Capital mistake

A Cypriot reader of Babel drew my attention to what he considered ‘a big mistake’ in the Greek translation: my claim that Turkish is spoken in Northern Cyprus. ‘There is not a country named North Cyprus,’ he countered. ‘The northern part of the island is occupied and only recognised by the occupiers (Turkey).’

That’s true in my world as well. At the same time, it’s also a fact that most people in that unrecognised country speak Turkish. So where’s the big mistake? Could this be just another case of fact-free nationalism?

I was in the process of writing a puzzled reply when a possible explanation dawned on me, and checking the English and Greek editions of the book seemed to corroborate it. At first sight, the translation was immaculate: Northern Cyprus, Vóreios Kúpros. However, while words like Northern and Western are often written with a capital in English, Greek only seems to do so when they’re part of an established name. If the translator had written vóreios Kúpros, this simply would have meant ‘Northern Cyprus’, as in ‘the Northern part of the island called Cyprus.’ However, she committed the infelicity of using a capital V, Vóreios Kúpros, which placed this entity in the same category as Vóreia Koréa and Vóreia Makedonía—countries. Hence the reader’s protest.

Before I could even finish this short blogpost, my correspondent replied to confirm that that was exactly it. He was going to notify the publisher in Athens, he announced.

Ptime in ptranslation

Both minute and second owe their existence as words to one famous book from Classical Antiquity. Yet their etymologies are a surprising mix, with not only Greek and Latin but also Arabic ingredients. How come?

Ptolemaeus

A 16th-century engraving of Ptolemy

Let’s start with the book: it’s called the Almagest and was written in the second century CE by the mathematician and astronomer Claudius Ptolemy, a Greek in Roman Egypt. In it, he did what scholars had been doing for ages: divide the circle into 360 degrees, each degree into sixty minutes and each minute into sixty seconds.* But ‘minute’ and ‘second’ were not the words he used, for they did not yet exist. What he wrote was ‘first sixtieth’ (prota heksēkosta) and ‘second sixtieth’ (deutera heksēkosta), which in a freer translation might come out as ‘one sixtieth of the first order’ and ‘one sixtieth of the second order’. Continue reading

The first scribbler of Western Europe

Throw your mind back to the very first time you tried your little hand at writing. With the unfamiliar pen between your fingers and your tongue between your lips, you gave of your best, but unless you were a calligraphic child prodigy, the result was, well, nothing to write home about. It looked shaky and straggly and, in a word, messy. Yet it didn’t stop your parents from being touched by your scribbles.

Call me weird, but that’s how I too felt earlier this week when I visited the Epigraphic Museum in Rome’s Baths of Diocletian. As its name and location suggest, it focuses on inscriptions from Antiquity, predominantly in Latin. Many of them look vaguely familiar: for the last five centuries or so, inscriptions in European and New World monuments have tended to emulate the Classical example. If you wonder what I’m talking about, open a new document in Word, choose the Times New Roman typeface and write a line in capitals. Continue reading