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Erik McDonald at XIX век has been posting translation comparisons at a rate of about one a year, and even though there’s been little response to my previous posts about them (Fathers and Sons in 2024, The White Guard in 2025), I’m going to keep doing it, because they’re so valuable and so much fun (for me, obviously, and I hope for anyone who likes thinking about translations). This time he tackles one of my favorite works of Russian fiction:

“Of all the works of nineteenth-century Russian literature I have translated, without doubt Dostoevsky’s Notes from Underground [Записки из подполья, 1864] remains the most challenging,” writes Michael R. Katz, rather to my surprise (xi). Shouldn’t a short work dominated by one voice, the voice of a disaffected educated man in a confessional mood, be easier than many things?

Apparently not. The voice of this “half-crazed, embittered cynic” (Hogarth ix) is full of “obvious stylistic infelicities or outright ineptitudes” to be turned into “stilted English” (Matlaw xxiii). There are allusions now obscure (MacAndrew 237–38). The narrator’s language gets “careless and confused” when he is excited, above and beyond his usual “peculiar, untidy, and colorful idiom” (Shishkoff xxxiii–xxxiv). A direct contrast between zloi ‘wicked’ (but also ‘spiteful’) at the beginning and dobryi ‘good’ at the end is often lost as translators try to convey the multiple meanings of zloi (Ginsburg xxviii–xxix), evidence of a “habit of substituting the psychological for the moral” (Pevear and Volokhonsky xxiii). Even the title is hard, since podpol’e is not an abstract “the underground” or even a cellar but “the space beneath the floorboards,” a place where vermin might live but not people (Ginsburg xxix, Aplin xiii, Zinovieff and Hughes xiii). The language is coarse: “if the Underground Man were writing today, many of his ‘viles’ and ‘fouls’ would be replaced by words far nastier than any I know” (Jakim xxv), and if he comes “as close as makes no difference to using the word ‘shit’” only once, “there are several occasions when the translator finds himself reaching for it” (Zinovieff and Hughes xiii). And there are the usual linguistic issues: what is the best way to translate the diminutives of the words for not just ‘horse,’ but ‘vice’ and ‘passion’? Is soznanie ‘awareness’ or ‘consciousness’? Is mokryi sneg ‘sleet’ or ‘wet snow’ (Zinovieff and Hughes xiv–xv)?

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I know some of you will complain that this site is amateurish and doesn’t use IPA, but I don’t care — I’m a sucker for these things (North Carolina, Colorado, Wyoming, UK), and I can’t resist passing them along. So herewith please find Pronunciation of Suffolk place names; some particularly unexpected or entertaining ones:

Alpheton is Al-fee-t’n, with the stress on the middle syllable.
Athelington can be Al-ing-t’n, but most Suffolkers call it Ath-ling-t’n.
Bramfield is Bram-feeld and Brampton is Bram-pt’n, but Bramford is Brar-m-f’d!
Bures is Bew-ers, but Suffolkers tend to call it Boo-ers.
Chelmondiston is as it looks, but the stress is on the third syllable.
Cowlinge is Koo-linj
Halesworth is as it looks, but becomes Harls-w’th in the local accent!
Heveningham can be Henning’m, but is more often Hay-v’ning’m or Hev-ning’m
Hoxne is Hox-un, rhyming with oxen.
Monewden is Mon-a-d’n
Onehouse is as it looks, but locals call it Wun-uss!
Saxmundham is Sax-mund’m, but, unusually, the stress is on the second syllable.
Thorpe Morieux is Thorp M’roo
Wissington can be Wiss-t’n, more commonly Wissing-t’n these days.

Note to Yanks: The “r” is a lie — for “ar” read “ah.”

Remember the old web directories (Yahoo, DMOZ)? They were a great way to find your way around, and thanks to the usual nostalgia cycle there are some new examples. Here are a couple I’ve run into:

1) Early Web Links: “Before the internet went corporate, it was weird, wonderful, and deeply personal. People built websites just because they had something to share. This directory is full of sites that bring back that feeling.” Results for “language.”

2) Curlie: “Collect the best websites for any topic!” Results for “Russian literature.”

Update. More:

3) Bubbles: “5054 independent, personal blogs. One front page. Ranked by votes and freshness, shaped by you.”

