Confinement, lockdown, quarantine, clausura, карантин, couvre-feu. Our everyday vocabulary has been filled with these forgotten, military words.
I have just finished my third week of confinement, with restricted freedom of movement and quite a few big and little inconveniences. Still, I believe that when confinement conditions are not dangerous nor inhuman, the difficulties of dealing with confinement are greatly exaggerated.
I was pondering the issue when reading La storia del nuovo cognome, the second volume of Ferrante’s Neapolitan novels.
Elena, now a student in Pisa, describes how she wrote her first book. One morning, she bought a grid notebook and began writing down what had happened to her the previous summer, and kept writing for twenty days, not seeing anyone, only going out to get something to eat:
Una mattina comprai un quaderno a quadretti e cominciai a scrivere in terza persona di ciò mi era successo ….
Impiegai venti giorni a scrivere quella storia, un lasso di tempo in cui non vidi nessuno, uscivo solo per andare a mangiare. Alla fine rilessi qualche pagina, non mi piacque e lasciai perdere.
Writers, scientists, and creatives have lived periods of self-imposed isolation, and so have monks, astronauts, and submarine crew, to name but a few. Whether voluntary or compulsory, people are able to live confined for extended periods of time, and often even profit from it.
I myself spent several weeks in splendid isolation during the final stages of my PhD thesis, and three months of going out only the strict minimum during the long, hot, and humid Japanese summer. Yes, it was inconvenient, but it was not particularly difficult.
Today’s situation is different.
The real difficulty is not confinement per se. The real difficulty is the uncertainty, the danger, and the battle against the virus.
The date has not been chosen at random: 27 March, 196 BC, is the date mentioned on the famous multilingualRosetta Stone. The stone is engraved with a decree in three scripts: hieroglyphic, Demotic, and Ancient Greek, and was instrumental in deciphering Egyptian hieroglyphs.
To celebrate the International Day of Multilingualism, I am starting a series under the hashtag #multilingualisnormal, in which I will talk about multilinguals, polyglots, and language learners, mentioned in books I am reading or encountered otherwise.
The first example comes from Amos Oz, A Tale of Love and Darkness(2004), which I read in a wonderful Englishtranslation by Nicholas de Lange.
That’s how Oz describes his family, which came to Israel from Eastern Europe.
Books filled our home. My father could read sixteen or seventeen languages and could speak eleven (all with a Russian accent). My mother spoke four or five languages and read seven or eight. They conversed in Russian or Polish when they did not want me to understand. (Which was most of the time. When my mother referred to a stallion in Hebrew in my hearing my father rebuked her furiously in Russian: Shto s toboi?! Vidish malchik ryadom s nami! – What’s the matter with you? You can see the boy’s right here!) Out of cultural considerations they mostly read books in German or English, and presumably they dreamed in Yiddish. But the only language they taught me was Hebrew. Maybe they feared that a knowledge of languages would expose me to the blandishments of Europe, that wonderful, murderous continent.
The picture above is taken in Vilnius, Lithuania, a place frequently mentioned in Oz’ novel, since his father’s family originated there. Speaking multiple languages was common in the region at the time. The monument to Adam Mickiewicz, a great Polish poet, who lived part of his life in Lithuania, reminds us of this linguistic diversity.
Набережная Неисцелимых, Pavement of the Incurables
Today is World Poetry Day, celebrated every year on 21 March.
My relationship with poetry is contradictory. On the one hand, I know hundreds of poems in Russian from school, when learning by heart was required, and dozens of poems in Latvian, French, Spanish, and German, from my language studies.
My big poetic gap is English. I keep telling myself that it would be immensely beneficial to get acquainted with English poetry. yet I cannot recite a single verse in English!
For many years, I have owned several bilingual English-Russian poetry books: T.S. Eliot with Russian translations, an anthology of American poetry, and a couple of others.
