Matrimony.

Sunday, 21 September 2025 19:00
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Posted by languagehat

My wife asked me why matrimony meant marriage whereas patrimony meant something entirely different, and I had no answer for her, so I googled around. Wiktionary is no help:

From Old French matremoine, from Latin mātrimōnium (“marriage, wedlock”), from mātri(s) (“mother”) + -mōnium (“obligation”). By surface analysis, matri- +‎ -mony. Compare patrimony.

So I tried the OED (entry revised 2001) and found:

< Anglo-Norman matermoine, matremoine, matrimoigne, matrimone, matrimonie and Middle French matremoine, matrimoigne (14th cent.; c1155 in Old French in sense ‘property inherited from one’s mother’: compare 1a) < classical Latin mātrimōnium state of being married < mātri-, māter mother (see matri- comb. form) + ‑mōnium ‑mony comb. form.

Which is also no help. I recognize that marriage tends to lead to motherhood, but can anyone explain the Latin formation more effectively? Does it have to do with Roman society, or is it just one of those things?

Episode 2676: Close Encounter of the Word Kind

Sunday, 21 September 2025 09:12
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Episode 2676: Close Encounter of the Word Kind

Anything weird that happens in an adventure, you can later blame on some other agent altogether.

Rocks fell and everyone nearly died in some random adventure a year ago on the other side of the continent? That was me!

This gives your villains an aura of forethought and planning that no PC could ever hope to match.

aurilee writes:

Commentary by memnarch (who has not seen the movie)

Man, that is a long time planning this out. There hadn't even been a sign of time shenanigans yet! I guess this has been the overarching theme for the sequel comics plot. I also wonder how long the GM has planned this speech. Just as long as this particular scene with these kinds of hints? I know I couldn't pull out all of these five-dollar words on a dime.

So if Babu Frik né Boba Fett wants to destroy Han, Luke, and Chewie, that means finding out more about them is the goal for the comic. And with only Chewie living, I suppose that could be one way they get Babu to be helpful, at least for the moment. Pete at least would have no problem pushing Chewie under the bus here; there's no immediate danger to Chewbacca given that he's a prisoner of the First Order, so it's hardly betraying the party. And maybe that's sort of what the movie is as well, given that there's still no panicking or fighting happening here over Threepio's red eyes.

Transcript

Salvage the Bones.

Saturday, 20 September 2025 21:58
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Posted by languagehat

Jesmyn Ward’s 2011 novel Salvage the Bones was one of my birthday presents this year, and I just got through reading it. If you want the plot laid out, you can read the Wikipedia entry or Parul Sehgal’s NY Times review (archived). Me, I don’t read books for plot, and all I can tell you is that the novel’s architecture and its prose are perfectly fitted to the story being told; I’ll quote a couple of paragraphs, and if you like them you will certainly like the novel:

My mama’s mother, Mother Lizbeth, and her daddy, Papa Joseph, originally owned all this land: around fifteen acres in all. It was Papa Joseph nicknamed it all the Pit, Papa Joseph who let the white men he work with dig for clay that they used to lay the foundation for houses, let them excavate the side of a hill in a clearing near the back of the property where he used to plant corn for feed. Papa Joseph let them take all the dirt they wanted until their digging had created a cliff over a dry lake in the backyard, and the small stream that had run around and down the hill had diverted and pooled into the dry lake, making it into a pond, and then Papa Joseph thought the earth would give under the water, that the pond would spread and gobble up the property and make it a swamp, so he stopped selling earth for money. He died soon after from mouth cancer, or at least that’s what Mother Lizbeth used to tell us when we were little. She always talked to us like grown-ups, cussed us like grown-ups. She died in her sleep after praying the rosary, when she was in her seventies, and two years later, Mama, the only baby still living out of the eight that Mother Lizbeth had borne, died when having Junior. Since it’s just us and Daddy here now with China, the chickens, and a pig when Daddy can afford one, the fields Papa Joseph used to plant around the Pit are overgrown with shrubs, with saw palmetto, with pine trees reaching up like the bristles on a brush.

[…]

Mama taught me how to find eggs; I followed her around the yard. It was never clean. Even when she was alive, it was full of empty cars with their hoods open, the engines stripped, and the bodies sitting there like picked-over animal bones. We only had around ten hens then. Now we have around twenty-five or thirty because we can’t find all the eggs; the hens hide them well. I can’t remember exactly how I followed Mama because her skin was dark as the reaching oak trees, and she never wore bright colors: no fingernail pink, no forsythia blue, no banana yellow. Maybe she bought her shirts and pants bright and they faded with wear so that it seemed she always wore olive and black and nut brown, so that when she bent to pry an egg from a hidden nest, I could hardly see her, and she moved and it looked like the woods moved, like a wind was running past the trees. So I followed behind her by touch, not by sight, my hand tugging at her pants, her skirt, and that’s how we walked in the room made by the oaks, looking for eggs. I like looking for eggs. I can wander off by myself, move as slow as I want, stare at nothing. Ignore Daddy and Junior. Feel like the quiet and the wind. I imagine Mama walking in front of me, turning to smile or whistle at me to get me to walk faster, her teeth white in the gloom. But still, it is work, and I have to pull myself back and concentrate to find anything to eat.

