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So we have the messy data on the distribution of the o-vocative in Greek. And we have the tools to try and make sense of that distribution, in terms of features that classes of nouns with the o-vocative have in common.
We also, as it turns out, have an entire PhD thesis on the o-vocative: Günther Henrich‘s 1975 thesis from Aristotle University, Κλητικές και γενικές σε -ο από αρσενικά σε -ος στα μεσαιωνικά και νέα ελληνικά. There is an online summary available, and I have a copy of the dissertation in my mailbag.
AND I WILL NOT READ IT YET. Where’s the fun in that? I’m going to try and work out what happened on my own, given the contemporary data reported by Triantafyllidis, Katsouda, and the commenters from Sarantakos’ blog. And then I’ll read what Henrich found, and see the extent to which my analysis (and his) holds up.
I do know one thing from Henrich’s thesis: where he thinks the phenomenon started. I’ll take it as my starting point too, because it makes sense, although I have a vague misgiving about it, and I will advance a secondary mechanism for it.
I’m going to recap the noun classes identified for the o-vocative, and label them. There is a distinction to make between categories where the o-vocative is optional, and where it is mandatory. All other things being equal, it is reasonable to assume that the classes where it is mandatory have had the o-vocative longer, and they are more salient classes from which the o-vocative spreads further to new classes.
- M1: Bisyllabic common nouns that used to be third declension: ˈɣeros “old man”, ˈðjakos “deacon”. (Ancient ɡérɔːn, diákɔːn).
- M2: Bisyllabic truncated, informal given names: ˈɣjorɣos, ˈnikos, ˈðimos (corresponding to the formal forms ɣeorɣios, nikolaos, ðimitrios) “George, Nick, Dimitri”
- M3: The trisyllabic (truncated) name aˈlekos “Alec”
- M4: Given names (M4a) and common noun diminutives (M4b) ending in the diminutive suffix -ˈakos: kirˈjakos, anθroˈpakos “Cyriac, contemptible little man”
- M5: Multiple-syllabic final-stressed diminutive given names: ɣjanaˈkos, ðimiˈtros, manoˈljos)
- O1a: Common nouns, maritime: kapeˈtanios “captain”, kamaˈrotos “porter”
- O1b: Familial terms: ˈθio “uncle”, kumˈbaros “god-sibling”
- O1c: Others: ˈɣiftos “gypsy, blacksmith”, kaˈkurɣo “criminal”, slang ˈfilo “buddy!” and ˈneo “young man!”
- O2: Bisyllabic formal given names (which are used in both formal and informal language): ˈpavlos, ˈpetros, ˈstavros, ˈmarkos “Paul, Peter, Stavros, Mark”
- O3: Plurisyllabic given names (mostly Romance in origin): avɣuˈstinos, maˈrinos, puˈlikos, leoˈnikos “Augustin, Marinos, Poulikos, Leonico”
- O4: Surnames ending in diminutive suffixes: -akos, -ukos, -itsos
- O5: Surnames that are not etymologically transparent: e.g. Venizelos
- O6: Plurisyllabic given names (mostly Romance in origin): ˈmarios “Mario”
These are almost all names, so NAME is the feature that bind almost all of them together. But the starting point Henrich claims for the o-vocative is not a name: it is M1, third declension nouns like ɡérɔːn, diákɔːn, drákɔːn.
Third declension nouns regularly went to the first declension, preserving their full stem from the genitive. In fact, this happened to these nouns: ɡérɔːn, gen. ɡérɔːntos “old man” has the modern form ˈɣerondas “old man, elder”; drȧkɔːn, gen. drȧkɔːntos “dragon” has the modern from ˈðrakondas “dragon”, and diákɔːn, gen. diákɔːnos “helper, deacon” has the modern form ˈðiakonos “deacon” (which has shifted to second-declension). But these forms also have second-declension variants, formed from their shorter nominative stems: ˈɣeros, ˈðjakos, ˈðrakos “old man; deacon; ogre”.
The third declension original nouns had vocatives that ended in -on: ɡéron, diákon, drákon. When they shifted to the second declension based on the shortened stem, the argument would be, they took those vocatives with them: ˈɣeros ˈɣeron, ˈðjakos ˈðjakon, ˈðrakos ˈðrakon. Those vocatives then looked identical to the regular second declension accusative; and when the accusative dropped its final -n, so did the vocatives: ˈɣero, ˈðjako, ˈðrako.
That’s certainly possible, although I’m a bit nervous about the notion of such an archaic vocative surviving like a time bomb in just that very narrow class of nouns. But it is a fact that for ˈɣeros in particular, the o-vocative is almost universal; that implies that it is a core instance of the o-vocative.
… Almost universal; but one will find counterexamples. Not a lot of counterexamples: Google gives 112 hits for ɣere, almost all of them from one song lyric, a New Year’s Day carol (Γέρε χρόνε φύγε τώρα “old year, go away”). For the colloquial vocative particle re, Google gives 7600 hits for re ɣero, and just four for re ɣere:
Τι LIFE COACH ρε γέρε άνθρωπε μίλα ξεκάθαρα!!! Τι έχασα???
What do you mean, “life coach”, old man?! Speak clearly! What have I missed?
— Marrie_Qrie ♏️ (@marrie_qrie) January 26, 2018
That’s an analogical change in the reverse direction, and that’s plausible. Recall that almost all the o-vocatives are names. ɣeros might be historically Ground Zero for the o-vocatives, but analogy doesn’t have a historical memory, speakers form analogies case by case as they notice word similarities. And analogy doesn’t just happen at the local level, of individual words: it also happens with big sweeping classes of words.