4) ooh.directory: “A collection of 2,433 blogs about every topic”

5) tildeverse.org: “we’re a loose association of like-minded tilde communities.”

K. R. Callaway reports in the NY Times about some interesting new research:

Speak a language your whole life and its grammatical rules become ingrained. That’s why you might correctly guess that the present participle of the verb “absquatulate” is “absquatulating,” even if you are completely unfamiliar with the word. But the rules of grammar can vary widely between languages, and neuroscientists long theorized that bilingual speakers must process different languages with separate patterns of brain activity.

In a new study, however, researchers found that these patterns were more alike than had been expected. When deciding how to make a word singular or plural, for instance, bilingual people exhibit strikingly similar brain activity regardless of whether they are speaking in their first or second language. “It wasn’t obvious that it was going to be so shared,” said Esti Blanco-Elorrieta, a psychologist and neuroscientist at New York University and an author of the study, which was published on Monday in the journal JNeurosci. “I think this is arguably one of the first very fine-grained findings of how truly integrated two languages in the brain are.”

Early research viewed bilingualism as an “add on” or “disruption” to the processing of one’s native language, said Judith Kroll, a psycholinguist at the University of California, Irvine who was not involved in the new study. Subsequent studies have found that bilingual brains tend to display physical differences, such as more efficient white matter and changes to the gray matter, and to perform better on memory and concentration tasks.

Now scientists are probing further, to understand whether core aspects of the brain’s neural network does double or triple duty to process multiple languages.

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By popular demand, another passage from Richard Tarrant’s Texts, Editors, and Readers. From ch. 3 “Establishing the text 1: recension”:

Although the ideal of the recoverable original is impossible to achieve, the concept still has a useful part to play. One of its benefits is psychological: it seems unlikely that scholars would be willing to devote themselves to editorial projects that often span decades if they were not sustained by the hope of recovering the author’s text. It may also be necessary for critics to operate as if a single recoverable original existed, in order to avoid a bedlam of competing reconstructions.

From what has been said it follows that the notion of a definitive edition is even more a myth than the concept of the recoverable original. No edition of a classical text can be definitive, in part because the possibility of new and convincing conjectures can never be ruled out, but also because in any text of some length there will be places where different editors can reasonably make different choices, either by preferring one manuscript reading to another, or by adopting a conjecture instead of the transmitted reading(s), or by judging the text corrupt and using the obelus. There is also the fact that almost no edition of a classical text so far published cites the manuscript evidence in a comprehensive manner. (I will return to that issue in Chapters 7 and 8.) At the moment, therefore, the most that an edition can aim to accomplish is to report accurately the essential manuscript evidence and faithfully to reflect the present state of understanding of the text, in order to serve as an instrument of research and as a basis for further discussion. To fulfil the latter purpose it will signal the places where the text is most in doubt, in the hope of stimulating new attempts at solution. As a result, every important edition is at the same time a point of arrival and a point of departure. In Gian Biagio Conte’s elegant formulation, ‘a critical edition is only a working hypothesis’. […]

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I’m back to reading Zamyatin’s early novellas, and have come to the last of the pre-revolutionary ones, the 1915 Алатырь (Alatyr′). It doesn’t seem to have been translated or much talked about, but it’s interesting in several respects; it’s a sort of magic-realist account of a provincial town built “on the very spot where countless mushrooms once sat in a circle around the Alatyr stone” (На том самом месте, где раньше грибы несчетно сидели кругом алатыря-камня). I’ll provide the description given by Alexander Voronsky in his 1922 article on Zamyatin (in Krasnaia nov’ No. 6) as translated by Paul Mitchell (in Russian Literature Triquarterly No. 2 [1972], 153-175), which begins by quoting the passage following that first sentence:

Among those inhabitants—needless to say it was inherited from mushrooms—there came to exist a downright unrestrainable fecundity. They baptized children wholesale, by the dozens. There remained only one street passing through: a decree came out forbidding travel along the others, in order that the babies crawling in abundance through the grass would not be crushed.