The young narrator, Esch, is a reader, and she is currently absorbed in Greek myth, the Medea story in particular; it is used not for precious parallels but for salutary jolts. And one linguistic point: when I came to a mention of Buras-Triumph, Louisiana, of course I wanted to know how “Buras” was pronounced (anyone who presumes anything about Louisiana place names is a fool — case in point, Natchitoches (/ˈnækətəʃ/). Since the Wikipedia article didn’t tell me, I had to trawl through a number of videos to be sure that the locals say /ˈbjurəs/ (BYOO-rəs), and since I can’t find that corroborated in a printed source that will satisfy the Korinthenkacker at Wikipedia and thus can’t add it to the article, I’m sharing it here. (I did find a video of a woman teaching viewers how to pronounce some of the more opaque Louisiana place names by first parading the wrong versions, often more than once, before triumphantly producing the correct one. Apparently she has no idea that what that does is hammer the wrong forms into your head; when she says “I hear people say X, X, X, X, X, when actually it’s Y!” you’re not going to come away with anything but X. Bah.)

Bootleg.

Friday, 19 September 2025 20:26
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Posted by languagehat

I saw a reference to bootleg records and wondered, for the hundredth time, why they were called that. Obviously it had to do with bootleg booze, but why was that called “bootleg”? And what was the chronology? So I went to the OED, which happily revised its entry just this year (I’ll interleave the corresponding adjective citations for easy comparison):

1. The part of a boot that covers the lower leg; the leather material used for this. Also: a gaiter or greave that covers the lower leg.

1575 [Paid for o]n paire of boote ledges to make [bawdricks] withall.
in J. E. Farmiloe & R. Nixseaman, Elizabethan Churchwardens’ Accounts (1953) 63
[…]

2.a. Alcohol that has been illegally produced, distributed, or sold, esp. during a time of prohibition. Also: a club or establishment selling such alcohol.
Now chiefly in historical contexts.
[On the origin of use in this sense see discussion in Etymology.]

1844 9 Puncheons of Old Rum (real New England ‘boot-leg’), the balance of a very large stock that has gone off very freely.
Subterranean & Working Man’s Advocate 16 Nov.

[adj.] 1861 The vials of wrath spoken of by the sacred writers, as at some future time to be poured out upon mankind, are supposed to be bottles of boot-leg whisky.
Topeka (Kansas) Tribune 9 February
[…]

1928 Gradually I’m becoming acquainted with all the brands of bootleg that the Westcoast offers.
H. Crane, Letter 31 January (1965) 315
[…]

[adj.] 2019 More than 100 people have died after drinking bootleg alcohol in northern India and hundreds more have been put in hospital.
Times 12 February 34/4

2.b. An unauthorized or illicitly traded item; a counterfeit.
Frequently with the implication that the item is a poor quality imitation of a superior product.

[adj.] 1921 War against ‘bootleg’ milk, in an attempt to make all milk sold in the city properly inspected.
Oklahoma News 4 January 1/1

1923 The printing on the base of the tube is frequently badly smudged on the bootleg, whereas on the genuine it is quite clear and readable.
Brooklyn Daily Eagle 12 August 8c/5
[…]

2.c.i. An unauthorized audio or video recording, esp. one that has been illicitly recorded at a live concert or cinema screening. Also: a record, DVD, etc., that has been distributed or reproduced without authorization.

[adj.] 1926 Bootleg jazz records with risque verses distributed.
Dothan (Alabama) Eagle 12 June 2/2 (headline)

1951 Victor presses bootlegs!
Record Changer (New York) November 1 (heading)

1971 This album of the Experience recorded at the Albert Hall in ’69 is not a bootleg (although there’s an inferior bootleg in mono selling at the same price), it’s an official German release.
It 2 June 18/1
[…]

2.c.ii. A piece of music created by merging two or more existing pieces of popular music, esp. the isolated vocals of one piece and the instrumental backing of another. Cf. mash-up n. 2.

1998 Holiday New Bootleg!.. Thomas Bangalter..put out this amazing song called Music Sounds Better With You… There is a bootleg mix that has the vocal from [sc. Madonna’s] Holiday on it.
alt.fan.madonna 30 August (Usenet newsgroup, accessed 13 Aug. 2024)

There are further senses (coffee, football, trousers), but they don’t interest me at the moment. So let’s “see discussion in Etymology”:

The original motivation for use in sense A.2a is unclear. While the term may originally have referred to the use of the leg of one’s boot to hide contraband (compare quot. 1883 at bootlegger n. 1a), there is also earlier evidence describing the practice of mixing alcohol with various adulterants including leather (from e.g. boots), strychnine, and tobacco, evidently to impart a flavour or colour resembling that of an aged spirit. Compare:

1863 The liquor..was nothing more than twenty-two cent whisky colored with logwood, tan-bark, tincture of bedbugs, old boot-legs and copperas; that he sold this vile stuff at retail to his customers; that they died.
Knight’s Landing (California) News 24 October

It’s more complicated than I guessed. (As an Old, I was not aware of the “mash-up” sense. Also, I love the name Subterranean & Working Man’s Advocate and think it should be revived.)

ChatGPT and the Em Dash.

Thursday, 18 September 2025 18:35
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Posted by languagehat

Nitsuh Abebe writes in the NY Times (archived) about a kerfuffle that had hitherto escaped me but is obviously in my wheelhouse, “Whose Punctuation Is More Human: Yours or A.I.’s?”:

There are countless signals you might look for to determine whether a piece of writing was generated by A.I., but earlier this year the world seemed to fixate on one in particular: the em dash. ChatGPT was using it constantly — like so, and even if you begged it not to.