There is a spread out of o-vocatives that is based around proper names. That means that an overall rule has emerged, that o-vocatives involve proper names, and therefore e-vocatives involve common nouns. And that leads to an analogy running in the opposite direction: since ɣeros is a common noun, it should have the e-vocative ɣere, like other common nouns. It is not a strong analogical pressure: ɣere is rare. But the pressure is there. And this kind of analogical backwash, of analogies going in the reverse direction to the overall trend, when the overall trend is strong enough, happens a lot. It’s why there was a resurgence in strong verbs in American English (sneaked > snuck), after centuries of strong verbs retreating in English.
ɣero “old man!” as a vocative is common in Greek; more common than its counterpart in English, and certainly more common than “ogre” or “deacon”. As a common vocative, it was clearly a candidate for extension by analogy to given names like nikos “Nick”.
There was an additional pathway for ɣero “old man!” to influence the vocatives of given names. ɣero is used as a prefix before names: ɣero-ðiˈmitris “Old Dimitris”, ɣero-ˈɣjanis “Old John”. The vocative of those compounds would not inflect the prefix: ɣero-ðimitri, ɣero-ɣiani. But those vocatives can be reanalysed as two separate words: ɣero ðimitri, ɣero ɣjani. And if the prefixed given name was itself second declension (ɣero-ˈnikos, ɣero-ˈɣjorɣos “Old Nick, Old George”), there will be additional pressure on the prefixed names to rhyme with the prefix: ɣero-nike, ɣero-ɣjorɣe could easily be remodelled to ɣero niko, ɣero ɣjorɣo. (The rhyme is itself a local instance of analogy, operating on its immediate context.)
In any case, once the o-vocative hits M2, it hits jackpot: even more than the vocative and prefix “old man”, given names like “George” and “Nick” are a common, well-defined group of nouns, that let the vocative be entrenched as an easily learned exception to the global pattern of e-vocatives, and that is distinctive enough to form the basis of further analogies.
If the o-vocative is going to spread further from M2, we need to work out what the features in play are, that will be the vehicles for it to spread further.
Words like ˈnikos,ˈɣjorɣos, ˈðimos are:
- NAMEs of people. More specifically, they are
- GIVEN names. They are
- PENULT-ACCENTED. That feature carries through most of the subsequent instances of the o-vocative, but not all. They are also
- BISYLLABIC. That’s likely how the analogy from ɣeros to M2 carried across, whether remotely (this word sounds like that, and they both refer to a person), or in the context of compounds (this word sounds like that, and they are used together to refer to a person). The names are also
- VERNACULAR: ˈnikos,ˈɣjorɣos, ˈðimos correspond to the official forms niˈkolaos, ɣeˈorɣios, ðiˈmitrios, which traditionally Greek-speakers would have heard in ecclesiastical contexts. And related to that, they are
- FAMILIAR. They are not all familiar to the same extent, and individuals’ connotations will differ. ˈɣjorɣos “George” for example is the unmarked vernacular ways of saying “George”. But ˈðimos is not the only vernacular way of saying “Demetrius”: the unmarked form is ðiˈmitris. And because short Greek given names are rare in the formal version of the language, there will be a correlation between short vernacular forms of names and familiar, diminutive forms of names.
These features overlap, of course, for a particular class of words like M2; and different overlapping features can trigger different analogies with different words. Not all features are as useful in explanation either. For example, grammatical descriptions make a lot of BISYLLABIC. There’s a reason they would: BISYLLABIC is a purely linguistic criterion, that can be diagnosed directly from the linguistic data, without having to appeal to social context or diglossia. It makes the grammarian’s job easier. But BISYLLABIC seems to have run out of steam as an analogical criterion after M2: we have seen those grammarians struggle to make sense of M3 aˈlekos “Alec”, and the bisyllabic restriction is ignored almost all other classes of the o-vocative (although I suspect it plays a part in O1c: ˈɣiftos “gypsy, blacksmith”, ˈfilo “buddy!”).
The actual criterion that seems to be in play, VERNACULAR/FAMILIAR, is more nebulous to diagnose, and less-language internal: you can’t tell just by looking at the word in isolation. The vernacular criterion presupposes a self-consciousness about diglossia. Yet, as Greek grammarians know, and routinely appeal to in their grammars, Greek speakers are highly conscious of which words in their language are vernacular and which words are learnèd, and it’s usually easy to tell from their phonology and their morphology.
Similarly, the familiarity of names is a semantic criterion, and accounts of morphology would rather operate on just other morphological and phonological criteria: it makes for a much simpler model. But it’s analogy, and nothing about analogy is simple: any factor in language and language context can be brought to bear.
For what it’s worth, I don’t think speakers became aware of the VERNACULAR and FAMILIAR feature immediately in M2: I don’t think that, the minute they started forming the vocative of “George” as ˈɣjorɣo, they thought, “this name is familiar”. The way those features became apparent can be seen by contrasting them with O2: given names that are bisyllabic, but have preserved their e-vocative.
The names that have kept their e-vocatives are names that are the same in formal Greek and vernacular Greek, like pavlos “Paul”. Names like nikos were vernacular, and once the o-vocative was entrenched, there was no reason for an e-vocative to reemerge, as we have seen with ɣere by analogy with common nouns. But for a name like, say, petros “Peter”, which are the same in Koine Greek and Modern Greek, there is an obvious place that an e-vocative can come back into the language from.
