: a word of obscure etymology should never be used to elucidate another obscure word. Hittite is an ancient Indo-European language once spoken in Asia Minor. It has been dead for millennia. Some Hittite and Germanic words are related, but alwanzatar is a technical term of unknown origin and thus should be left out of consideration in the present context. The most often cited etymology (it can be found in many dictionaries) ties ale to Latin alumen “alum,” with the root of both being allegedly alu- “bitter.” Apart from some serious phonetic difficulties this reconstruction entails, here too we would prefer to find related forms closer to home (though Latin-Germanic correspondences are much more numerous than those between Germanic and Hittite), and once again we face an opaque technical term, this time in Latin.
Equally far-fetched are the attempts to connect ale with Greek alke “defence” and Old Germanic alhs “temple.” The first connection might work if alke were not Greek. I am sorry
By: Emily Smith Pearce,
on 2/1/2011
You know the Brothers Grimm, but maybe you haven’t heard of some other famous German brothers: Max and Moritz. They’re some of the most beloved characters in all of German literature.
Published in 1865, Max and Moritz is the story of two naughty brothers whose adventures range from mischievous to vicious. Their darkly comical story is told in a series of seven pranks, and in the end….well, let’s just say they don’t get away with their crimes. It’s not exactly a Disney fairy tale.
The subversive humor of the book and the boys’ flippancy toward adults represented a departure in the children’s literature of the time, which was strictly moralistic.
The book’s action-filled sequential line drawings are paired with relatively little text. It’s widely believed that Max and Moritz was the direct inspiration for the Katzenjammer Kids, the ”oldest American comic strip still in syndication and the longest-running ever.” (from Wikipedia)
The other day I made a date with myself to go to the Wilhelm Busch Museum here in Hannover. The creator of Max and Moritz, illustrator and poet Wilhelm Busch, lived in and around Hannover for several years of his life. The museum is located on the edge of the royal Herrenhauser Gartens. It’s my favorite kind of museum: small, intimate, a beautiful space with really strong exhibits. It houses some of the original Max and Moritz sketches—I love seeing the rough beginnings of things.
Here’s the museum below:
The museum also hosts temporary exhibits of illustration and caricature, and I was lucky enough to catch the show of Lisbeth Zwerger, famed Austrian illustrator. I’ve been a fan of her whimsical fairy tale illustrations for a long time, so it was really interesting to see them in person. Along with German and English editions of Max and Moritz, I couldn’t resist getting Zwerger’s Noah’s Ark, also in the original German—I guess it’ll be good for my language skills.
Also on display, and equally interesting, was a large retrospective show of influential British carticature artist Ronald Searle. I snapped a quick pic of this machine in the corner of the gallery:
What do you think it is? I’m guessing it’s a hygrometer to make sure the air doesn’t get too damp and damage the artwork, but I don’t know.
I can’t wait to get back to the museum for the next exhibits.
The Max and Moritz image above, which is in the public domain, was found at wikipedia. Information in this post com
By: Jennie,
on 12/1/2010
I loved loved loved The Princess Plot and almost fell over in glee when I saw that there was a sequel! Because there didn't have to be one. There just is one.
After saving Scandia from a coup, Jenna and her mother are back in the royal family, but Jenna's not adjusting to life in the public eye very well. From being raised in a very over-protected sheltered home to having every move monitored by the paparazzi... ugh. To top it off, the girls are her exclusive boarding school are mean mean mean and particularly pick on the physical characteristics that show that Jenna's father was of Northern descent.
But when she runs away, she ends up running straight into the arms of old enemies who are once again plotting to rule Scandia.
Lots of intrigue and the reader is lucky enough to get every side to this story. The focus shifts quickly between all the different players. I loved how the ruling classes were engineering everything because they didn't want to give up any of their wealth and prestige to the North Scandians.
I also love that when the focus shifts so that we get every side, I mean every side-- we get to see what the adults are doing, too. I KNOW! Adults as valid characters in a children's* book! WHO WHUDDA THUNK?! Although, I could have done with some more Ylva. I needed to see some more of her to fully buy the ending.