As this observation traveled the internet, a weird consensus congealed: that humans do not use dashes. Posters on tech forums called them a “GPT-ism,” a robotic artifact that “does not match modern day communication.” Someone on an OpenAI forum complained that the dashes made it harder to use ChatGPT for customer service without customers catching on. All sorts of people seemed mystifyingly confident that no flesh-and-bone human had any use for this punctuation, and that any deviant who did would henceforth be mistaken for a computer.

Those deviants were appalled, obviously. I am one; I am, even worse, a former proofreader who could speak at length and with passion about the uses of the narrower en dash. I understand very well that this dash-happy lifestyle is maybe atypical, but I had not expected to see its whole existence questioned. The dash is a time-honored and exceedingly normal tool for constructing sentences! Dickens, Dickinson, Nietzsche, Stephen King novels, this magazine — all strewn with dashes. Part of what makes them popular, in fact, is that they can feel more casually human, more like natural speech, than colons, semicolons and parentheses. Humans do not think or speak in sentences; we think and speak in thoughts, which interrupt and introduce and complicate one another in a neat little dance that creates larger, more complex ideas. (Or, sometimes, doesn’t: The copious dashing in J.D. Salinger dialogue is a great illustration of all the thoughts we leave unfinished.) This is the whole thing punctuation is for. […]

I am not writing this to defend dashes. I am writing this because I want to suggest that the phrase “everyday use-cases” signals a genuinely epochal shift in our perception of what writing even is.

Consider that, for a good stretch of recent history, most of the written material that people spent time with — the stuff beyond signs and menus — was full-on writing-writing: text that somebody sat down and composed, maybe revised or edited, maybe even had professionally printed. And this kind of communication was different from our daily interaction with our peers: You talked to your peers, mostly. Even after the internet arrived, this basic psychic arrangement persisted.

And now it does not — like, at all. “Emails or text messages,” posts and chats, DMs and comments, DoorDashers telling you the restaurant is out of coleslaw: Oceans of communication that used to be handled by speech are now left to lone individuals typing into the internet. Even if you remain a dedicated reader, you may still end up spending more of your time dealing in on-the-fly typings, because that has become the everyday use-case of writing.

The whole thing is worth reading, not least for Mr. Abebe’s splendid style (varying between polite dyspepsia and genial enthusiasm); I am in thorough agreement with him on all points, and I am infuriated by the common tendency among the terminally online to assume and proclaim that whatever is not personally familiar to them does not and must not exist. Thanks, Eric and cuchuflete!

Episode 2676: Emit Nidal Lad In Time

Thursday, 18 September 2025 09:13
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Episode 2676: Emit Nidal Lad In Time

Really, can you go wrong with time shenanigans?

Yes. Yes, you definitely can.

Which is what makes them great for story telling!

aurilee writes:

Commentary by memnarch (who has not seen the movie)

Wow. Now that is some convoluted planning by the GM. Or great improvisation from previous plot threads; the GM has gotten very good at that over the years.

And wait, does this mean that Boba Fett was that maybe-Guavian? I'd figured it was just another rathtar. Also curious now is that the rathtar is meant to be The Rathtar, which would also mean that there can't be two in the later attack. I mean higher numbered comic page. Man, talking about things when something's got Merlin Sickness can be confusing.

Frankly, at this point with all the time related shenanigans, I wouldn't be surprised if Force Timestop shows up again somehow and causes related problems, even if it's only done by comic panel manipulation.

Transcript

Language Instruction.

Wednesday, 17 September 2025 19:40
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Posted by languagehat

I heard a piece by the American composer and clarinetist Derek Bermel and liked it, so I looked him up and discovered he’d written a piece called “Language Instruction” that you can read about, and hear a snippet of, here. One of the quotes on that page is an excerpt from Allan Kozinn’s NY Times review (Dec. 8, 2003; archived) of a performance:

For all one hears about the classical music world being a museum culture, there is an alternative musical world in New York, just outside the spotlight focused on the big performing institutions.

Virtually every night new music is on offer, usually in the smaller halls (or in places that specialize in it, like the Kitchen and Roulette), performed by musicians whose interpretive interests draw them toward what’s next rather than what has been. […]

The centerpiece was Derek Bermel’s “Language Instruction” (2003), an amusing full ensemble work based on the rhythms and gestures of language tapes. The clarinet was, in effect, the voice on the tape, and the other instruments were the students — variously willing or difficult, competent or bumbling — who must repeat the phrases. Mr. Bermel spins this interaction into an increasingly chaotic fantasy that would have been perfectly at home on a program with Berio’s Sequenza III and the works by Ms. La Barbara, Mr. Aperghis and Mr. Gal.

It sounds like a lot of fun (I enjoyed the audio clip), and I’m very glad our local classical station plays a good deal of contemporary music instead of sticking with the mossy 18th- and 19th-century standbys. (And if you’re curious, as I was, about the surname Bermel, it’s a “habitational name from a place in Rhineland named Bermel.”)

obdurodon.