ὁ δὲ εἶπεν· Λέγω σοι, Πέτρε, οὐ φωνήσει σήμερον ἀλέκτωρ ἕως τρίς με ἀπαρνήσῃ εἰδέναι.
And he said, I tell thee, Peter, the cock shall not crow this day, before that thou shalt thrice deny that thou knowest me. Luke 22:34
e-vocatives are associated by speakers with common nouns. e-vocatives are also associated with Ancient Greek and the learnèd language; speakers are aware that the o-vocative is colloquial, and cannot be used in formal language. So if a given name is the same in colloquial Greek and in the language of the church, they will have occasion to hear that name with an e-vocative at least occasionally. Formal forms like pavle, petre, marke will be heard, whereas purely colloquial names will not present forms like nike, ɣjorɣe, ðime. Because names like pavlos, petros, markos are also used in vernacular Greek, the vernacular o-vocatives will also show up: pavlo, petro, marko. And after that, the relative preponderance of e-vocatives and o-vocatives is a matter of contingency and happenstance.
And when speakers realise that o-vocatives are vernacular and not formal, they will correlate them with familiar forms—which are never formal.
We have seen the data on the spread of o-vocatives in Modern Greek. I will post how I make sense of the data. But first, some preliminaries about analogy.
How analogy works
Analogy in language change takes a linguistic rule that applies to one word or paradigm or category, and starts applying it to another word or paradigm or category. To take an example that’s rather removed from o-vocatives: analogy in non-rhotic dialects of English takes the rule “keep the word-final [ɹ] before a vowel, as in more or less [mɔː-ɹ ɔː lɛs]”, and starts applying it in novel contexts, like law and order [lɔ-ɹ ənd ɔːdə].
There was no historical reason for there to be an r after law; that’s creating a new rule where there is no historical justification for it (there is no r to keep). That’s what makes it a linguistic innovation, after all. But there is a linguistic justification for it: it is that more looks like law. When they’re not followed by a vowel, the two words end in the same vowel, and they have the same syllable structure: [mɔː, lɔː].
And that’s how analogy works in general. If a linguistic rule is generalised from A to B, it doesn’t happen at random. It’s because A and B have a feature in common. And linguistics is not powerless to make sense of analogical change: linguistics can identify what features A and B have in common, and use that to explain the change.
This is a diagnostic, not a predictive explanation: it’s the kind of explanation at home in historical linguistics, not synchronic linguistics, because we’re not dealing with a rule here, but a tendency, that could have happened, and could have not happened. But analogy is a bunch of contingent tendencies, and not rules; that’s why language undergoing analogical change is not particularly rule-bound. Or, to put it more informally, a mess.
As analogies spread, if an analogy spreads from A to B and from B to C, that spread can be explained because A, B, and C all have a feature in common. But again, analogy is not that rule-bound or predictable, and the analogy between A and B can be quite independent from the analogy between B and C. The feature B and C have in common may not be a feature A and B have in common; it may well not be present in A at all.
To give a sneak preview of how the o-vocative spread: I will argue that it spread from “old man” to “Nick” to “Venizelos”. The words “old man” and “Nick” [ˈɣeros, ˈnikos] have phonological features in common: they are bisyllabic, and penult-accented. The words “Nick” and “Venizelos” have one out of the two phonological features in common: they are penult-accented, but there is no longer a requirement for the word to be bisyllabic. Yet that’s not enough to explain the analogy: there are lots of penult-accented words that don’t have an o-vocative. The feature that “Nick” and “Venizelos” have in common is that they are names. And that’s a feature that “old man” does not have: as the o-vocative spread from class to class of words, the NAME feature is something it picked up when it started applying to given names like “Nick”. It was not a feature present at the start.
So there are features involved in the spread of a phenomenon by analogy. Those features are how the distribution of the analogy can be made sense of, while it is in progress. And when the analogical spread settles down, they will be the basis of the new rules that govern the phenomenon.
And if an analogical change involves more than one feature, not all features are necessarily equal. The more common or “basic” a particular feature is in a language, the more likely it is that new instances of analogy will be based on it. If an analogy is spreading among, say, names of ethnic groups, there are limits to how far the change is going to spread. If the analogy hops across from ethnonyms to, say, proper names in general, the analogical change has the potential to take over much more of the language.
Similarly (though this is not as obvious), a very common or psychologically salient word, like “old” or “mother”, is likelier to form the model for further analogies than a less common or salient word, like “vague” or “ogre”. I haven’t seen this particular notion articulated explicitly anywhere, though I suspect something to it will have been stated by Kuryłowicz or Dressler, who have theorised extensively on analogy.
What analogy does
Analogy is the mechanism that spreads language change, and makes it make sense. Analogy takes a local change in one instance of language, and spreads it further afield. Analogy spreads such changes in a way that, eventually, can be made sense of by a simple rule, that ends up replacing whatever other simple rule was there before—as the features that enabled the analogy are generalised.
Eventually. Because until the language change goes all the way through, analogy in action is a mess. It’s two rules, the old and the new, clashing, and the context in which one rule or the other applies is completely idiosyncratic: it varies from social group to social group, from semantic category to semantic category, from individual to individual. You’ll have seen a little of that in the disagreements among commenters I related, as to whether “uncle” or “Marinos” had an o-vocative, and what the connotations were if it did.