This book-- both the story and the way it's told-- is more complex than things we usually see for tweens but I think that's awesome because I know tweens can handle it. I just love that Boie gives them the chance and that Chicken House gave it a chance to have it translated and brought over. I hope to see more of Boie's work in English (because I can't read German and am probably never going to learn how.)
I'm kinda pissed at the SLJ review of the original that says the plot is "often confusing." Just because not everything's spoon-fed to us it's confusing? The only problem with getting every side is that in the first book, the reader often knew what was going on waaaaaaaaaay before the characters did. While that's true in this book as well, there's enough action to in between when the characters are trying to figure out the evil plot that it's actually kinda helpful that the reader already knows what's up and I really didn't mind it at all (and that's something I usually mind!)
*This seems to be one of those books that some libraries have in J, some in YA. We have it in J, but we have a pretty high J/YA break. I think it's good for 5-8th grade-- perfect tween level.
Book Provided by... my local library
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By: WRR,
on 6/1/2010
By: Lana,
on 3/10/2010
Like culprit, discussed last week, scoundrel surfaced in English books in the modern period. The OED has no citations of it prior to 1589. Given this date, an etymologist faces familiar questions. A borrowing from Scandinavian or Old French should theoretically have turned up in texts long before the end of the 16th century (for example, rascal, from French, was current already in 1330), while if it is a native coinage, one might expect some ties with other native words, but those are questionable, to say the least. However, names for all kinds of despicable characters often originate in such obscure slang that we have no chance of discovering their sources. The 15th and 16th centuries were rich in so-called canting words, as evidenced, among many others, by the history of Engl. rogue. Some such words exist “underground” for hundreds of years before they become known to the rest of the world and make their way into print. This is what may have happened to German Schurke “villain” and Engl. punk. All in all, scoundrel, in which only the suffix is transparent (compare wastrel), will probably defy our efforts and remain a word of “uncertain origin.”
The earliest conjecture about the derivation of scoundrel belongs to Stephen Skinner, the author of an excellent etymological dictionary (1671; it appeared posthumously). Naturally, his scholarship reflected the state of the art reached by roughly 1650, but Skinner was a resourceful and circumspect philologist and made many interesting suggestions. He cited Italian scondaruolo “blindman’s buff” (misprinted as scondamolo); hence “a hider.” The connection is not good: a scoundrel’s most conspicuous feature would not have been his hiding from the law. But the root of scondaruolo is the same as in abscond, from Old French, from Latin (abs- is a variant of ab “away,” and condere means “put together, stow”). The OED would have agreed to trace scoundrel to Anglo-French escondre “abscond,” but for the late date of its first occurrence. Even if we dismiss scondaruolo as not related directly to scoundrel, we should admire Skinner for coming so close to what may have been the right solution.
With minor amusing variations (for instance, a scoundrel is one, “who, conscious of his baseness, hides himself”: are scoundrels habitually torn by remorse?), Skinner’s etymology occupied a place of honor until the appearance of Skeat’s dictionary (1882), but there was no lack of other proposals: from Old Engl. sconde “disgrace” (and scondlic “base, ignominious, disgraceful”), from scummer (scoundrel = scum), from German Schandkerl “villain” (that is, Schand-kerl; Kerl means “fellow”), and even from two Scottish Gaelic roots: sgon “bad, vile, worthless” and droil (or droll) “idler.” Those were shots in the dark. But one etymology should be quoted almost in full: “I rather take it [scoundrel] to come from the A.-S. [Anglo-Saxon] onscunian or scunian, to shun…, and to be connected with the Scotch to scouner or scunner, and the substantive scunner, one of the meanings of which given by Jamieson is an object of loathing, any person or thing which excites disgust. Scoundrel will then be scunnerel, a diminutive of scunner.” F.J.V., the author of this derivation, refers to other examples of inserted d (c
By: John,
on 9/24/2009
That’s certainly one of the stranger headlines I’ve ever written.
