This website is for sharing and – I’ll be frank with you – for selling. I’ll share news, ideas and fun facts about language, and I’m looking forward to your sharing with me and other readers. At the same time, I’m selling the app-slash-book Language Lover’s Guide to Europe, and hopefully in the near future other books, too. Enjoy yourself!
For young word lovers, incipient linguaphiles and budding language buffs, there’s no fun like Fictionary, also known as Dictionary Game. You know how it goes: one player chooses an unusual word and copies out its meaning, while the others devise fictitious, but plausible definitions. Players who guess the correct meaning are awarded one point, as are those whose definition is thought to be correct by another player.
Being a reader of this blog, you’re likely to be good at it; indeed, chances are that you’ve already found people hesitant to play with you, for fear of being crushed. You may even have joined a group of advanced players (or ‘afictionarians’), made up of middle-aged word lovers, entrenched linguaphiles and seasoned language buffs, whose spare time revolves around Fictionary (unlike their office hours, which they spend surreptitiously solving cryptic crosswords).
If so, here’s a suggestion to take the game to the next level, which has a name of its own: Etymixionary. As the name suggests, it’s not unlike Fictionary, except that the players do not make up word meanings, but word origins. To give you an idea of the creativeness this elicits in the participants, I’ll quote five bogus definitions I recently heard.
Kingdom; also kingric (obsolete), kinrik (Scottish). Compound of kin ‘collective relatives’, best retained in the Scottish variety, and dumb (in kingdom) or rich (in kingric, kinrik). Originally a politically inspired slur, suggestive of nepotism, low intelligence and ill-gotten wealth, which was coined by petty noblemen who intended to cast an unfavourable light upon their feudal lord. It was neutralised when English monarchs adopted it as a synonym for realm, which it ultimately all but replaced.
Row (verb). Backformation of rode, past tense of ride, reanalysed as rowed. The phrase ‘he rode for Cambridge’ dates from the days when propelling a craft by oars was known as ‘riding’, an equine metaphor. *‘He rode for Oxford’ has not been attested. As the ford in the Thames initially hindered the passage of vessels of any description, the practice of rowing may have started there later. The bridge over the River Cam posed no such obstacle.
Admiral. From the Arabic al-emir al-ral meaning ‘the chief of the transport’. This transport consisting of a caravan of ‘ships of the desert’, the term was later transferred to the high commander of a fleet of sea ships. The form was influenced by admiration, which high commanders tended to set great store by.
Bugger. From Dutch bukker or Low German Bücker, both ‘male who bends down’. First attested in English in a maritime context. For the sound shift compare trigger, from Dutch trekker.
Manager. Compound of man (in the original meaning of ‘person of either sex’, as in mankind) and ager, agent noun from age ‘to become or make old’. Originally carried the suggestion of ‘making (workers) age before their time’. When premature senescence in employees became an understood thing, the negative connotation wore off.
Incidentally, one of the above definitions is not all that far off the mark. If you know which one, you’ll prove a redoubtable Etymixionarian.
Enjoy the game!
As a reader, I love to get lost in a book, but it takes a good author’s confident guidance to make it happen. Jean-Benoît Nadeau and Julie Barlow, I’m sorry to say, have failed in this respect. More than to anything else, The Story of Spanish appeals to a side of me that I rather dislike: the red-pen-wielding schoolteacher.
Chapter 1 starts out beautifully: ‘Three millennia ago, when Rome was still a swamp and Athens was barely strong enough to take on Troy …’ It’s the sort of style that bespeaks experience, and experience this husband-and-wife team have. Language journalists like myself, Barlow from Anglophone Canada, Nadeau from Quebec, they published The Story of French a few years ago. Both having studied Spanish, they now take on this most widely spoken of all Romance languages.
[Introduction: A Dutch society for language lovers called Onze Taal publishes a page-a-day calendar about (you guessed it) language. This year, the Thursday is my playground, and I use it to frolic around with European languages. Not coincidentally, they are also the subject of my book-to-be What Europeans Speak (When They Don’t Want You to Understand) - not that the information on the calendar overlaps with the book. Below, I will reproduce some of the items that appeared on the calendar in recent months. I use the term ‘reproduce’ loosely; not being a translator, I will just try to render approximately the same information in English. After all, this is my work, so I feel it’s mine to corrupt, too.]
In what language does a sentence consisting of the words ‘she’ ‘goes’ and ‘eat’ not refer to the future (as in ‘she’s going to eat’) but to a past event (as in ‘she has eaten’)? Is this in a. Basque, b. Catalan, c. Portuguese or d. Spanish?