And that’s not an idiosyncrasy of Greek vocatives: that happens whenever there’s a language change underway. Moreover, while analogy usually runs to completion, and you have a clean new status quo, sometimes it remains messy. Hence the unpredictability of the pronunciation of <ea> in English, for example.
Analogy is the culprit for language learning being exasperating for adults, from a book: it’s where the attempts to formulate simple, learnable rules for language founder. That’s where the infuriating laundry lists of exceptions, and long lists of ifs and unlesses in textbooks come from. Language in preliterate societies, and child acquisition of language, deal with these exceptions and conditions. In fact, they are valuable in tidying them up for the next generation, through logical abduction: confronted with a whole lot of messy data that doesn’t follow nice rules, language learners make up their own rules, which tend to be simpler, and more learnable, and wrong: they overgeneralise from the data they get. Which ends up being a good thing for the language.
Which is fine if you’re two years old, or if you’ve married into a tribe, and have a couple of years on your hands. If you’re in a bit more of a hurry, grammars and textbooks give you shortcuts: they’ve worked out the rules for you in advance. Except where the rules are a mess, because that aspect of the language is in flux, and being pummelled back into non-mess over generations through drift of analogy.
So to any language learner who has groaned about why they have to learn laundry lists of genders, and why there’s so many exceptions, and why there are so many irregularities, I present to a cartoon villain for your dartboard. Commenter Kostas in the discussion of o-vocatives at Sarantakos’ blog:
I rejoice that the unruly people finds a way to escape the norms and shackles set by learned linguists, and in their own unique way they transform, develop, and enliven their language.
And I don’t think that’s by accident. As they learn their mother tongue, they create their own internal mechanisms and rules and they then apply them in its development. I call that language instinct, and I follow it in my life, in my spoken language. In my written language I conform more with the rules posed by linguists and other specialists.
Kostas is of course correct in the second paragraph, in how “language instinct” works: that’s logical abduction in the face of messy linguistic input. Linguists will be shocked to see themselves caricatured in the first paragraph: all descriptive linguists are trying to do is make sense of the rules that people do carry with them in their “internal mechanisms”, which is what the logical abduction is producing: they aren’t setting any shackles for anyone. But of course prescription does have a role to play in the social aspect of language, and linguistic descriptions are recruited for prescriptions. That’s not an evil; that’s just what happens.
Language learners can keep Kostas on their dartboard though. His convenience and unruliness is your inconvenience and rote-learning. And those language learners do the same in their own native language. (“English is a mongrel language, English has no Academy”, etc. etc.)
And that’s how speakers like Kostas, and everyone else who speaks Greek, comes up with rules for second declension vocatives that look like this:
- Most of the time use -e
- The word for “old man” uses -o
- “Nick” uses -o
- Words like “old man” and “Nick” use -o
Words like “old man” and “Nick”?! What kind of rule is that?
A very porous, ambiguous rule. That’s why speakers disagree so much. And that’s what happens when one aspect of a language is in flux.
This is a story of analogy, based on an article at Nikos Sarantakos’ blog (because the traffic between our two blogs has ever been two-way). Sarantakos’ article in turn cites an older blog post by Giannis Haris, which cites two grammars of Modern Greek.
The story is the retreat of the vocative in Modern Greek. The vocative is a case that strikes many a learner of Classical languages, because most modern European languages don’t have them. The vocative has survived in Modern Greek…
… but it has been restricted. Even in Ancient Greek, the vocative did not show up in all numbers or declensions: a distinct vocative appeared only in the singular, and it did not appear in feminines of the first declension, in neuters of the second declension, or in most subclasses of the third declensions:
- First declension: masc. nom. polítɛːs “citizen”: voc. polîta; fem. nom., voc. kórɛː “maiden”
- Second declension: masc. nom. ántʰrɔːpos “human”, voc. ántʰrɔːpe; neut. nom., neut. paidíon “child”
- Third declension: nom. ɡérɔːn “old man”, voc, ɡéron; nom. sɔːkrátɛːs “Socrates”, voc. sɔ́ːkrates; nom. voc. pʰýlaks “guard”; nom. voc. poimɛ́ːn “shepherd”
The vocative has retreated substantially in Modern Greek.
- In the first declension, masculines use the accusative/genitive as the vocative: nom. politis acc. gen. voc. politi. Puristic Greek did revive the ancient vocative for honorific titles: nom. kaθiɣitis “professor”, voc. kirie kaθiɣita “Herr Professor”. But you won’t find anyone under 70 now using vocatives like that.
- In the vernacular, the survival of the third declension is vestigial: most forms had switched to the first declension. Even where Puristic revived the third declension, it did not bring back with it the distinctive vocatives with the short final vowels.
In fact, the first declension (which in the vernacular expanded to include all five final vowels, in order to deal with loanwords) only has two distinct cases in the singular: nominative vs the rest in the masculine, genitive vs the rest in the feminine.
The second declension masculines, however, hold out. The vocative of anθropos “human” remains anθrope, with the same inflection as in Ancient Greek.
(That’s the masculines: the feminines in the vernacular had switched to acting like first declension nouns: Corinth was nom. acc. voc. korθo. gen. korθos. Puristic has undone this development, and restored some feminines in the second declension, although speakers occasionally stumble on them.)