Blame German artist Adrian Riemann, who presents us with this series of 16 portraits featuring characters from Masters of the Universe as, well, hipster fashion models.
With a new MOTU film in the works, I expect this won’t be the last we’ll see of Prince Adam of Eternia.
Posted by John Martz on Drawn! The Illustration and Cartooning Blog |
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Tags: 1980s, Adrian Riemann, Fashion, German, He-Man
In the first lesson we covered how to say “Hello, how are you?” and “What is your name?” in German. In this lesson we will look at possible answers to general questions. Phrases in brackets are the pronunciation of the adjacent word. NOTE: In German you may come across an awkward character (ß) it may look like the letter B but actually represents a double s. But this character is now only used in special circumstances. For the sake of this lesson we will use ss instead of ß so you don’t get confused.
The most simple of answers are “Yes” and “No”. Which in German are “Ja” (Ya) and “Nein” (nine).
Out loud or in your head say “Yes” and then “Ja”. Repeat this three times. Do the same with “No” and “Nein”.
If your not sure how to answer something I suggest three phrases. “Maybe” - “Vielleicht” (vee-liked), “I don’t know.” - “Ich weiss nicht.” (Ick vise nickt) or “I don’t understand.” - “Ich vestehe nicht.” (Ick ver-shter-hir nickt). Now these are slightly harder phrases to learn if you are not yet familiar with German. Start by revising “Maybe” and “Vielleicht” over in your head.
It should become clear by looking at the other two phrases that “Ich” means “I”. Also you might have been able to tell that “nicht” is “not”. We have “I do not know.” and “I do not understand”. In German, however, they literally say “I know not.” or “I understand not.”. Once you know “Ich” and “nicht” these phrases should become easier to learn.
All you have to learn now is “weiss” and “vestehe”. “Weiss” meaning “know” and “vestehe” meaning “understand”. Write these words down if this is hard to memorise and use this to revise at various points during the day.
Remember to try and practice these phrases with a partner for more practical learning. Thank-you for reading my article and hopefully you can catch the next lesson.
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This is an apocryphal story, in that I can’t validate it, being too young to remember at the time, a family legend if you like, but I am assured that it is true.
It is an example of the British working man laughing in the face of adversity during wartime.
During World War II, bombers of the German Luftwaffe visited the skies over Kent and London almost every night to carry out their raids, raining their bombs on the towns and villages below.
When an air raid was imminent the local Air Raid Precautionary would alert the population by means of a siren, affectionately known as ‘Moaning Minnie’.
This was a signal for everyone to seek a safe haven, usually an air raid shelter. These came in the form of a public shelter built on the street where anyone could seek refuge from the bombs, or an Anderson shelter built of corrugated steel buried in your own back yard.
On this particular night when the siren sounded as usual, my aunt and uncle made a dash for the shelter in their back yard. Half way there my aunt stopped and turned to go back to the house.
“Where are you going, Emma?” said my uncle to his wife, anxiously.
“I’m going back for my false teeth,” she replied, “I’ve left them indoors!”
“What for, girl?” said my uncle, sarcastically, “They’re dropping bombs, not bloody sandwiches!”
This is an apocryphal story, in that I can’t validate it, being too young to remember at the time, a family legend if you like, but I am assured that it is true.
It is an example of the British working man laughing in the face of adversity during wartime.
During World War II, bombers of the German Luftwaffe visited the skies over Kent and London almost every night to carry out their raids, raining their bombs on the towns and villages below.
When an air raid was imminent the local Air Raid Precautionary would alert the population by means of a siren, affectionately known as ‘Moaning Minnie’.
This was a signal for everyone to seek a safe haven, usually an air raid shelter. These came in the form of a public shelter built on the street where anyone could seek refuge from the bombs, or an Anderson shelter built of corrugated steel buried in your own back yard.