Tuesday, 16 September 2025 20:07
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Posted by languagehat

I was over at XIX век and happened to glance at the list of Russian literature sites in the right margin, and my eye fell on the obdurately lowercase obdurodon. When I clicked through, I found an amazing collection of “Digital humanities projects,” many of them Russian-related, from The annotated Afanas′ev library (“Selected Russian fairy tales from the Aleksandr Afanas′ev collection with glosses and linguistic and cultural annotation”) to Twitter register variation (“Corpus-based study of linguistic properties of English-language tweets”). It’s well worth checking out. And “obdurodon”? Per Wikipedia, it’s “a genus of extinct platypus-like Australian monotreme which lived from the Late Oligocene to the Late Miocene”:

The holotype tooth was placed into the newly erected genus Obdurodon upon description in 1975 by American palaeontologists Michael O. Woodburne and Richard H. Tedford. They named the genus from the Latin obduro “persist” and the Greek ὀδών (odṓn) “tooth”, in reference to the permanency of the molars, a feature which is lost in the modern platypus.

So it’s a bastard formation, but if I can take “television,” I guess I can take “obdurodon.” (It’s not in the OED yet even though it’s been known and named for half a century.) I have no idea why the site is called that, but there’s an image of a pair of them at the top of the main page, and it’s quite cute.

Episode 2675: Ombrage à Trois

Tuesday, 16 September 2025 09:13
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Episode 2675: Ombrage à Trois

Bearers of bad news often get a bad rap. In reality they seldom deserve it, but in fiction or gaming...

Go ahead and take out your frustration on them! Especially if you're the bad guy.

aurilee writes:

Commentary by memnarch (who has not seen the movie)

Chewbacca hardly counts as the third. That was just Han Solo pushing Chewie under the space bus. The Wookiee is such a chew toy sometimes.

And hey! We got those panel cracks again! Or maybe panel stabs? Either way, those were a neat edit to the comic. I wonder if we'll get another edit like that next comic.

Transcript

Rebetika.

Monday, 15 September 2025 21:44
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Posted by languagehat

I find it hard to believe I’ve never posted about rebetika, since not only do I love the music (when I was in Athens I sought out a dusty record store where I could buy some LPs I then had to lug back to New York) but the word itself is very interesting. For one thing, there’s no unanimity on how to spell it; Wikipedia has it under Rebetiko (“plural rebetika […], occasionally transliterated as rembetiko or rebetico), while the OED (entry from 2002) has it s.v. rebetika (sadly, it’s not in M-W or AHD under any spelling). Here’s the OED definition, which is quite discursive:

A style of Greek popular song, characterized by lyrics depicting urban and underworld themes, a passionate vocal style, and an ensemble accompaniment played esp. on stringed instruments such as the violin, bouzouki, etc.; (with plural agreement) the songs themselves. Also (in form rebetiko): a song in this style. Frequently attributive.

First recorded commercially in Turkey before the First World War (1914–18), rebetika is assumed to have long existed (under various other generic names) as an oral tradition in Mediterranean seaports and prisons. Following the Greco–Turkish war of 1919–22, the genre became associated with the numerous Anatolian refugees settling in Athens. Extensively recorded and performed in the 1920s and 1930s, notably by immigrants from Asia Minor, Piraeus bouzouki players, and Greek Americans, rebetika also became known in English as ‘Greek Blues’ or ‘Piraeus Blues’.

But it’s the etymology that makes it a must-post, and happily Martin Schwartz has sent me a recent article of his on the subject. First I’ll provide the OED version:

< modern Greek ρεμπέτικα, plural of ρεμπέτικο eastern-style song of urban low life, use as noun of neuter singular of ρεμπέτικος of vagabonds or rebels, probably < ρεμπέτης rebetis n. + ‑ικος ‑ic suffix.

Notes
On the further etymology, compare note at rebetis n.
The forms with ‑mb‑ arise from the influence of an idiosyncratic transliteration of the modern Greek (in which the sequence ‑μπ‑ normally represents b), originally in G. Holst Road to Rembetika (1975).

(I think of it as rembetika because I was introduced to it by that Gail Holst book, which I recommend.) Now to Martin’s “A rebetic roundup: people, songs, words, and whatnot” (published as ch. 27 of The SOAS Rebetiko Reader); I’ll quote some bits and urge you to visit the link for more:

Today the adjective “rebetika”, as used by the majority of Greeks, refers to urban Greek music of the earlier half of the 20th century, and is associated with lyrics reflecting lower class culture – drugs, thugs, drink, pimps, prisons, poverty, illness, alienation and thwarted love – although the wide range of the genre makes it describable as an urban popular music, with a déclassé aspect. Indeed, its songs, which are for the most part based on several fixed dance rhythms, played an important role in the Greater Athenian recording and nightclub scene from shortly after the 1922 Asia Minor Catastrophe well into the 1950s and to some extent later. The term “rebetika” has, to shifting degrees, been applied to two successive but overlapping chronological varieties. The first, from ca. 1923 to 1937, is characterised by musical styles, instruments, and vocal techniques continuing, or much influenced by, those of the Greeks of Turkey, chiefly of Smyrna and Constantinople, and including material of Turkish origin. The second, from the early 1930s into the 1950s, while thematically and choreographically related to the first, featured the bouzouki, an earthier singing style, and an increasingly Greco-European profile. […]

Although I am marginally a “rebetologist”, my central discipline is as an etymologist, historical linguistics being my chief academic activity. It is from this perspective, with the aid of some “rebetological” data, that I shall address the history of the terms rebétis and rebétiko / rebétika.