In many European languages, including English, ‘go’ can be used as an auxiliary verb to express the near future. ‘Elle va manger’ in French and ‘Ella va a comer’ in Spanish both mean ‘She’s going to eat’.
But in Catalan, the language of eastern Spain, ‘go’ fulfils a very different role. In ‘Ella va menjar’, though the words translate literally as ‘she’, ‘goes’ and ‘eat’, their meaning is ‘she has eaten’. How the Catalans have come to attach this meaning to ‘go’ is hard to tell. Worldwide (or cross-linguistically, as scholars would have it, or from a comparative perspective – ugh), the use of ‘go’ to imply past tense is rare. The same phenomenon does occur, though, in some dialects of Spanish and Occitan. This can’t be a coincidence, since these dialects are spoken just next door to Catalan and are closely related to it.
Incidentally, informal Catalan also has a Spanish-style construction with an added preposition a: ‘Ella va a menjar’, which is future tense all right. What one letter can do.
Bulgarian is, unsurprisingly, the language of Bulgaria. Is it also the language of Macedonia?
Macedonia has one official national language: Macedonian. But Bulgarians claim this to be a Bulgarian dialect.
In the 19th century, the view that Macedonians spoke Bulgarian was all but universal (unless they spoke Greek of course, which is a different language altogether). It wasn’t until the 20th century that Macedonia, having become part of Yugoslavia, developed a separate language and literature. This didn’t occur spontaneously, but sprang from political motives: the Yugoslavs wanted Macedonian to resemble Bulgarian less than it had done so far. In practical terms, this implied that it was to become more like Serbo-Croatian, the majority language of Yugoslavia.
Even nowadays, Macedonians and Bulgarians have little trouble understanding each other’s languages. But the same is true for many other neighbouring peoples, such as the Czechs and the Slovaks, the Norwegians and the Swedes, and the Ukrainians, the Belarusians and the Russians. The mere fact that Macedonian and Bulgarian are mutually intelligible does in no way make Macedonian less legitimate a language. Bulgarians had better come to terms with that.
There are five popular magazines about language and linguistics in Europe that I’m aware of.
As a language writer based in the Netherlands, I myself am a regular contributor to Onze Taal (Our Language), the largest Dutch-language magazine of its sort, which is published ten times a year. It has a Belgian competitor, Over Taal (About Language), with a smaller readership, a lesser frequency (5 times a year) and, by the looks of it, a more modest budget. But truth be told, both make for great reading.
In Sweden, there is a similar publication titled Språktidningen (The Language Magazine), with eight issues a year. I haven’t seen the paper edition, but it has an excellent website and I love its motto, ‘In a word class of its own’. Germany has Deutsche Sprachwelt (German World of Language), a quarterly of – if I’m not mistaken – a more purist bent. Onze Taal, Språktidningen and Deutsche Sprachwelt are all quite active on Twitter and I don’t hesitate to recommend following them, provided you understand the language they write in.
Last year, a new popular quarterly on linguistics, Babel, came out of Britain. I’ve only seen the first issue, which didn’t overly impress me, but it holds a lot of promise and I would definitely give it a fair crack of the whip and subscribe to it if only there was a digital edition. As it is, the postage makes it – to my Dutch mind anyway – disproportionately expensive.
Now that makes five language magazines intended for a non-specialist audience, and they’re all from the Germanic world, if I may use the term in this context. There is nothing in French, Spanish or Italian, no Polish publication, no Macedonian magazine, not a single Russian rag. Or to put it more accurately: none that I know of. But surely there must be? I mean, the huge Romance and Slavic chunks of this continent can’t be getting along without anything of this sort whatsoever?
So if you’ve come across something like Språktidningen or Babel in Portugal, Romania, Hungary, no matter where – could you please let me know? I’d be much obliged.
UPDATE: In Norway, the Språkråd (Language Council) publishes the quarterly Språknytt (Language News). Which does nothing, of course, to alleviate the dearth of popular language magazines outside the Germanic world.
The following German words have different endings now, but historically speaking share a common suffix: Armut (poverty), Einöde (desert), Heimat (home, native land), Kleinod (piece of jewellery, gem) and Zierrat (ornament). In Old German, all these words had the suffix –uoti. Their etymologies are uncontroversial and can be found in the etymological dictionary of the leading lexicographical publisher in the German language area, Duden.