Until last year, I had not opened any of them. I did not want to read these poems in Russian, assuming that translations would pale compared to the originals, and I did not want to read them in English, as my English was not good enough to appreciate poetic sophistication.
Last year, however, I began reading one book on a whim, and enjoyed it immensely: both the English originals and the translations. What’s more, the book proved to be a treasure for a language student, as some poems had several translations by different authors, which I could compare and analyse. Still a long way to go before reaching any degree of familiarity with English verse, but a welcome first step.
Today, however, to mark the day, I found one of my favourite Russian poems, by Joseph Brodsky, in the original and in English translation, coauthored by the poet himself. I knew the Russian original for years, and was astonished how the English version matches the spirit, the rhythm, and even vocabulary .
Ниоткуда с любовью, надцатого мартобря,
дорогой, уважаемый, милая, но не важно
даже кто, ибо черт лица, говоря
откровенно, не вспомнить уже, не ваш, но
и ничей верный друг вас приветствует с одного
из пяти континентов, держащегося на ковбоях.
Я любил тебя больше, чем ангелов и самого,
и поэтому дальше теперь
от тебя, чем от них обоих.
Далеко, поздно ночью, в долине, на самом дне,
в городке, занесенном снегом по ручку двери,
извиваясь ночью на простыне,
как не сказано ниже, по крайней мере,
я взбиваю подушку мычащим «ты»,
за горами, которым конца и края,
в темноте всем телом твои черты
как безумное зеркало повторяя.
From nowhere with love the enth of Marchember
sir sweetie respected darling but in the end
it’s irrelevant who for memory won’t restore
features not yours and no one’s devoted friend
greets you from this fifth last part of earth
resting on whalelike backs of cowherding boys
I loved you better than angels and Him Himself
and am farther off due to that from you than I am from both
of them now late at night in the sleeping vale
in the little township up to its doorknobs in
snow writhing upon the stale
sheets for the whole matter’s skin –
deep I’m howling ”youuu” through my pillow dike
many seas aways that are milling nearer
with my limbs in the dark playing your double like
an insanity-stricken mirror.
The picture above, of a memorial plaque to Joseph Brodsky, was taken in Venice, on an embankment called historically Fondamenta degli Incurabili (‘Pavement of the Incurables’, named after the nearby hospital Ospedale degli Incurabili). In Russian, “Набережная неисцелимых” is a title of Brodsky’s autobiographical essay dedicated to Venice, that was among his favourite cities.
The world is fighting with the Covid-19 pandemic, and Europe has become its epicentre.
Intellectually, to make sense of how the disease has been spreading, one needs to understand the mathematical principle of exponential growth.
Psychologically, to cope with this uncertainty, one can read about previous disease epidemics.
Diseases, such as plague and cholera, have been striking humanity since time immemorial, and are used as background and inspiration of many great books.
Here are my favourites:
El amor en los tiempos del cólera (“Love in the Time of Cholera”) by Gabriel García Márquez, 1985
La Peste (“The Plague”) by Albert Camus, 1947
Пир во время чумы (“A Feast in Time of Plague”) by Alexander Pushkin, 1830
The play was written during the first Russian cholera epidemic of 1830. The plot is based on a play “The City of Plague” by a Scottish poet John Wilson, which was inspired by the Great Plague of London (1665 – 1666).
History of the Peloponnesian War by Thucydides, 5th century BCE
Chapters 2.47–2.54 describe the Plague of Athens, a severe epidemic that devastated the city in 430 BCE, reemerging twice. This text is one of the earliest accounts of a disease epidemic.
Der Tod in Venedig (“Death in Venice”) by Thomas Mann, 1912
Here is an excerpt from chapter 5, describing the arrival of cholera in the city. The rumours, the denial by the authorities, then first visible signs, and suddenly it is everywhere.