A preliminary notice: I use the transcription rebétika as representing the pronunciation used by most Greeks, as against the often encountered “rembetika”; in Greek spelling, μπ (mp) is necessary to indicate the sound /b/, and in this instance the μ (m) is silent, but wrongly present as a frequent transcription into Latin letters.

After dismissing some other theories (deriving it from alleged Pre-Modern Turkish rebet asker, Greek rébelos ‘a rebel,’ and Arabic ribaṭ), he continues:

The most fruitful direction for our linguistic quest is to proceed from Ancient Greek PEMB- (rhemb-, Mod. Gr. remv-) ‘to wander’, which gives re(m)b- (with-μπ-) in various Late and Modern Greek verbs and nouns referring to loafing, laziness, relaxed enjoyment, etc.; see Gauntlett 1982: p. 90, fn. 51. With the base rebet- itself is the word rebéta found in several literary attestations from 1871 onward as an argot term in Smyrna and Constantinople for ‘a lower-class neighborhood populated by criminals’ (from ‘unruly place’, as still used in 1895 by N. Georgiadis for the festivals [pane(gh)iria] in Silivri). It is interesting that when in 1918 the Constantinopolitan N. Sofron, writing sketches of everyday life in his city, took as a nom de plume Rebétos derived from rebéta in its older usage, and not from rebétis, which shows that the latter form was not yet common. For rebétis, the first occurrence (date unclear to me) seems to be in Nikolaos G. Politis’ serial ethnographic volumes called Paradoseis, in which a character named Giannis the Rebétis figures, although nothing informative is said of him, and, as we shall see, rebétis is not found again until 1923. […]

There remains the question of the newly emerged earliest literary occurrence of “rebetiko” as connected with this designation on the record labels, and the relationship of rebétis to both, which gets us back to our linguistic inquiry. Vlisidis’ material indeed disproves the idea that the term “rebetiko” on record labels was (as proposed by Panos Savvopoulos) just an invention on the part of the recording companies. As Vlisidis indicates, the record labels from 1912-1913 bearing the characterisation “rebétiko” drew on a word which was current at the time. However, Vlisidis’ further proposal, that the literary material which calls itself rebétiko/a was reflected by these discs is problematic. The underclass nature of the diction, as well as the thematics of the four poems which are called “rebétiko / rebétika”, differ dramatically from what we find for the two 1912/13 light love songs called “rebétiko” on the record labels, and also from the many subsequent recordings bearing that epithet on the label. […]

We now have enough material to offer a solution to the problem of the term rebétiko. A linguistic approach would also involve distinguishing between and then reconciling the various usages of what are in fact complexly related words, rebéta, rebétiko, and rebétis. As a mannerism first used literarily in 1912, rebétiko would be an adjectival invention, ‘pertaining to the rebéta’, i.e. ‘that which belongs to the underclass realm’. From popular magazines of the period (cf. Vlisidis), it would have been noticed by Greeks involved in the recording industry, who however took it to be derived from the verb re(m)bo etc. referring to rambles, indolent or relaxed enjoyment, the word thereby providing for the categorisation of discs a trendy-sounding designation of miscellaneous light songs, such as we find in “Aponia” and “Tiki Tiki Tak”. Toward the mid-1920s, however, with the emergence of rebétis for a member of a lower-class subculture, music pertaining to the latter world began to enter the miscellaneous industrial category, explaining the diverse and contradictory range of recordings labeled “rebétiko”.

This now calls for an account of the origin of rebétis. Politis’ obscure attestation of rebétis may reflect a temporary neologism based on one hand on rebéta (cf. Georgiadis’ 1918 rebétos) and on the other hand constituting a regular derivation with -étis from the verb root ré(m)b-, see Gauntlett 1982, pp. 90-91 for parallels; note however that such a derivation is not “undermined” by nouns with -étis yielding adjectives with -etikós vs. the accentuation of rebétiko, which precedes, and is NOT derived from rebétis. For the formation of the more conclusive 1923 attestation of rebétis by “Smyrnios”, one has, alongside a deverbal explanation of rebétis, the possibility of a “back-formation” from rebétiko ‘pertaining to the underclass realm’. Given the 1923 attestation of rebétis and its continuation by Markos in his 1933 “O Harmanis” [The drug-deprived one], Pikros’ 1925 mention of rebéta as in effect the feminine equivalent of rebétis seems suspicious; one would rather expect rebétisa (cf. ghóis [Anc. Gr. góēs] ‘sorcerer’: ghóisa ‘sorceress’ continuing the ancient fem. suffix -issa), which is found canonically in our songs. Given that rebétis itself was still only marginally attested, perhaps Pikros had misunderstood a phrase with the probably already obsolescent rebéta ‘lower-class milieu’, taking the latter as its female personification, or, in a context referring to a group of people, he misinterpreted rebétes as a plural of rebéta rather than of rebétis.