However, the paradise at one time passed away. The Turkish war was on, many people were killed, and the maidens of Alatyr remained without eligible young men. From here the dreams of Alatyr became reality. Glafira, the daughter of the district police officer, moans for eligible young men and awaits a love letter from a handsome stranger. The district police officer, after unsuccessful attempts to marry off Glafira, settles himself still more firmly in his study and invents things. His latest discoveries are the secret of baking loaves of bread not with yeast, but with pigeon dung, and how to prepare waterproof cloth from ordinary unbleached linen. The archpriest Father Peter converses with devils when drunk and when sober; his daughter Varvara also becomes possessed in the absence of eligible young men. Rodivon Rodivonych, the inspector, delights in reading Almanach de Gotha. And then there is Kostya Edytkin, who works at the post office. He has a secret notebook in which is written “The Works of Kons. Edytkin, that is, mine.” And verses: “In my breast there lies a dream, but dear Glafira disdains me.” At night he writes with excitement and great love. In a word, each one has his dreams. Further, a prince arrives in the capacity of postmaster. True, he has a nose with a hump and has no chin—he is an oriental prince, but a prince nevertheless. And here is what happens: Glafira, Varvara, and the maidens all go out of their minds. And the pri[n]ce also has a most noble dream: all should speak one great language, Esperanto, and then the brotherhood of peoples would be realized. The district police officer, the inspector, Glafira, Varvara, the maidens, and others all study with the prince. The dreams end lamentably. Glafira and Varvara arrange to fight it out; Kostya endures a most cruel failure with the composition “The Internal Feminine Dogma of Godliness,” and failure in love also; the prince suffers failure with his Esperanto; the district police officer suffers failure with his experiments; and so forth. […]

In “Alatyr” the basic features of Zamyatin’s artistic talent are those which appear in A Tale of the Provinces [Уездное, 1913]. The tale is somewhat less vivid, but there is in it the same enthusiasm for the word, the same craftsmanship, the same oblique observation, the same smirk and ironical smile, the same anecdotal quality (more, perhaps, in “Alatyr” than A Tale of the Provinces), the same sharpness, abruptness, and prominence of device, the same careful selection of words and phrases, a great force of picturesqueness, unexpectedness of similies, the isolation of one or two traits, and restraint.

As you can see, Zamyatin has the usual literary fun with the presumed features of provincial life: failure, drunkenness, pie-in-the-sky ideas, graphomania, and so on. But it’s the details that make it work; the prince’s Esperanto lessons are described, including a dictation (“Leono esta forta. La denta esta acra…”), and at first they are packed, because everyone wants to get in good with the only aristo within many versts, but finally the only students left are Glafira and Varvara, the gals who are madly in love with him. I love the name Rodivon Rodivonych, which is Rodion Rodionovich with the peasant insertion of -v- to avoid hiatus. As usual, Zamyatin employs obscure words that require much research to decode; it turns out that тусменный means тусклый (‘dim, dull’), but I still can’t identify the баклановка Father Pyotr tries to cure the ailing Kostya with, except that it contains vodka (“of course”) and herbs. In general the brio of the language carries you along, and the last paragraph is so fine I have to quote it; Kostya has been arrested, and the watchman Ipat (a peasant form of Ipatii, i.e. Hypatius) feels sorry for him and hands him a пятак (pyatak, five-kopeck piece):

Kostya humbly took the pyatak and smiled humbly. But there and then he opened his hand. And Ipat’s pyatak disappeared: it was trampled.

Костя покорно взял пятак, улыбнулся покорно. Но тут же и разжал руку. И пропал Ипатов пятак: затоптали.

I tried to keep something of the alliteration and rhythm, but it’s much stronger in Russian; it reminds me of the last line of Мы (We): “Потому что разум должен победить.” (Because reason has to triumph.) What a writer!

Oh, and the title, Алатырь, is of mysterious origin; you can see a few suggestions at Wiktionary and more (if you read Russian) at Wikipedia.

How could I not post Hsi-Yao Su’s “Global Swearword, local ideologies: The Re-semiotization and indexical field of Fuck in Taiwan” (Language & Communication, July 2026; open access)?