Seit mehreren Jahren schon hatte die indische Cholera eine verstärkte Neigung zur Ausbreitung und Wanderung an den Tag gelegt. Erzeugt aus den warmen Morästen des Ganges-Deltas, aufgestiegen mit dem mephitischen Odem jener üppig-untauglichen, von Menschen gemiedenen Urwelt-und Inselwildnis, in deren Bambusdickichten der Tiger kauert, hatte die Seuche in ganz Hindustan andauernd und ungewöhnlich heftig gewütet, hatte östlich nach China, westlich nach Afghanistan und Persien übergegriffen und, den Hauptstraßen des Karawanenverkehrs folgend, ihre Schrecken bis Astrachan, ja selbst bis Moskau getragen.
Aber während Europa zitterte, das Gespenst möchte von dort aus und zu Lande seinen Einzug halten, war es, von syrischen Kauffahrern übers Meer verschleppt, fast gleichzeitig in mehreren Mittelmeerhäfen aufgetaucht, hatte in Toulon und Malaga sein Haupt erhoben, in Palermo und Neapel mehrfach seine Maske gezeigt und schien aus ganz Calabrien und Apulien nicht mehr weichen zu wollen.
Der Norden der Halbinsel war verschont geblieben. Jedoch Mitte Mai dieses Jahres fand man zu Venedig an ein und demselben Tage die furchtbaren Vibrionen in den ausgemergelten, schwärzlichen Leichnamen eines Schifferknechtes und einer Grünwarenhändlerin. Die Fälle wurden verheimlicht. Aber nach einer Woche waren es deren zehn, waren es zwanzig, dreißig und zwar in verschiedenen Quartieren.
Ein Mann aus der österreichischen Provinz, der sich zu seinem Vergnügen einige Tage in Venedig aufgehalten, starb, in sein Heimatstädtchen zurückgekehrt, unter unzweideutigen Anzeichen, und so kam es, daß die ersten Gerüchte von der Heimsuchung der Lagunenstadt in deutsche Tagesblätter gelangten.
Venedigs Obrigkeit ließ antworten, daß die Gesundheitsverhältnisse der Stadt nie besser gewesen seien und traf die notwendigsten Maßregeln zur Bekämpfung.
There is also a great film Morte a Venezia by Luchino Visconti, made in 1971, which captures admirably well the atmosphere when everything still seems normal yet is no longer.
Ferrantomania, or Ferrante fever. After several years wondering what was this fuss about, I have at last caught the Ferrantomania bug.
I picked the first volume on a business trip to Brussels last November. Going back to the train station, I entered a bookshop to get something to read on my way back, and was delighted to discover a foreign language section.
L’amica geniale was there, and I bought it thinking that at least I should give it a try. But I did not read it until this January, when I decided to brush up my Italian in anticipation of two trips to Italy.
My Ferrante fever symptoms were the same as described by millions of readers worldwide: you buy this Ferrante book because you have heard that you should definitely read it. You read a couple of pages, and when you finally put the book down, it is after midnight, the book is over, and you desperately want to read the other three titles of the “Neapolitan Novels”.
When I started the first volume, I was not aware that language plays such a crucial role in the story. Much has been written about the use of Neapolitan dialect in the book, about sociolinguistic mechanisms, and about some enigmatic language-related metaphors, such as ‘il suo italiano che assomigliava un poco a quello dell’Iliade’ (‘Italian that slightly resembled that of the Iliad’).
Not only languages, but Classical languages specifically, play such a crucial role in the story. Thanks to private Latin lessons, Lena is able to continue her education; then, Latin and Greek (and their teachers) become her favourites, and eventually she goes on to study them at university.
A passage in the first volume struck me.
Elena is struggling with her Latin, and when she tells Lila (who has stopped the school because her parents could not afford it), Lila recommends the change of approach:
“Leggiti prima la frase in latino, poi va’ a vedere dov’è il verbo. A seconda della persona del verbo capisci qual è il soggetto. Una volta che hai il soggetto ti cerchi i complementi: il complemento oggetto se il verbo è transitivo, o se no altri complementi. Prova così.”