There’s much more (e.g., “It is possible that the suffixation of rebétis was supported by a traditional underclass word of the same semantic field, serétis ‘tough guy’, of Turkish origin”), but I will reluctantly stop quoting and send you to the link. I just want to add something about the difficult issue of nasal + consonant clusters and how to transliterate them. Peter Mackridge, in his excellent 1987 The Modern Greek Language (Amazon, Internet Archive), writes:

To begin with the combinations of nasal + consonant that existed in traditional demotic, some dialects always pronounced the nasal fully, others always omitted it completely, while others displayed a certain variety. Grammarians, on the other hand, have taught that these combinations should be pronounced with or without the nasal according to whether the nasal was present in an earlier version of the word […]. With the rise of literacy, however, speakers have usually treated every instance […] alike, that is, either always with or always without the nasal, according to each speaker’s idiolect. Furthermore, it cannot be expected that speakers will know the etymological origin of all the words they use.

Most scholars now seem to have settled on nasalless versions, but I confess it makes me uneasy, since I always think of the Greek script with its nasals. I also have to point out that my two bilingual dictionaries, D. N. Stavropoulos’s Oxford English-Greek Learner’s Dictionary and J. T. Pring’s Oxford Dictionary of Modern Greek, handle these words very differently; the former has ρεμπέτης ‘outcast, scamp, rebetis’ and ρεμπέτικος ‘of/from a rebetis,’ while the latter has only ρεμπέτικο ‘sort of popular song in oriental style.’ And as I look at those entries, I note the following word in each: Stavropoulos has ρεμπούπλικα ‘trilby, homburg, felt hat,’ whereas Pring has ρε(μ)πούμπλικα ‘trilby or homburg hat’ (Wiktionary has it as ρεπούμπλικα). Truly Greek is a land of contrasts.

The Dream Songs as Epic.

Sunday, 14 September 2025 21:09
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Posted by languagehat

As I said back in 2014, John Berryman is one of my favorite American poets, and I welcome the imminent appearance of Only Sing: 152 Uncollected Dream Songs; Shane McCrae, who edited it and wrote the introduction, has a Paris Review essay about it from which I offer a few excerpts:

It has taken me years to realize that The Dream Songs is an epic—and a successful, even great one. For years, I searched for the successful traditional epic I felt certain must have been written by an American, and although I more than once encountered poems that seemed to fit the bill formally, none of them seemed an artistic success to me. Most often, they were let down by their language, which was commonly pedestrian, almost as if it were a secondary or even tertiary concern of their authors. But, of course, the language of an epic poem must be, in its way, as compressed as the language of a lyric poem—and in those moments when it is not compressed, the language must strike the reader as relaxed from compression, and loaded with the certainty of future compression. The language of The Dream Songs is always either compressed or suggestive of compression. The poem has this, and little else, in common with traditional epic.

But The Dream Songs also, of course, features a hero, as epics traditionally do—Henry. […] Henry, of course, is no Odysseus, though he more closely resembles Odysseus than all other epic heroes, with the exception of the unnamed protagonist of Dante’s Commedia (indeed, Henry strikes me as a combination of both heroes, but sitting in an armchair, sometimes a desk chair, at the end of a long day, talking, sometimes singing, sometimes shouting, in an otherwise empty room). Henry is an unheroic hero—a heroic hero has in-narrative effects upon the physical world and the people in it; Henry, for the most part, does not. When he does, the reader must take his word for it that he does; he, rather than the narrative of the epic, describes the effects he has. He is, in other words, a twentieth-century white American male, not especially remarkable, the sort of person who doesn’t establish or recover a nation, or parley with angels, or explore hell, but the sort of common person of whom nations are constituted, to whom angels were once commonly believed to minister in small ways, of whom hell was once commonly believed to be full. Henry is a hero for a disenchanted nation, from which once-common beliefs have mostly fled. He does not mourn the disappearance of those beliefs; he has held on to the beliefs he could. […]

In a 1968 interview with Berryman, Catherine Watson wrote, “Not all the songs about Henry are in the books, Berryman said, but ‘if there is a third volume, it will not take him further. It will be up to the reader to fit those poems in among the published ones.’ ” Berryman understood his epic to be complete, but he did not believe that its completeness could have only one form—although his remark does suggest that it has an established beginning and end; note the phrase, “fit those poems in among.” Only Sing collects 152 possible additions to the epic, each of which is worth reading for its own merits. […]

In November of 2023—on the anniversary, although I didn’t know it at the time, of the date on which Berryman wrote Dream Song 29—I flew to Minneapolis for a daylong visit to the Andersen Library Reading Room at the University of Minnesota. There, Erin McBrien, then the interim curator, located the boxes of Berryman’s unpublished material and patiently answered all my questions, and I photographed each of the manuscripts of the unpublished Dream Songs. The next day, I flew home and began transcribing the Songs. Doing so, I made no effort to Americanize Berryman’s spelling—he studied for two years at Clare College, Cambridge, and often favored British spelling—and I left the entirely idiosyncratic spellings and words untouched (one example of the latter: the word sieteus in the poem beginning “Hearkened Henry,” which perhaps ought to be she tells, but is, in fact, sieteus in Berryman’s typescript). I corrected only obvious typos. Once the Songs were transcribed, I had to determine how to arrange them, and I settled upon ordering them alphabetically according to first line. I could not organize them chronologically, because most of them hadn’t been dated by the poet and I didn’t want to guess—my goal was to impose as little of my own will as possible upon the organization of the Songs. […] Although it was Berryman’s practice, when collecting the Dream Songs into books, to group the Songs in numbered sections, I haven’t done so, as to do so would be to impose the will I’m trying to minimize. These Songs are put together in the way that I hope best allows—or at least allows as well as any other way—readers to “fit [them] in among” the already existing Songs, so that each reader might expand the epic according to their own wishes, thereby laying claim to their particular sense of what The Dream Songs is.