Abstract
This study examines how the English swearword fuck is taken up in Taiwan—a context where English functions as a foreign language—by analyzing metapragmatic commentaries on a controversial moment in which a prominent actress uttered fuck during her acceptance speech at a major awards ceremony. While swearing in official settings, especially by a woman, is conventionally viewed as inappropriate, public reactions to this incident were mixed, with a majority supportive. Drawing on Christie’s (2013) discursive-pragmatic approach to swearing and on the linguistic-anthropological and sociolinguistic notions of indexical order (Silverstein, 2003), indexical field (Eckert, 2008), and language ideological assemblage (Kroskrity, 2010), the analysis identifies multiple, and at times conflicting, indexical associations in the metapragmatic discourse: fuck as inappropriate/vulgar, genuine/authentic, cosmopolitan/sophisticated, performative/professional, gendered, and class-oriented. These associations function as micro-instantiations of broader ideological regimes of moral order, gender propriety, cosmopolitanism, and affective performance. By linking micro-level evaluations to a heterogeneous yet traceable ideological assemblage, the study shows the analytic value of a language ideological perspective for socio-pragmatics research and demonstrates how global linguistic hierarchies are re-semiotized through local moral and affective dynamics.

The “controversial moment” is utterly charming:

When Ying-Hsuan Hsieh, an acclaimed actress in Taiwan, received the [Golden Bell] Best Actress award, she began her acceptance speech in Mandarin Chinese, Taiwan’s national language, as expected. However, because she had been nominated for two roles, she mistakenly thanked the wrong production team. Realizing her error mid-speech, she exclaimed “fuck” in English before restarting her acknowledgements in Mandarin. The incident was uncensored in the live broadcast, and Hsieh later apologized on Facebook to “all the parents” for not being a good role model. Public responses to the incident were mixed but largely supportive, which is particularly intriguing given that both swearing in public (especially in a high-profile event) and by a woman are stereotypically considered inappropriate in Taiwan and cross-culturally.

I’m delighted by the largely supportive response, and this is the kind of scholarship I can get behind unreservedly.

All my life I’ve known the phrase little green men as a jocular description of extraterrestrials, but I never thought about where it came from; now Dave Wilton of Wordorigins.org has done a Big List post about its fascinating history:

Before there were grays, reptilians, and other species of extraterrestrial beings that have visited earth in science fiction tales and in hallucinations, there were little green men. The phrase appears at the close of the nineteenth century but has its origins in older folklore about little people, a term for elves, fairies, and other mythical beings. […]

The phrase little people begins to be applied to fairies and the like in the eighteenth century. For instance, there is this published in the Delphick Oracle of 2 October 1719, although the little people here are humans of small stature whom the writer believes to be the origin of beliefs in fairies […] Poet George Waldron uses both little people and little men to denote the fairies believed by the locals to live on the Isle of Man. From his Description of the Isle of Man, written in 1726 and published posthumously in 1731 […] By the mid eighteenth century, such little people begin to be described as being clothed in green, and the phrase little green man starts to make its appearance. […]

The little green people move from being earthly spirits to extraterrestrial beings at the close of the century. Charles Battell Loomis’s children’s story the Green Boy from Harrah tells of the adventures an earth boy named Sandy has with an extraterrestrial visitor, printed in the Atlanta Constitution of 8 October 1899 […] And we get the phrase little green men used in reference to ETs in the Sunday Oregonian of 29 July 1906 […] Two years later, Ohio’s Columbus Evening Dispatch of 31 March 1908 printed this joke that shows that the phrase little green man had become widely understood as a reference to extraterrestrial beings:

The Martians were prepared to catch the first message from the earth.

“Let me see,” exclaimed the first little green man, “I wonder if the first communication will be a flash, a tick or a knock.”

“A knock, very likely,” laughed the second little green man. “You know the earth is just full of knockers.”

Which shows how wise the Martians really are.

Who knows what was denoted by “knockers” here? Green’s has a plethora of slang senses, and if you’re thinking about ‘boobs,’ that isn’t attested until considerably later (and would have been an unlikely referent in a 1908 newspaper anyway). At any rate, click through for more, including the quotations, which I have elided.

Vita Nouva has a remarkable interactive introduction to the terrific experience of rendering Arabic typography and its technical debt:

Once upon a time, a frontend ticket landed on my queue which was not properly mine, but the only other Arabic reader on the team was on leave. It went roughly as follows; a block of mixed-content Arabic prose on the customer-facing dashboard was rendering with a ragged left edge (the rag falls on the left in Arabic, since the lines set out from the right margin; the ticket said “ragged right”) when the design team had explicitly specified justified text. Attached were three screenshots from three browsers and a polite note from the product manager observing that the Latin-script version of the same block looked, I quote, “fine.”