Provai. Tradurre all’improvviso mi sembrò facile.
In language learning, we have moments when suddenly something clicks and we finally get it. I have experienced it myself multiple times, and now I am really looking forward to reading about Lena’s linguistic (and other) discoveries.
Last week, I went to the local library knowing that it held the entire trilogy, and indeed, volumes 1,3, and 4 were there. The volume 2, exactly the one I was eager to read, was on loan. I made a recall and am impatiently waiting for the book to become available.
These languages (4 of which I have not even begun to learn) fall into three groups, plus three special cases. Of the languages I have studied, group alpha includes English, French, German, Italian, Latvian, Spanish, and Russian; group beta includes Czech and Modern Greek; group gamma includes Estonian, Georgian, Hungarian, and Japanese; the special cases are Ancient Greek, Latin, and the programming language python.
I did not do any formal planning for 2019. I had one clear priority — improving my Spanish, and followed three established traditions — listening to podcasts on commute, reading German during summer vacation, and reading Ancient Greek on weekends.
The biggest change that occurred this year was discovering excellent blogs about language learning, and reading extensively on language learning methodology — something that I had not done for years. I will write about my favourite resources this year.
So, how did I do in 2019?
Group alpha.
English. English is my de facto work and communication language. I read and write in English daily, and write out useful expressions periodically. I reached a plateau many years ago and know my weak spots (intonation, colloquial expressions, and verbal phrases). I thought extensively about my weaknesses, but did not find a suitable way to address them, yet.
French. I live in France and work in a predominantly French environment, thus have plenty of contact with the language. I read (rather skimmed) only 1 book, and started the second, but found it boring and pretentious.
Spanish. Improving my active Spanish was my priority number one this year. I read 11 books and multiple articles, listened to podcasts on commute and while travelling, albeit not regularly, listened to TED talks, watched parts of a TV series El Ministerio del Tiempo, have been following Real Academia Española and several Spanish writers on social media, wrote out vocabulary lists, and did grammar exercises. I also went to Spain five times in 2019.
My biggest issue is still not resolved, though. I do speak Spanish; when in Spain, I always speak Spanish in shops, hotels, restaurants, museums, and public transport. I have friends with whom I have always spoken exclusively in Spanish. Yet, I find it hard to start speaking in Spanish in professional settings with people who speak excellent English.
German: I read 5 books, including one with 1275 pages. This book is called Das achte Leben (Für Brilka) (The Eighth Life, for Brilka) and is written by Nino Haratischwili, who lives in Germany and writes in German, but is originally from Georgia. It was this Georgian connection that attracted me to this epic tale in the first instance, and it took me 10 months to read it.
Russian: I read 2 books, and numerous magazines.
Italian: I spoke in Italian on numerous occasions with colleagues and acquaintances, and realised it was getting rusty, and was beginning to suffer from Spanish interference — an issue to address.
Latvian. I read many magazines and only one book, but what a book! It is a Latvian translation of a book by Kató Lomb, a 20th century Hungarian polyglot and my youth hero. The original Hungarian title is Nyelvekről jut eszembe, meaning “Languages remind me ..”; the Latvian translation is titled Par valodām man nāk prātā. The book is about language learning, what else.
Group beta.
The only two things I did with my Czech and Modern Greek (both of which I could read, speak, and understand in the past), is to look up several idiomatic expressions that I knew in all my group alpha languages, such as prince charming. Plenty of room for improvement for 2020.
Group gamma.
I did not do anything with my Japanese and Hungarian (both at beginners level, with lots of things entirely forgotten), but I started two new languages.
Estonian. I started learning Estonian in anticipation to my travel to Tallinn and Tartu, where I have not been since the 1990s, and really enjoyed the process. I did 7 lessons of an old manual from the 1980s, which I happen to have at home and which turned out to have excellent methodology, and followed several online lessons, to get the pronunciation right. I also found plenty of online resources.
