LEGENDS OF SISTAN.

Frequent LH commenter MOCKBA has a fascinating post at Poemas del río Wang about Aleksandr Gruenberg-Cvetinovic, "an Iranologist and obsessive field researcher who documented countless small languages in the remote mountain valleys of the Caucasus and Central Asia, and saved and translated great many legends and folk poems." If you're interested in Azerbaijani Tats, Pamiri languages, and rare languages of Hindu Kush valleys—not to mention yetis—you'll want to read it, and there's a nice excerpt from Tales and Legends of Sistan ("The archaic vocabulary, and the unique recurrent verbal formulas and twists of a plot, suggest that it follows an old oral epic tradition, which may at its root be quite distinct from Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh").

A couple of quick pointers: Sashura's latest post reminds us that the famous song "Moscow Nights" was originally "Leningrad Nights," and John E. McIntyre helpfully compiles a list of "the bogus rules and superstitions, sometimes called 'zombie rules,' that distract people from real editing."

LANGUAGES IN MONASTYRKA.

I'm not even halfway through Pogorelsky's Монастырка (The convent girl—see this LH post for my earlier encounter with the author), but I have to pause and post about some of the fun he's having with languages. The novel starts with a traveler trying to get to an acquaintance's house in time for a christening—he's been asked to be godfather—and asking a local if the road is in good shape; this being in northeastern Ukraine, the response is given in the local dialect: "А тож! дорога гладка, от як тик; тилки пискив богато!" Pogorelsky helpfully translates this in a note: "А как же! Дорога гладкая, вот как ток; только песков много!" [Sure! The road's as smooth as a threshing floor, only there's a lot of sand!] He has a similarly dialect-infused encounter with a stationmaster who claims not to have horses for him; when he gets to the town of R. and gets a room at the inn, it is so filled with insects he doesn't even try to sleep but decides to sit up all night. Looking for something to read, he finds three letters from an adolescent girl to a friend at the Smolny Convent in Saint Petersburg, where she had been a student before returning to her Ukrainian village; he's so taken with them he makes inquiries and winds up meeting the author of the letters, now several years older, and the rest of the novel consists of his narration of her story (which includes one of those villains who can make a novel so memorable, Klim Sidorovich Dyundik).

Of course, the texts of the letters are included, and the first includes a complaint about the way the locals talk, which the author can barely understand; she quotes her beloved aunt talking with a distiller about barda and thinking of the bards in Zhukovsky's works before she realizes it's a local word for distillery waste. She provides further examples before saying "But I think I'm boring you with Ukrainian dialect; from now on I'll write about my aunt as if she's speaking in Russian." (I'll include the original passage below the cut for those who read Russian.) She also throws in a number of French phrases, which introduces the other major linguistic topic, and of that more in a moment. But while we're on Ukrainian, I'll mention there's a character named Pryzhkov who originally had the Ukrainian name Pryzhko but added the -v because he was brought up in Saint Petersburg and wanted his name to sound Russian.

The most extended riff is about Dyundik's daughters and their French lessons. Dyundik boasts that he's paying a tutor 400 rubles a year plus room and board to teach them French; it's a lot, but it's worth it because they prattle away in it constantly and when they go off to Petersburg they'll be received immediately into high society—"You'll see when you meet them!" Alas, when the narrator does meet them, he can't understand a word. They think he himself doesn't know French, and mock him behind his back, but then they hear him conversing fluently in French at a social gathering and are deeply offended—he must have been making fun of them, pretending ignorance of the language for a joke. When Dyundik reproaches him later and says he should apologize, he explains that their French is so bad it's unintelligible—for instance, they say "Kesse-kesse-kesse-lya!" for "Qu'est-ce que c'est que cela!" He convinces Dyundik and later his wife and daughters, whereupon they all begin cursing the hapless tutor and thinking up ever-escalating punishments, whereupon the narrator regrets having ever said anything about it.