On this particular night when the siren sounded as usual, my aunt and uncle made a dash for the shelter in their back yard. Half way there my aunt stopped and turned to go back to the house.
“Where are you going, Emma?” said my uncle to his wife, anxiously.
“I’m going back for my false teeth,” she replied, “I’ve left them indoors!”
“What for, girl?” said my uncle, sarcastically, “They’re dropping bombs, not bloody sandwiches!”
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By: AnneL,
on 6/10/2009
When the title of a scholarly article contains a general question (that is, a question beginning with a verb), the author’s answer is almost always “no” “Will people ever Speak One Language?” (No, they won’t). “Can Pidgins Tell Us Anything about the Beginning of Human Speech?” (No, they cannot). But don’t expect sensations from this post. Can you trust the etymologies provided by your dictionary? Yes, you can, though not unconditionally.
Most of the information we find in dictionaries is the result of consensus. What is the meaning of the noun moon? “A planet, a satellite of the earth.” And what is to moon? “To show signs of infatuation.” Anything else? “To spend one’s time in idle reverie.” Is that all? Not quite: also “to expose one’s bare buttocks.” How do we know those meanings? From experience: English speakers have agreed to assign them to that object and those actions. Is there a family name Moon? Sure. One can find it in any directory. The pronunciation of the word moon is another observable fact. But the origin of moon has to be recovered, and a plebiscite is not part of the procedure. In similar fashion, it matters not at all how many people believe that the moon is made of green cheese. Even if everybody is positive on this point, the conclusion will be wrong.
Language reconstruction is never a hundred percent secure. In a typical etymological thriller, the main witnesses have been dead for a long time or refuse to speak. Historical linguists are doomed to play the game of probabilities and are often satisfied with the least improbable rather than the most probable solution. The authors of etymologies are disadvantaged detectives, not seers. The public stays away from the lexicographical kitchen and has blind faith in dictionaries. This is an excellent thing, for despite the fashionable opinion that all knowledge is relative and that there is no reality (everything is allegedly a construct and depends on the point of view of the observer), we pine for the absolute. Rational human beings, when in doubt about a word, do not indulge in mooning (reverie); they look it up in a dictionary. Oh, yes, of course: a modern dictionary should be descriptive, not prescriptive. You, like, say irregardless, and this is your right, but good dictionaries (even though they appreciate your feelings, feel your pain, and are full of sympathy-empathy) should, like, gently advise you against such usage, and, as a rule, they do. However, when it comes to etymology, the best lexicographer can only say what is supposed to be right or express an informed opinion, and it is instructive to observe the change of these opinions.
Those who read this blog with some regularity must have noticed how often my discussion resolves itself into listing conjectures and trying to say something beyond “origin unknown.” Explanatory English dictionaries never, and specialized etymological dictionaries almost never, present a full picture of the debate surrounding word origins. This is due to the limitation of space, the editors’ natural wish to avoid technicalities that will scare the uninitiated (for etymology is as technical as chemistry, but dictionaries are published to be sold), the absence of a database that comprises everything researchers have written about the origin of English words, and the fear of beginning a comprehensive dictionary and never finishing it. It is irritating that we often have conflicting reports even on the origin of words created in recent memory; consider the history of Jeep, glitch, and most slang. Old words present graver problems. The list at my disposal is disconcertingly long, but two examples of what may be called etymological games will probably suffice.
Boy. In Old English, the proper name Boia was recorded, but its connection with boy remains a matter of debate. Boy surfaced in English texts only in the 13th century and at that time it meant “menial servant.” The sense “male child” emerged (or developed) later. Since boy goes back to Middle English, it might be a borrowing from French. However, despite the lack of clarity, most etymologists believed (note: believed) that the English word had a Germanic origin. The sole dissenting voice (we are in the year 1900 with it) made no impression on dictionary makers. But in 1940 a distinguished scholar, unaware of his predecessor’s work, again suggested that boy continues a French etymon. I deliberately skip all the forms and names, because it is only lexicographical practice that interests me here. The 1940 publication was hailed like a great discovery, and some of our most authoritative dictionaries changed tack. The Concise Oxford Dictionary is one of the best products of 20th-century lexicography. It authors thought that boy was Germanic, but the dictionary has been revised and updated many times. The 5th edition states that the origin of boy, “subject of involved conjectures,” is still undiscovered. The next two editions cite a French source. In the meantime, strong objections were raised to the 1940 article. As a result, the 8th and the 9th editions reproduced the statement of the 6th and the 7th with a question mark. The 10th edition says “origin unknown.” Sic transit… (Sorry for the unbearable cliché.)