I’m trying not to add to my mountain range of physical books, but I may have to get a copy of this one. (I linked to a clip of Berryman reading Dream Song 29 here.)

Episode 2674: Once Upon a Crime

Sunday, 14 September 2025 09:11
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Episode 2674: Once Upon a Crime

You know how fictional villains often act in completely over-the-top ways, yet none of their goons seem to take this as a red flag and get the heck out of there before it all falls to pieces? You can bring some semblance of reality back to proceedings by having some of their subordinates actually call them out on it. Or threaten to leave. Or actually leave.

Or give them a plausible reason why they might stay even though they know they work for a lunatic. Family ties can be one of those reasons.

aurilee writes:

Commentary by memnarch (who has not seen the movie)

This is also about the fourth time we've had this flashback? That's how bad it is. Zorii seems to be the sane one here, but I don't think she'll be of much help in talking Boba down. It's hard to come back from five exclamation points, you know. How Threepio gets back to normal is going to be interesting as I can't see why Boba would want to put them back to normal at the moment.

And since this is Boba's last chance at an appearance such as it is (since it's Episode IX and all), I hope we get more flashback panels in the next week. I'd thought we'd had a great conclusion to his story back in Episode VI, so seeing it embellished more here will be very enjoyable.

Transcript

Meet the Chūkaku-ha Joan of Arc

Sunday, 14 September 2025 05:32
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Posted by William Andrews

News Post Seven published an extensive four-part interview in July with a 21-year-old woman identified only as Ninomiya, described as “Chūkaku-ha’s mystery beauty”. More than the “respectable” sections of the media, the tabloids are inclined to give coverage to Japanese … Continue reading

Gauffer, Goffer.

Saturday, 13 September 2025 18:18
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Posted by languagehat

I was reading James Hill’s NY Times piece “In This Parisian Atelier, Bookbinding Is a Family Art” (archived), which describes the work done in the Atelier Devauchelle and has gorgeous illustrations (some of which are video clips), when I came across a word that was more or less new to me (in that I may have seen it before but had no idea what it meant):

Naïk Duca has worked at the atelier for 19 years. She presses a thin heated roller onto foil to repair gold lines on leather book covers, a process known as gauffering.

Most dictionaries do not have this specialized sense of the verb: Merriam-Webster “to crimp, plait, or flute (linen, lace, etc.) especially with a heated iron,” AHD “To press ridges or narrow pleats into (a frill, for example),” OED (entry from 1900) “To make wavy by means of heated goffering-irons; to flute or crimp (the edge of lace, a frill, or trimming of any kind).” But Wiktionary does:

1. (transitive) To plait, crimp, or flute; to goffer, as lace.
2. (transitive) In fine bookbinding, to decorate the edges of a text block with a heated iron.

The odd thing is that the prevailing spelling is goffer: M-W says, s.v. gauffer, “variant spelling of ɢᴏꜰꜰᴇʀ,” AHD has “gof·fer also gauf·fer,” and OED’s entry is “goffer | gauffer.” Wiktionary, bizarrely, has one entry for gauffer and another for goffer, with differing definitions and no hint that they are related. As for the etymology, AHD says:

[French gaufrer, to emboss, from Old French, from gaufre, honeycomb, waffle, of Germanic origin; see webh- in the Appendix of Indo-European roots.]

Idiomatic Soul.

Friday, 12 September 2025 18:57
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Posted by languagehat

For as long as I’ve been studying Russian (over half a century now), I’ve been amused, intrigued, and occasionally irritated by the cliché of the “Russian soul,” about which many books have been written (e.g., Russia and Soul: An Exploration, Mystifying Russian Soul, The Light of the Russian Soul, and A Window to the Russian Soul, to take a few titles from the first page of Google Books results; a similar search on the Russian phrase produces many, many results). We’ve discussed the Russian word душа a number of times (e.g., 2017), and I’ve always been a little uncomfortable with simply saying it means ‘soul,’ because even though the two words are often used in similar contexts, the Russian one has a wider variety of occurrences that often do not match the English word at all. So I thought a worthwhile approach would be to list some common idiomatic phrases where that is the case, which usefully complicates one’s understanding of the Russian. Happily, this page from the Русско-английский фразеологический словарь [Russian-English phraseological dictionary] site lists a large number of such idioms, with English translations and often examples of use when you click through. Some of them use ‘soul’ where English uses ‘heart,’ e.g., душа надрывается ‘one’s soul is torn’ or душа уходит в пятки, literally ‘the soul sinks into the heels’ where we say “one’s heart slipped down to one’s boots” or “one’s heart leaped into one’s mouth,” and it often seems to represent a person’s inner self as a source of feeling and desire: душа не лежит (‘the soul does not lie [that way], is not [so] situated’) “smb. has a distaste for smb., smth.; smb. has no fondness for smb., smth.; smb. is not particularly fond of smb., smth.; smb.’s heart is not with smb.; smb.’s heart is not in smth.”; душа не принимает (‘the soul does not receive [it]’) “one is sick of smth.”; для души “for one’s spirit; for one’s satisfaction; as a hobby”; души не чаять (‘not to expect the soul’ — a particularly odd idiom) “dote upon smb.; worship smb.; think the world of smb.; treat smb. as the apple of one’s eye”; с души воротит (‘it turns from the soul’? — I’m not even sure how this one works) “it turns one’s stomach; it makes one sick”; кривить душой (‘to twist with the soul’) “act against one’s conscience; go (play) the hypocrite; dissemble”; за милую душу (‘at/by/for the dear soul’) “1) (охотно, с удовольствием) with pleasure; most willingly; with a will; 2) (отлично, прекрасно) (get along, do smth., etc.) all right, fine; 3) (не задумываясь, без долгих размышлений) часто неодобр. do smth. without a moment’s thought; do smth. as easy as winking; 4) (несомненно, с лёгкостью, вне всякого сомнения, наверняка) no (without, beyond) doubt; easily; it won’t take a minute; cf. it’s mere child’s play for smb.; as sure as eggs is eggs”; плевать в душу (‘to spit into the soul’) “trample on smb.’s finest feelings.” The final two show душа encompassing the entire person: по душу (‘for the soul’): X пришёл по Y-ову душу “X has come for (after) Y; X has come to get Y; Y is the one X wants (needs, has come for),” and за душой ‘behind the soul’ in expressions like ни гроша за душой (‘not a penny behind the soul’) “(as) poor as a church mouse, not a penny to (one’s) name, not a penny to bless oneself with.” In such contexts the soul (as understood in English) seems especially out of place, and it makes me wonder how best to think about the “meanings” of such polyvalent words.