But perhaps the most intriguing, and certainly the most unexpected, linguistic encounter is with a trader known as the "Gypsy ataman"; the narrator overhears him calling someone "Dšarro," and he explains that that is "our word for son or sonny." I have a few Romany references, but none of them have a word like that; the Kalderash word for 'son' is šyav and the Greek Romany word is tšavo (those two are clearly related to each other). If anyone knows what dialect dšarro might be (Servitka?), by all means speak up.

DISCOVERING POETS.

I attended the Mount Holyoke Wikipedia edit-a-thon this afternoon in case my expertise as a Wikipedia editor might be needed; in the event, it wasn't, so I spent the time chatting with occasional LH commenter Сара (aka Sarah) about the good old days at Sterling and exploring the shelves of the library's poetry room, where the meeting was held. I found all sorts of gorgeous books, including the four-volume Collected Poems of Larry Eigner with his typewritten pages lovingly reproduced, but what excited me most was discovering poets I had heard of but didn't really know, like Gjertrud Schnackenberg (I was brought up short by the first line, "You burned the structure of your intellect," of a poem she wrote when she was still an undergraduate at Mount Holyoke; Google Video tells me, by the way, that the G- of Gjertrud is silent), and poets completely unknown to me whom I now want to investigate further, like André Frénaud—so little known in the English-speaking world he doesn't have an English Wikipedia article—whose "Incertitude des rus et rivières" (the name is wonderful all by itself: ru, from Latin rivus, is 'stream, rivulet'), from his Nul ne s'égare, précédé de Hæres, begins:

Le Vau ou la Vau, une autre, ou le même,
qui se fond dans l'Oze, et l'Oze on dirait,
—ou si c'était l'Oise, ou c'est l'Ozerain—

Also, I thought I'd found the greatest name ever when I saw a book by the Belarusan poet Valzhyna Mort, but Wikipedia tells me she was born Valhyna Martynava, so presumably she chose her Addams Family–like moniker herself.

RERUM NOVARUM.

One of the most famous papal encyclicals is Leo XIII's Rerum Novarum (1891), about labor, capital, and social justice. I'm not going to go into either the theological or the historical implications of the speech; my interest here (and, frankly, my interest tout court) is solely in the title and its meaning. I was—"shocked" would be too strong a word; let's say unhappy—to discover that the Wikipedia article begins: "Rerum Novarum (Latin for On the New Things)..." As I sputtered on the Talk page:

"Rerum novarum" does not mean "On the New Things"! To translate "res novae" by "new things" is like translating "hot dog" into French as "chien chaud." "Res novae" is a fixed phrase or idiom meaning (to quote the Oxford Latin Dictionary) "constitutional changes, revolution." That is what it has always meant in Latin, and that is how Leo is using it here: "Rerum novarum semel excitata cupidine, quae diu quidem commovet civitates..." is rendered (in the Wikisource translation) "That the spirit of revolutionary change, which has long been disturbing the nations of the world..." It should be translated "Of revolution" if it must be translated in the first line of the article. [...] Well, "Of revolution" is misleading—that could imply revolution is the topic of the encyclical, which it isn't, it's just the first two words. That's why I wrote "if it must be translated in the first line"; it doesn't make much sense to translate the first two words out of context.

NATIONAL GRAMMAR DAY REDUX.

Five years ago I posted about "National Grammar Day," and I'm doing it again for the same reason: because this silly "official day" inspired a good response, a plea for sanity by lexicographer Kory Stamper:

I have a friend–well, a “friend”–who, every March 4th, marches forth into a variety of local stores with a black marker and corrects the signage in the name of “good grammar.” Grocer’s apostrophes are scribbled out, misspellings fixed, and good Lord the corybantic orgy of less/fewer corrections. This friend also printed up a bunch of stickers one year that read, “FIXED THAT FOR YOU. HAPPY NATIONAL GRAMMAR DAY.”

When he was finished telling me about how he observes National Grammar Day, he waited for me to break into a big smile and congratulate him. So when I didn’t–when, instead, my face compressed itself ever so slightly into a look of utter distaste–he was very confused. “Seriously,” he said, “don’t tell me that’s not awesome.”

Reader: that is not awesome.