The same source states that the plant name Wermut (wormwood) used to be wermuota in Old German (and wermōd in Old English; wormwood is a folk etymology), but that its meaning and origin are obscure. According to the most up-to-date Dutch etymological dictionary, the first part may mean ‘bitter’ – the plant is known for its bitterness, and there are Celtic words for ‘bitter’ which may be related. (Later, in France, Wermut was used in a bitter drink named vermouth, which went on to become an international word.)
So if the Old German adjective arm (poor) could produce a noun Armut and the Old German adjective klein (now ‘small’, earlier ‘delicate, graceful’) a noun Kleinod, is it all that far-fetched to conjecture that an adjective meaning ‘bitter’ similarly may have produced a noun meaning ‘bitterness, something bitter’?
Good as it sounds, there’s probably nothing in it. The a of wermuota is different from the i in the -uoti suffix. There is also an Old German noun muot (modern meaning: courage, but related to English mood) which may muddle the picture. Like wormwood, Wermut may be an old folk etymology. So my suggestion is vulnerable on several grounds. And it’s true: amateurs such as myself usually get things wrong in etymology. But I couldn’t resist sharing the thought.
There’s a website with over 60 YouTube videos where you can hear as many European languages, spoken by natives. The videos are a mixed bag: new and old, natural and formal speech, traditional songs and raps and so on. The website is in Dutch, but the language names are bilingual.
I read the occasional e-book, but there’s no denying they have a downside. Being invisible spirits in the material world (if I may quote Sting entirely out of context), they easily slip my mind. I forget where they are (in what application), I forget that they’re there at all and I forget that I was reading them or that I can look things up in them.
But I’ve worked out a solution, I’m proud to annouce. Here’s what to do.
1. Print the cover. Open the e-book on your computer, navigate to the cover and take a screenshot of it. On a Mac, Command + Shift + 4 does the trick, on a PC, Alt + PrintScreen should work. Print this.
2. Take a notepad (the good old paper type, not the digital impostor – you still have several, languishing in a drawer) and stick the print in with glue or tape.
3. Leave the notepad open at the right page and let it lie around the house. It will pop up in unexpected places, as books will – mine will –, thus reminding you of its existence.
This works only for books you want to read more or less from cover to cover. Works of reference demand a slightly different approach. I suggest that you buy one or more blank books, write something like ‘e-reference’ and a subject on the spine (‘e-reference – linguistics’, ‘e-reference – kite-flying’), stick the book covers in and add them to your library, putting each one on the relevant shelf. In the case of the Language Lover’s Guide to Europe, to name an arbitrary example, including it in the ‘e-reference – travel’ book seems best.
This is the first lifehack I share with the world. I suspect it indicates that lifehacking is going out of fashion.
In late March, Google was throwing its weight about by demanding that the Swedish Language Council correct its definition of ogooglebar (‘ungoogleable’). Instead of “unable to be found on the web with the use of a search engine” it should be “unable to be found on the web with the use of the Google search engine”. The wiser Council, loath to spend money on legal battles, didn’t try to prevail, but gave in without a shot fired. Or to be more exact, it turned its guns on its own word list and killed the entry.
These sorts of actions show how Google’s power has gone to its head. They also demonstrate either how little the company knows of linguistics (which is conceivable in spite of Google Translate) or how good they are at getting themselves in the spotlights – after all, the intervention made the news not just in Sweden, but all over Europe.
However, the Swedes have struck back. Not only have they kept using the word ogooglebar – that every first year in linguistics could have predicted – but they have also ridiculed Google by coining a new version of the controversial word, ogogoogoglolebobaror. According to the Swedish source that broke the news, the Academy itself was behind the move, aiming to make the word fly under Google’s radar. Needless to say, that didn’t work. What perhaps does need to be said is that the whole scheme was an April Fools’ prank, not by the Academy, but by Datormagazin, a trade magazine for the IT industry.
Interestingly, the seemingly far-fetched ogogoogoglolebobaror is a word that any Swede who has ever been a child understands immediately, because it is the so called ‘robber language’ translation of ogooglebar. Introduced by Astrid Lindgren, the famous author of children’s books (1907-2002), in her books on Kalle Blomkvist (Bill Bergson in the English translations), it uses simple rules to change any word, no matter in what language. These rules are: double every consonant, and insert an o between the two; leave vowels as is. (Spelling trumps pronunciation, so know becomes koknonowow.)
Ogogoogoglolebobaror. It’s my favourite Swedish word already, better than smörgåsbord or ombudsman. Thank you, Ms Lindgren. And even, willy-nilly, thank you, Google. For your churlishness, which brings out finer qualities in others.