Georgian. Partly motivated by 1275 my page-long German book, which recounts a story of a Georgian family, partly by my visit to Estonia, where I ate amazing Georgian food, I decided to learn Georgian. I learned 1/3 of an alphabet and did 5 online lessons. I can now read and write some words, including lobio, Georgian black beans stew, which I also learned to cook.
Special cases.
Ancient Greek. I am pleased with my progress. This year, I read the first three books of Plato‘s Republic, thanks to three factors: Plato is easy to read; the content is topical; and I mostly stick to my reading schedule, as it is in my calendar.
Latin. Encouraged by my Ancient Greek readings, I decided to brush up my Latin. I chose Seneca, largely because his thinking had suddenly become influential, yet, I could not recall him as inspirational from the university. I managed to read some 17 letters before summer vacation, then stopped. Just like at university, I still find Seneca boring, repetitive, and moralistic. Since my Latin is rustier than my Ancient Greek, and I was putting a lot of efforts to this reading, the motivation to stay with Seneca was none. I have to find a text that I would enjoy, but which is easier to read than my beloved Tacitus.
Python. I tend to joke that compared to python, Plato is easy. I started an online course, stopped, resumed, finished it, took a break, started another course and am halfway through.
The main challenge with learning python is the same as with learning a new language versus maintaining a language you already know. Once you have reached a certain level, you can take breaks, do low key maintenance, and have zero contact with the language for long periods of time (my experience with Italian). But while you are learning a new language, regularity is key. You need to do something every day, lest you forget.
On a bus in Madrid, this poster caught my eye. It contained a poem about Don Quijote by an author unknown to me.
Por la manchega llanura se vuelve a ver la figura de Don Quijote pasar.
Y ahora ociosa y abollada va en el rucio la armadura, y va ocioso el caballero, sin peto y sin espaldar, va cargado de amargura, que allá encontró sepultura su amoroso batallar. Va cargado de amargura, que allá «quedó su ventura» en la playa de Barcino, frente al mar.
Por la manchega llanura se vuelve a ver la figura de Don Quijote pasar. Va cargado de amargura, va, vencido, el caballero de retorno a su lugar.
¡Cuántas veces, Don Quijote, por esa misma llanura, en horas de desaliento así te miro pasar! ¡Y cuántas veces te grito: Hazme un sitio en tu montura y llévame a tu lugar; hazme un sitio en tu montura, caballero derrotado, hazme un sitio en tu montura que yo también voy cargado de amargura y no puedo batallar!
Ponme a la grupa contigo, caballero del honor, ponme a la grupa contigo, y llévame a ser contigo pastor.
Por la manchega llanura se vuelve a ver la figura de Don Quijote pasar…
Vencidos (“Defeated”) was written by León Felipe (1884-1968) whom Encyclopedia Britannica describes as a poet of the Spanish Civil War. This poem, however, appeared in his first book, well before the war. You can read an interpretation of the poem, in Spanishhere.
The vocabulary is pretty straightforward. Barcino refers to Barcelona, to its name in the Roman period. Abollado means ‘dented’, armadura, peto y espaldar are ‘armor’ and its parts, but you do not need to know the meaning of these words to enjoy the poem. Grupa (f) is ‘rump’ or ‘croup’ of an animal, such as horse (whereas grupo (m) is ‘group’).
The only curious and obscure word is rucio:
Va en el rucio la armadura
Rucio literally means ‘pale grey’, and that is how Sancho Panza affectionately calls his donkey, a sort of ‘my grey buddy’.
If you are into memorisation, this poem, with all its rhythm, rimes, and repetitions, is an excellent choice.
You can listen to a wonderful recording by the poet himself in this blog post. If you are into songs, listen to this version or this one by Joan Manuel Serrat. An extra benefit: you will remember the imperatives singular haz, pon, and also llévame forever.
19 languages 