But the vocative is starting to retreat in Modern Greek: there are nouns where the vocative in -e is replaced by the accusative ending -o, analogous to what happens in the first declension. It is retreating in specific classes of nouns, and the retreat is spreading from subclass to subclass of those nouns. The data, which I’m going to present in this blog post, looks at first somewhat random. But if you identify the classes of nouns, and the categories people think they belong to, the retreat makes a lot more sense. As does the confusion and vacillation of speakers about which vocative to use; because this is an ongoing change in Greek, and there are plenty of grey areas among those subclasses.
(The categories are established in the grammars that have been cited; but the analysis is not particularly parsimonious, and I’m going to try and make it more general.)
So where is the vocative retreating now in Modern Greek?
The -o vocative is mandatory in:
- Penult-stressed nouns
- A small number of bisyllabic nouns that used to be third declension: ˈɣeros “old man”, ˈðjakos “deacon”. (Ancient ɡérɔːn, diákɔːn). (As commenter Panos in Lowercase points out, when those nouns are compounded they go back to the old vocative: paˈljoɣere “stupid old man”.)
- (Etymologically truncated) bisyllabic given names: ˈɣjorɣos, ˈnikos, ˈðimos (corresponding to the formal forms ɣeorɣios, nikolaos, ðimitrios) “George, Nick, Dimitri” (Astonishingly, noone picked up on the truncation being the explanatory factor until commenter and fellow Esperantist Angelos, 119 comments down.)
- The trisyllabic (truncated) name aˈlekos “Alec” (corresponding to the formal form aleksanðros)
- Given names and common noun diminutives ending in the diminutive suffix -ˈakos: kirˈjakos, anθroˈpakos “Cyriac, contemptible little man”
- Final-stressed nouns
- Multiple-syllabic final-stressed diminutive given names: ɣjanaˈkos, ðimiˈtros, manoˈljos (corresponding to neutral ɣjanis, ðimitris, manolis: “John, Dimitri, Manuel”)
The -o vocative is optional in:
- A few familiar penult-stressed nouns: the grammars give kapeˈtanios “captain”, kamaˈrotos “shipmate”
- A few more nouns not mentioned in the grammars, although these seem to be much more contentious. Commenter Panos in Lowercase gives ˈɣiftos “gypsy, blacksmith”. Friend of this blog Pepe adds kumˈbaros “god-sibling” as having a rare o-vocative (which Sarantakos rejected). Pepe also adduces the vocatives ˈfilo “buddy!” in contemporary slang, and ˈneo “young man!” in older military slang. A few commenters mentioned kaˈkurɣo “criminal!” from literature or old movies.
- The case of ˈθio “uncle!” turned out particularly controversial: Pepe adduced it, Sarantakos rejected it as slang; Pepe insists that ˈθio is widespread, and commenter Alexis believes it is a Northern Greek form, avoided in the Peloponnese.
- Penult-stressed given names that are already bisyllabic in their formal forms: ˈpavlos, ˈpetros “Peter, Paul” (ˈpetre is much rarer than ˈpavle). Stavros is also not truncated; commenter Alexis considered the vocative ˈstavre to be jocular, but commenter SP reports it as extant, though more used by men than women.
- Although the grammars do not say so, longer penult-stressed given names may take an o-vocative too: commenter avɣuˈstinos “Augustin” reported a friend hesitating on what vocative to use for him, Panos in Lowercase reported Marios, and friend of this blog Diver of Sinks reported Marinos and Poulikos (but not e.g. Rodolfos.) Commenter Leonicos accents his name both after the original Ladino as leoˈnikos, and as the more hellenised leˈonikos; following this trend, his vocative of leoˈnikos is leoˈniko, and his vocative of leˈonikos is leˈonike.
The greatest confusion is around penult-stressed surnames. Sarantakos acknowledges this in the title of his post: Κύριε Σαραντάκο ή κύριε Σαραντάκε; “Mr Sarantako, or Mr Sarantake?” Triantafyllidis 1941 grammar claims that the surname Dimitrakos has a mandatory -o vocative, like the other instances of the -akos suffix, and he also extends that rule to two other diminutive endings on surnames, –ukos and –itsos.
Georgia Katsouda (who I’ve had the pleasure of meeting recently at the Historical Dictionary of Modern Greek in the Academy of Athens) wrote a grammar in 2007, which makes a more recent distinction: surnames that are etymologically transparent—that is, surnames that look like common nouns—use the -e vocative: Mr kaˈmene “burnt”, Mr ðefteˈree “second”. Surnames that are etymologically opaque use the -o vocative: Mr aleˈvizo, Mr veniˈzelo. Sarantakos confirms that the distinction is recent: the politician Eleftherios Venizelos a century ago was addressed in the press as veniˈzele, while the vocative veniˈzelo is used for the contemporary politician Evangelos Venizelos (no relation, though Sarantakos could not resist the temptation to stick his partisan boot in). He also cites a mid-19th century work by Panagiotis Soutsos, using e-vocatives in surnames that would now be unacceptable (Karatase, Soutse, Diake, Giatrake, Kanele).
But Giannis Haris, who Sarantakos is citing, attests widespread confusion with surnames: as both the difference in the two grammars and in the treatment of Venizelos shows, surnames appear to be where the vocative is currently volatile. There are lots of surnames that Haris heard take -o on the TV to his surprise:
- Giakoumatos; but that could be because of the patronymic suffix -atos (by analogy with -akos)
- “Dimos Verykios”, ˈðimo veˈrikio; I agree with Sarantakos that veˈrikio is likely influenced by the preceding vocative ˈðimo, and where there is confusion between grammatical alternatives, context is going to have a much bigger sway than normal.