Girl. Here is another Middle English word, and its origin has also been the “subject of involved conjectures.” This should not come as a surprise. Words for “child, boy, girl” often trace to metaphors and metonymies that are hard to trace. Especially common are the equations “child” = “twig, branch, offshoot; stump, piece of wood.” In Greek, Latin, Germanic, Romance, Celtic, and Slavic, etymologists face similar problems when it comes to the designation of children. Attempts to discover the etymology of girl and boy have in many respects been similar. As regards girl, only one thing is incontestable: -l is a diminutive suffix, so that girl is a little gir, whatever gir means. The root gir- is not isolated in Germanic, and it competes with gor- and gur-, both being the basis of the names of young creatures. Girl appears to have been borrowed from Low (that is, northern) German. But as early as 1855, it was suggested that girl continues Old English girla “dress,” a word that surfaced in several forms. Such a metonymy would not be unusual, for words for “girl” and “woman” often derives from the names of clothes (compare he runs after every skirt). The girla/girl etymology had little currency, though it was not forgotten. It received a second lease on life in a 1967 article by a leading American scholar (who—a familiar story—did not realize that he had rediscovered an old but usable wheel). The second edition of The Random House Dictionary of the English Language (let it be noted, a splendid dictionary) incorporated it, and The Barnhart Dictionary of English Etymology treated it with respect. By contrast, the many modern offshoots of the OED hedge a little but prefer the traditional view (they say “probably related to the Low German form”). I think, if you are interested in my opinion, that boy is Germanic and girl was a borrowing from German.
Two examples, as I have said, will be enough. The situation is always the same. Dictionaries reproduce a certain view that is supposed to be safe. Then some iconoclast offers a different hypothesis. Some editors ignore it, while others jump on the bandwagon. Etymology is like medicine in that its prescriptions (recommendations) reflect not the truth but the state of the art. Should you trust your doctor? Indeed you should. And the same is true of your etymologist. May a clinic and a dictionary live long and be available to all, even though neither guarantees survival.
Anatoly Liberman is the author of Word Origins…And How We Know Them as well as An Analytic Dictionary of English Etymology: An Introduction. His column on word origins, The Oxford Etymologist, appears here, each Wednesday. Send your etymology question to [email protected]; he’ll do his best to avoid responding with “origin unknown.”
By: John,
on 5/12/2009
The Illuopa blog showcases Patrick Wirbeleit’s collection of German illustration and design before 1980, with a focus on children’s book art.
By: Marc,
on 1/28/2009
By Anatoly Liberman
I received many questions from our correspondents and from those who listened to my talk show on Minnesota Public Radio (“Midmorning”), January 1. (Is 9 AM on such a day really midmorning?) Some questions were not posted on OUP’s blog but came to me by email. Those I will repeat or summarize. Today I’ll be able to touch on less than one third of what I have. More next Wednesday.
Etymology and Etymologists. In my post on serendipity and luck in etymological studies, I noted that researchers’ conclusions are sometimes influenced by their knowledge of one group of languages. Those who are well versed in Scandinavian linguistics tend to find the etymons of English words in Icelandic and Norwegian, specialists in Romance discover the etymons of the same words in French dialects, and so on. Miracles of omniscience turn up rarely, and because few people display the mastery of even one foreign language comparable to that of their mother tongue, solutions about the origin of obscure words depend partly on our limitations. A correspondent calls my attention to Hester Thrale Piozzi, who traced all words to Welsh. He concludes his letter so: “Some of us once thought of bringing out a book entitled Etymology by Hester Thrale with nothing but well-known, but quite false derivations, including hers, of course. Others, before us and after us, have accomplished that without trying.” He also writes: “I hope you will one day devote a blog to the etymologists whose narrow focus caused these people to overlook more compelling solutions…. I would be interested in seeing these people collected in one place, perhaps with examples and your solutions.”