STRYUTSKY.

Ever since I added Gasan Guseinov's LiveJournal (in Russian; see this LH post) to my Google Reader feed, I've enjoyed his cheeky, hyperliterate essays (and his gravelly voice—the posts come with an audio file) on a regular basis. His latest is called "Жириновский – это Достоевский сегодня!" [Zhirinovsky is the Dostoevsky of today!], and I'm posting about it here because of his citing of Dostoevsky, specifically the November 1877 issue of his Writer's Diary. The first section of the issue is devoted to explications of two words which Dostoevsky says he introduced into Russian literature, "стрюцкие" [stryutskie], something like 'worthless bums,' and "стушеваться" [stushevat'sya], 'to disappear gradually, fade away to nothing.' The first is a piece of Petersburg street slang [see Sashura's comment below] he used several times in the Diary (e.g., "Мы в Европе лишь стрюцкие," which Kenneth Lantz translates "We are but useless wretches in Europe") and says people keep writing him about, so he has decided to explain it. He goes into some detail about the situations in which Petersburgers use it (often of drunks), and ends by saying that such worthless creatures exist in educated circles as well, and "how can one resist calling these higher-ups 'striutskys' as well?" I enjoyed the word (and Dostoevsky's obvious relish in it), but the reason I decided to post about it is that I looked it up in Vasmer and discovered that it was an expansion of стрюк [stryuk], with the same meaning, and стрюк in turn is a shortened form of бастрюк [bastryuk] 'bastard,' which comes (via Polish) from German bastard! Whodathunkit?

As for стушеваться, he describes how it arose as student slang "when I was studying in the Main School of Military Engineering" and derived from the importance of learning how to shade [стушёвывать] plans drawn in India ink [тушь], but what I want to quote here is the final paragraph of the section, which illustrates one reason it's hard to dislike Dostoevsky (again, the translation is Lantz's):

KHERASKOV.

Here's another tidbit from Early Modern Russian Writers (see this post), Alexander Levitsky's introduction to his article on Mikhail Kheraskov:

The slim volume of poetry with which Mikhail Matveevich Kheraskov's oeuvre is represented in this [i.e., the 20th] century does not even begin to outline the influence this poet had on the development of Russian literature, nor does it give any idea of his actual importance for Russian cultural history. Cliché formulas about Kheraskov, mostly generated during the period following his death and generally hostile to his legacy, abound even among scholars of eighteenth-century literature. Much of this unjust posthumous assessment stems from the fact that Kheraskov simply is not read. If his complete works were ever published, they would fill the space on bookshelves occupied only by the most prolific of poets. His only published collected works (1796–1803) comprise twelve volumes but account for only about half of his writings. Besides being scarce, Kheraskov's works are but a pale reflection of a man who left his imprint on practically every genre practiced during his long life and who helped shape the aesthetic norms of his age.

SOME LINKS.

Since Sentence first and XIX век are doing link roundups, I guess I'll join the club:

1) Txtng Rules: Anne Curzan explains why texting isn't ruining the English language and passes on what she's learned from her students; this in particular struck me:

LOL no longer means ‘laughing out loud’ (so the OED gets credit for including LOL in the third edition, but the definition is already out of date). To show laughter, EMC now often relies on “hahaha” (students tell me that you need at least three ha’s to show laughter if they are not capitalized). LOL is now a way to flag that a message is meant to be funny (similar to jk—‘just kidding’) or to signal irony. LOL can also be a way to acknowledge that a writer has received a text—a written version of a nod of the head and a smile (“a chuckle at most,” one student told me).

3) No smoking in Arabic! (via Anatoly).

4) Rhymes With Runt: Forrest Wickman answers the question "How did the C-word become such an offensive insult?" ("Others have noted that some people in the 13th and 14th centuries also had the word in their names, in a way that seems unlikely today: Some men and women at that time included Bele Wydecunthe, Robert Clevecunt, and Gunoka Cuntles.")

5) Story Bud? A video of Dublin phrases, with notes (the helpful notes supplied by Stan Carey).