- Alimonos: the vocative aˈlimono sounds exactly like the interjection aˈlimono “alas!” (which is of course the origin of the surname: there is no common noun aˈlimonos for the surname to sound like, so the -e vocative would not make sense here)
- Karamanos: maybe because it was explained as Kara-Manos, where Manos is a truncated given name (short for Manuel), of the type that takes an -o suffix.
- Marinos: an -o vocative when it is used as a surname; but always an -e vocative when used as a given name. (We’ve just seen that Diver of Sinks disagrees!)
Haris’ concluding comment is a despairing “Arbitrariness and chaos?” Sarantakos’ conclusion (after dispensing with Evangelos Venizelos) is “this indicates a more general, but very gradual tendency towards o-vocatives.”
There is no unitary set of rules that will explain the distribution of vocatives in Greek, because speakers themselves are clearly confused. But as I indicated, the confusion is explicable, and I will attempt at least some of that explication in the next post.
You can be a great artist, and still be a dick. For that matter, you can be a great artist, and still be clueless about what you’ve wrought.
Bullying Stamos Semsis, the songwriter of Your Firework Eyes, into letting Giorgos Dalaras sing the song on the album? Prick behaviour, but within the game of what can happen in art, I guess:
So I come out [after surreptitiously recording Dalaras singing the song in a single take], and I say to Stamos:
—Are you singing Your Firework Eyes [on the album]?
Dalaras had left. And I tell Stamos:
—Stamos (and this was in front of his wife), there will be no record.
—What are you talking about?
—You heard me.
—That’s what I feel like. Have you got a problem with me?
—Well I’ve got a problem with you. You’ve got the greatest Greek singer guest starring on your record, and you want to be the main attraction. You’re the songwriter, get it? I’ve let you sing too many songs already. Dalaras will sing Your Firework Eyes, or there will be no record.
Maybe that was the right call; I don’t think Malamas’ was the greatest rendering of Princess either. Then again, maybe he could have just waited for the inevitable covers, just as happened with Princess.
And that’s what happened. I’m not joking around, Kostas. I’m not afraid of anything.
Old-school machismo gets tiresome quickly.
He still gives Semsis props, I guess, although they’re not quite as full-throated as they could have been:
A talented composer. His grandfather is the renowned rebetiko musician Salonikios [Dimitris Semsis]. If I’m not mistaken, the album was called “It’s Cold in Greece.” Stamos is very charming in both his looks and his personality. And an excellent musician.
Well, OK. Coming back at the end, though, boasting about his bullying of Semsis on the three albums (“not that I was a tyrant, but I’d always been right before”) is tasteless, and he clearly was a tyrant; but Bourboulis does take the blame for a failed sonic experiment he insisted on, overruling Semsis (different lyrics in the Left and Right speaker). (“I’d always been right before.”) So he has some self-awareness at least.
On the other hand, what he ends the interview on is just contemptible gossip-making and judginess (which explains why he dropped that strange reference to Semsis’ looks), incoherently commingled with grudging admiration; and it’s Bourboulis, not Semsis, who looks bad for saying it:
But I’d advise people never to collaborate with Stamos Semsis. That great talent, and I even christened his son, is an ingrate. Write that down. He left his wife and son. He cannot love. He’s all about himself. He is a player, he is a great talent, and he makes conquests wherever he goes. I mean with women. But he doesn’t care. If you offered him anything at the time—his mother was ingenious, and she built the bridges for him. Him, he can go to hell. Every time I went to his place, he had another girlfriend. He used to stay in Marousi. Now he’s in Paris. A great talent, I’m telling you, and a handsome lad. Then he got cancer, but fortunately he recovered. He’s got incredible guts. He got that from his mother.
Old-school moralising also gets tiresome quickly. And the way he contradicts himself, I think he realises it. Semsis, at least, in his interview, didn’t say much more about Bourboulis than “he’s older than me.” (25 years older; which helps explain why he got away with the bullying.)
I don’t begrudge Bourboulis, either, saying, right after “I’m not afraid of anything”,
Your Firework Eyes is not great, either lyrically or musically. It’s Dalaras that makes it great. If you hear Semsis sing it, he’s slightly better than Dalaras. But he’s no Dalaras.
Dalaras does bring magic and vulnerability to the song, especially in the final stanza. And both the lyrics and the music are flawed; I’d worked that out in the previous post. But the flaws make the song all the more powerful. Which is why it’s survived covers by so many other artists.
No, I can’t begrudge Bourboulis for being a bully in pursuit of aesthetics. I can begrudge him being judgemental, and mixing business and friendship (noone made him christen Semsis’ son, and be invested in a work partner’s personal life.) But that’s a personality flaw. What I find impossible to accept is him spending a long paragraph saying how much he hates the Turks, going all the way back to the Trojan War and forward to the Greek State making a museum of Kemal Atatürk’s house—and then saying that that’s what Your Firework Eyes is all about:
And that frenzy, when they literally massacred us, without it being a war: that’s what I meant by “Your Firework Eyes”, eyes that flash and shine. They are flashes of our race. Because when a ship goes through the straits there [the Bosphorus] and lets off flares [fireworks], just as happens in this country with weddings and festivals, it’s a spectacle. But it’s a spectable from a humiliated people, when its leader Eleftherios Venizelos nominates Kemal Atatürk, after all the massacres, for the Nobel Peace Prize. Write that down! It’s proven.