I would love to write such a book, rather than a blog, on this subject (I devoted only a few lines to etymology and obsession in Word Origins… and How We Know Them; the subject has been explored more fully in my dictionary). Such a book with a coy title like Matchless Incendiaries or Convicted by Their Convictions would be a joy to write and become a national bestseller. Here a few remarks will suffice. Ernest Weekley, the author of several excellent books on English words and of an English etymological dictionary, called those who attempted to trace all words to one language monomaniacs. Not all of them have been tarred with the same brush or cut out of the same cloth. For many centuries it was customary to derive one language from another: Latin from Greek, German from Gothic, and so forth. All of them were supposed to go back to Hebrew, the language Adam and Eve allegedly spoke in Paradise. No one remembers hearing Adam and Eve; consequently, opinions regarding their language differed. Perhaps the most famous guess (famous for its craziness) identified it with Dutch. The curious thing is that enough similar-sounding words exist in Dutch, Latin, Greek, and even Hebrew to boost the most bizarre hypothesis of origins.
Later, political monomaniacs, inspired by patriotic feelings, moved center stage. In English studies, Celtomania flourished for a long time. John Cleland wrote not only a memorable book about Fanny Hill, a woman of pleasure, but also a learned work on English etymology. Unlike his novel, it is unrewarding reading: English words are derived in it from fanciful Celtic roots. Even more notorious was Charles MacKay, an erudite 19th-century scholar, the author of good books on English vocabulary, but a slave of the idea that most words of English and other languages go back to Irish Gaelic. Monomaniacs who believe that the bulk of the vocabulary of modern European languages is traceable to Slavic, Arabic, or Hebrew are still active and have a sizable following. Singleness of purpose and ignorance form durable and dangerous unions.
A last group is comprised of excellent scholars who make worthwhile discoveries but overuse their expertise and tend to search for the sources of obscure words in the material they know best. This is where Scandinavian and Romance come in. It is not hard to dig up a specious ancestor of an English word in some neighboring language, be it Welsh, Irish, French, or Icelandic. There is no recipe against blunders in this area, and perhaps only an instinct akin to the instinct that saves an experienced chess player from making a wrong move can rein in an etymologist’s enthusiasm. On the other hand, as I mentioned in my blog on serendipity and luck, familiarity with some language, especially a good grasp of one’s native language, can provide valuable associations closed to others. All in all, an author planning a book about the etymologists who went astray will not run out of material. A tragedy in five acts with an interlude and an epilogue is also possible.
Spelling. A correspondent from India asks why English spelling has not been made strictly phonetic if a close sound to letter correspondence is possible for other languages. Many books have been written on the subject of English spelling. At one time the written image of English words did reflect their pronunciation with some accuracy. After 1066 (the Norman Conquest), French scribes imposed their rules that ran counter to the phonetic reality of English. It took centuries for a writing system obligatory for all to be accepted, and the norm that emerged turned out to be inconsistent and conservative. No radical reform of English spelling has so far gained enough public support. As a result, we often spell words according to medieval rules, and English abounds in homographs like bow “bend” and bow (to play a string instrument) and homophones like slow and sloe. It is hard to find another language in which four words are spelled differently—write, rite, right, and Wright/wright (as in playwright)—but pronounced the same. This blog has existed for nearly three years, and eleven posts have dealt with what I called “The Oddest English Spelling”; two more addressed Spelling Reform.