The same six months I had closed three other tickets against the same product, each of which had presented to its filer as the only bug. A customer’s name had appeared with its letters unjoined on a printed agreement, the way a sign-painter would have laid them out in 1962, because the PDF library on the receipt server pre-dated the existence of a shaping engine in its language runtime. A search index had been returning empty for accounts the customer service team could see in the database because a 2017 import had encoded twelve thousand names using fossil Unicode codepoints from 1991 instead of regular ones from 1995, and the index, very reasonably, treated the two encodings as different strings, So, that ragged-left ticket was the smallest of the four, HOWEVER, it sat on top of the same iceberg and pointed at the same thing. […]

It did look fine. I spent about half an hour with it, I walked the rendered DOM, I set text-align: justify in so many different combinations of font-family and direction declarations, and at the end of the exercise I wrote a reply explaining, more or less honestly, that the problem was not a bug in our stylesheet but the state of Arabic typography on the web.

The reply took and the closure of the ticket took half an hour or so. The reasons behind it took five hundred years to pile up, and they involve a twice-mutilated vizier, a Qurʾān that vanished for four centuries, a Beirut newspaperman with a deadline, and an Egyptian physician who taught himself font engineering for fun (or that what I imagine about him). Walking through these, ended up to be the most enjoyable couple of weeks in that job, and I want to go through it here too.

Trust me, the resultant story is worth your while, especially if you know or care anything about Arabic and/or coding. I got it via Lycaste’s MeFi post, where there are some good comments:
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It’s too hot and muggy today to construct a coherent post, so I’ll just toss out some bits and pieces I’ve had sitting around.

1) In some earlier thread I ran across a mention of the widespread Afroasiatic root *lis- ‘tongue,’ which has the following descendants:

• Proto-Berber: *iləs (see there for further descendants)
• Egyptian: ns (see there for further descendants)
• Proto-Semitic: *lišān- (see there for further descendants)
• Proto-Chadic: *lis-um-
   • Hausa: harshè (see there for further comparisons)

Check out the Berber writing systems: Central Atlas Tamazight: ⵉⵍⵙ (ils), ⵉⵔⵙ (irs); Medieval Tashelhit: ايلس (iles).

2) I recently watched the 1925 movie The Big Parade (it’s about American soldiers in WWI; an intertitle reads “THE BIG PARADE/ Men! Guns! Men!/ Men! Guns!”), and at one point one Yank calls to another (per an intertitle): “Yo….Slim!” I’m not sure if this is an antedate; the OED (entry revised 2016) lumps all these senses together: “An exclamation used to attract attention, to express warning, surprise, etc., or to incite or encourage action; hey! Later (colloquial (frequently in African American usage)) used as a greeting or in response to a greeting,” and these are the two WWI-era citations:

1919 Every morning we fall out at six o’clock and yell ‘YO’ when our name is called. We like it.
Marine (Paris Island) 12 March 5

1920 Yo!! Breakfast.
W. B. Ellington, Company ‘A’ 23rd Engineers 112

Meanwhile, Green’s has “1. yes!” (first cite: 1918 [US] D.G. Rowse Doughboy Dope 29: You are assisted in answering ‘Yo!’ to your name by the fortunate knowledge of where it comes on the company roster) and “2. (US) a general term of address” (first cite very late: 1961 [US] (con. 1945) G. Forbes Goodbye to Some (1963) 94: ‘Greetings.’ ‘Yo.’). At any rate, I was struck by the very modern use in a 1925 film (set in 1917).

3) Just now I watched the 1994 movie English, August (based on a 1988 novel of the same name), which is a multilingual delight — it’s about a young Bengali, Agastya Sen, who as a reluctant civil servant is posted to the rural town of Madna (the movie was filmed in Visakhapatnam and the nearby seaside town Bheemunipatnam), and the movie has dialogue in English, Hindi, Bengali, and Telugu, the local language (which poor Agastya/August has to learn for his job by means of lessons based exclusively on official phrases like “The decision will be deferred until next week”). I was surprised to learn that Telugu was spoken so far north on the east coast of India. Also, Visakhapatnam has complicated onomastics:
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