And then some more about how Turks are a mongrel race and Turkey is doomed.
If Bourboulis wants to be an unhinged nationalist, that’s his right, it’s not like I have to hang out with him in a café. But to claim that Your Firework Eyes is about Greek national humiliation is horseshit. Yes, the Bosphorus reference is about loss, and it’s informed by the narrative he carries within him of national humiliation. You might even read “I lit all the lights. I put on a show” in that light.
But “loneliness drips like rain onto the floor”? “I am trapped now in your perfume, in your name”? Bourboulis wrote a flawed, disjointed, beautiful set of quatrains about love and loss. (One that Semsis’ stepson made more sense of than he had bothered to.) He was thinking of 1922 when he wrote of the Bosphorus; and the cultural resonance enriches the song, laconically and devastatingly. But to conscript the whole song to the narrative of national humiliation dishonours it. And it sells his beautifully flawed masterpiece short, very short.
It is a moving, fragile, beautiful song about the loss of love. And there are some interesting things about how it was put together, that make it so striking. Both lyrically, and musically.
Musically, it is a torch song; it is sorrowful, vulnerable, whispered almost. The more effective in that it’s been sung by two artists who aren’t normally whisperers, who can do steel behind their plaint, and transmute it into something more.
And musically, it goes around and around, obsessively, with the same tune over and over each stanza, sternly sinking down to the tonic in stages, in the relative major (so beloved of Greek song writing), in Phrygian mode, in resigned vi–vii–i. And with no chorus to relieve it. Something unusual for a zeibekiko. But then, this is a very unusual zeibekiko.
It’s astonishing to realise that this is a zeibekiko at all. The zeibekiko, the 9/4 mainstay of bouzouki pop, is realised as a stern, heavy-footed, confident swagger. It can be fatalistic; it certainly gets to be self-important. It doesn’t whisper. It doesn’t sound like this. And that’s the genius of the arrangement, which has been maintained in the covers: it’s a song that undermines its own genre.
I’ve written years ago of another such instance, Markos Vamvakaris’ Είσαι μελαχρινό και νόστιμο, whose notes are the notes of the free-flowing Levantine chromatic lament at the root of rebetiko—but whose ethos is of the jaunty, four-square Peiraeus Sound that followed it. Your Firework Eyes is another such instance of musical alchemy. It would be very easy to sing the notes of the song like an actual swaggering zeibekiko. Noone dares to. This somewhat out-of-tune karaoke recording is the closest I’ve been able to find:
It’s not just about the music, though. The lyrics are doing a lot of work here:
I lit all the lights. I put on a show.
When love dies, it knows no resurrection.
Your firework eyes shine like phosphorus,
like ships passing through the Bosphorus at night.
You switched off the lights and left, you became invisible.
Mist that the wind took away, in an automated town.
Your firework eyes are a bonfire
and loneliness drips like rain onto the floor.
I am trapped now in your perfume, in your name,
and in your eyes, yes, your cold firework eyes.
Your firework eyes shine like phosphorus,
like ships passing through the Bosphorus at night.
Disjointed images of loss, of sorrow, of cold. With a lot going on that’s culturally specific to Greek.
Like the mention of the Bosphorus. Phosphorus and Bosphorus are the rhyming words in the original: Τα βεγγαλικά σου μάτια φέγγουν σαν το φώσφορο / σαν νυχτερινά καράβια που περνούν το Βόσπορο. In English, that sounds too marked to be anything but silly. (I’ve received a guffaw about it that is in retrospect painful. There’s some personal associations going on here.) That is why I’ve had to dodge the rhyme in English.
But it’s not silly in Greek. First, because they aren’t Greek words that stick out in English; they are just Greek words in Greek. Second, because the rhyme in Greek isn’t that rich: it’s [ˈvosporo] rhyming with [ˈfosforo]. And third, because ships in the Bosphorus is a painfully rich image in Greek. The romance and melancholy of Istanbul, yes. But also the pain that comes with thinking of Istanbul: the memory that once, this was our city. And now it is lost to us.
Which is just right for what the song is about.
The second thing about the lyrics is that the metre gets disrupted in the final stanza (before the repeat of the Bosphorus stanza). Up until then, the stanzas were all in trochaic octameter, with a masculine ending (i.e. ending on a strong syllable: ´ – ´ – ´ – ´ – | ´ – ´ – ´ – ´ .) The metre of final stanza falters: it adds a weak syllable at the end:
Είμαι πια εγκλωβισμένος στ’ άρωμά σου στ’ όνομά σου
και στα μάτια ναι στα μάτια τα ψυχρά βεγγαλικά σου
And everything falters with it. The music puts that extra note on an uncomfortable minim, that sounds drawn out too long, deliberately out of place. Dalaras captures the hesitation and awkwardness of the notes beautifully. And the lyric matches it: the faltering repetition of “your”, the syntactically disruptive, rueful recapitulation “yes, your eyes”, the forced piling up of adjectives at the end of the stanza.
There’s a third thing. The images are vivid, but they are disjointed, they don’t really come together as a narrative. There’s a reason for that; and the reason tells you a lot about how lyricists work in Greece—and how composers can make a virtue of it. With a little help from their family.
The composer Stamos Semsis has told the story about how the song came to be written. It explains the disjointedness; and it also explains how the obsessive, single-minded tune took the song over.