Fired for Constant Savaging.

Thursday, 11 September 2025 20:06
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Posted by languagehat

Kasia Boddy (born in Aberdeen, grew up in Glasgow, studied at Edinburgh, teaches at Cambridge) has a good review essay on Dorothy Parker at the LRB (Vol. 47 No. 16 · 11 September 2025; archived); I’ll quote the beginning and let you click through if you’re interested:

Dorothy Parker​ dreaded repetition and found it everywhere. In 1919, when she was just 25 and only months into her stint as Vanity Fair’s theatre critic, she already claimed enough ‘bitter experience’ to know that ‘one successful play of a certain type’ would result in a ‘vast horde’ of copycats, ‘all built on exactly the same lines’. In quantity at least, this was Broadway’s golden age, just before radio and the movies ate up its audiences. At least five new shows opened each week and Parker sat through all the popular formulae: ‘crook plays’; Southern melodramas; bedroom farces; musical comedies; plays in which ‘everybody talks in similes’; and Westerns in which gold was ‘sure to be discovered at five minutes to eleven’.

Topical themes promised ‘novelty’ but that dwindled in the inevitable ‘follow-ups’. Parker noted a bevy of plays dealing with Prohibition, the ‘Irish question’ (‘what a rough day it will be for the drama when Ireland is freed’) and, worst of all, a ‘mighty army of war plays’ (‘I have been through so many … that I feel like a veteran’). Eventually the battlefield smoke cleared from the theatres, but the next slew of melodramas, about returning soldiers, was even more tedious. ‘Heaven knows the war was hard enough,’ she grumbled. ‘Now the playwrights are doing their best to ruin the peace for us.’

Once she had identified a formula, Parker didn’t devote much space to individual plays. Those she didn’t like could be summed up quickly – ‘The House Beautiful is the play lousy’ – while those she admired, such as Eugene O’Neill’s The Hairy Ape, made her coy: ‘One is ashamed to place neat little bouquets of praise on this mighty conception.’ On the whole, she preferred ‘little, bitter twists of line and incident’ to ‘any amount of connected story’ and always had time for dog actors, swashbucklers and songs that rhymed ‘license’ with ‘five cents’. It was also easy to praise performances, whether on stage (Eddie Cantor, Jacob Ben-Ami and the ‘flawless’ Barrymore brothers were favourites) or in the stalls. Germs of short stories can be found in her descriptions of the couple who argue over Bernard Shaw’s symbols, the woman who ‘speculates, never in silence’ about what’s going to happen next, and the soldier who ‘condescendingly translated’ bits of French to his girl. ‘You heard that guy saying toujours? That means today.’

Parker was fired from Condé Nast in 1920, after some of Broadway’s biggest producers (all regular advertisers) complained about her constant savaging of their plays, and of Florenz Ziegfeld’s wife. She continued as a drama critic at Ainslee’s for another three years and then, in 1927, spent twelve months as ‘Constant Reader’, writing about books for the New Yorker and accruing what the magazine’s founding editor, Harold Ross, described as a ‘mountain of indebtedness’. ‘Her Constant Reader,’ he insisted, ‘did more than anything to put the magazine on its feet, or its ear, or wherever it is today.’

Later, Boddy goes into the biography (“Born in 1893, she was originally Dottie Rothschild, but not, she always pointed out, one of those Rothschilds”) and says of her verses “The first that earned her a cheque – for $12 – was ‘Any Porch’, published by Vanity Fair in 1915, the same year that ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock’ appeared in Poetry”; I was pleased to find that you can actually see that page of Vanity Fair at Google Books. And if you’re up for reading a piece on the decline of savaging, try Kelefa Sanneh’s “How Music Criticism Lost Its Edge” (New Yorker, August 25, 2025; archived).

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