English versus German. An argument arose in which one side insisted that German was a better medium of thought than English because English, with its multiple homophones, often obscures the message, while in German such cases are nonexistent. How true is this statement? I don’t think it is true, even though English has numerous words like sloe and slow. Punning is indeed easier in English and French than in German. Other than that, homophones present no danger to communication because context disambiguates them (to use a technical linguistic term). Even in a piece of constructed nonsense like not everything is right in the drama on the rite of spring that Mr. Wright, a rightwing playwright, promised to write hardly anyone will misunderstand the meaning despite the cacophony. And some homophones also exist in German, for example, denen (a pronoun) and dehnen “prolong, lengthen,” Rhein (the river) and rein “clean,” and so forth. I would in general object to any statement to the effect that a certain language serves it purpose inadequately. Language is a self-regulating system, and especially in the vocabulary sphere it borrows from various sources, gets rid of deadwood, produces synonyms, and develops new ways of derivation, so that at any moment it is both “perfect” and open to change.
Shakespeare’s pronunciation. How should the word eisel be pronounced? This question came one day after I submitted my previous set of gleanings, and I hope that someone getting ready to play Hamlet or read out loud excerpts from the play will still be able to profit by my answer. The word eisel “vinegar,” from Old French (ultimately from Latin), was recorded as early as the 13th century but barely survived Shakespeare’s well-contented day. We remember it because it occurs in Hamlet’s passionate questions hurled at Laertes in the churchyard: “’Swounds, show me what thou’lt do: / Woo’t drink up eisel? Eat a crocodile? / I’ll do’t” (V, 1: 295-99). And in Sonnet 111, we read: “Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink/ Potions of eisel ‘gainst my strong infection.” In old editions, the word also occurs in the forms esill, esile, and eysell. Today no one knows how it was pronounced (this is the reason the OED gives no transcription), but the spellings suggest that two variants competed (assuming that Shakespeare’s vowels had more or less the same realizations as today): one must have been homophonous with our easel, the other began with ay as in ay, may, nay. Both can be heard. It seems that in the United and Canada eezel predominates, while in England actors usually say ayzel.
Separate words
Weird. Long ago it was a noun meaning “fate.” It had cognates (also nouns) in all the other Old Germanic languages. In the middle period, English lost a verb related to this noun but preserved, for example, in German (werden “become”; originally “happen, come to pass”). Its trace exists in the formula woe worth the day, but today few people will recognize this formula and even fewer will guess that worth is the ancient subjunctive of the once common verb (“may woe befall the day,” that is, “let the day perish”). Since Fates were supposed to control our destiny, the phrase werde sisters arose in the 14th century. It would probably have been forgotten but for Shakespeare’s weird sisters in Macbeth. Nowadays weird turned into slang for “odd” (“he is so weird”), and the noun weirdo was coined, a far cry from the dignified wyrd that dominated Old English poetry, with its fatalistic view of life and death. Schadenfreude. This German word meaning “joy felt at someone’s misfortune, vindictive glee” has become so common that like angst it is no longer italicized in our books and can be found in English dictionaries. It is made up of two German nouns: Schaden “harm” and Freude “joy.” Willy-nilly. This is a contraction of the phrase wil I nil I “I am willing, I am unwilling”; nyl goes back to Old Engl. nyllan, that is, wyllan “will” preceded by ne. Cater-corner ~ kitty corner. Most probably, from a Scandinavian word for “left” (hence “not right, not straight; going across”), rather than from French quatre “four” (see a long entry on this word in my dictionary). Dickens “devil.” From a proper name (Dick, Dickon, Dicken), a common case (compare Old Nick, Old Harry, and Rob/Hob), with reinforcing -s.
To be continued.
Anatoly Liberman is the author of Word Origins…And How We Know Them as well as An Analytic Dictionary of English Etymology: An Introduction. His column on word origins, The Oxford Etymologist, appears here, each Wednesday. Send your etymology question to [email protected]; he’ll do his best to avoid responding with “origin unknown.”
The machine in the corner probably provides a record of humidity and temperature levels in the building.
GD Bob