When I started collaborating with the lyricist Michalis Bourboulis—someone much older than me, and a great writer—the initial material he had entrusted me with was a package of some 80 pieces. He asked me to read through them, to pick what I liked, and take it from there. Most of them were printed, but a large number were handwritten. In the back of a handwritten sheet, he had printed the quatrains of Firework in random order. They turned up there by accident.
I was married at the time, and my stepson Alexandros was around 14. Despite me being his stepfather, we were good friends, and we got along very well. We had the following routine: I’d work mornings at home, and when he’d come back from school, he’d listen to my songs and tell me what he thought of them. I had started working on that particular piece, and I’d constructed the basic tune for one of the quatrains and a small bridge.
When Alexandros came home from school, I told him about the piece, and I explained that it was a little weird, because the quatrains were out of order. He asked to listen to it, and he went crazy. “Look, Stamos, don’t go complicating the melody like you usually do. It’s so beautiful and simple.” When I asked him what order to put the quatrains in, he told me to leave it with him. And that’s what happened. He took a sheet of paper and put the quatrains in order.
That’s how the piece came to have the form it does. “What you’ve just done is producer work”, I told him, and I asked him whether he wanted credits on the album. “No, no, be serious”, he answered. Twenty-odd years on, Alexandros is working in one of the biggest consulting firms in the world.
I am about to post here on late song renderings by Dimitris Mitropanos, and there’s something about what he did with his late repertoire that was special, but that I couldn’t quite put a name to.
Mitropanos had a decades-long career as a Laiko artist: he worked in the mainstream Greek bouzouki pop tradition, singing songs of love and machismo and disillusionment. Nothing too intellectual.
In his later repertoire, Mitropanos sang Entechno repertoire. He sang Entechno with a firmly Laiko sensibility; and that made it all the richer for it.
Entechno music, “art music”, is a parallel tradition to Laiko; for a time it was emblematic of Greek music. (Theodorakis and Hadjidakis were its main early exponents.) The music is of the same family as Laiko, but tends to be more European than Levantine; it is friendlier to acoustic guitars and/or Western orchestral instruments, without letting go of the bouzouki bedrock; and (possibly the most important difference) the lyrics are consciously poetic. It often drew on established poets early on, and the lyricists who worked in the tradition regarded themselves as poets, and usually wrote like that. At their best, they wrote astonishing, richly and darkly allusive poetry. At their worst, they were obscurantist.
There isn’t a good equivalent in Anglo popular music; it’s like the singer-songwriter tradition exemplified by Bob Dylan times a hundred, staying in the mainstream for decades, setting Auden and Eliot and keeping poets in business.
And getting covered by artists like, say, Prince.
Now, I have ventured hesitantly back on Quora, although I can’t see myself putting in the investment there any more that I used to. The reasons I left there still hold, and the feed looks much more dysfunctional than it used to. But it’s good to have rekindled some friendships. Such as friend to this blog, Evangelos Lolos.
And this article draws on two observations he made, when we briefly discussed Mitropanos.
First: I just said that Mitropanos sang Entechno with a firmly Laiko sensibility. Evangelos put it more simply than that:
they are not entechno songs when he sings them.
There is a simpler name to put to it still, in the English tradition: Mitropanos was a crossover artist. That doesn’t necessarily make it a better name though. Crossover in the Anglo tradition has bad connotations of selling out and dilution, but then the Anglo tradition has some curious preoccupations with authenticity and purism.
The exemplar of this kind of crossing over, Evangelos proposed, was the Malamas–Karras effect. The song Πριγκιπέσα started out in the entechno tradition, recorded by singer-songwriter Sokratis Malamas in 2000:
With a lovely, singer-songwritery story behind how he came to write it:
I wrote it as a birthday present for a woman, because I had no money to buy her anything. She was cooking lentils, which is all we had left, and I looked at her and thought: “This song is worth singing at this moment, it’s worth getting out there.” I wrote it and played it immediately, without a pause. I burst out laughing when I played it, I thought it so funny. My friend, who had no idea about music, put down her ladle and said, “When did you write that? Do you realise how good it is? Why would you laugh?”
(And yes, Reader, he married her.)
It’s a lovely, melancholy tune, with tinkling bouzouki and guitar. But the guy is a singer-songwriter, and it shows: I don’t think he does the song justice, he doesn’t sing it with anywhere near enough oomph. Still, there was a rocking tune there, and an even more rocking lyric: a lyric which is full of love and wonderment and magic, like good Entechno should; but also pulsing with bad boy machismo and fatalism—the stuff of Laiko, in fact:
I want one thing, I do another.
How can I make you understand.
I thought, the years are going by,
I’ll go straight.
But it does you no favours
to try and change your nature.
No point in keeping score.
No point in forcing yourself to be good.
The wind blows outside,
but in my heart,
in this house,
your light and the light
dance around us.
The world is unbelievable
and so is our nature.
I want one thing, I do another.
That’s how I’ve ended up here.
Errors, missteps, and passions,
they’ve set me straight.
At dawn in the street,
I cast a line.
I catch myself;
I lose my mind.
As this blog post from 2009 blog put it,
When I first heard the record, I liked the uniform style he maintained on all the songs, but none of them stood out above the rest. (That particular song, I found somewhat confusing.) I found it good, in fact, but non-commercial. It never occurred to me that Pringipessa would become a massive crossover hit, admired by singers ranging from Haris Alexiou to Vasilis Karras, and that it would end up with 1,000,000 hits on YouTube! What I had momentarily missed was the approachability (λαϊκότητα) of Malamas’ songs, which would hit a vein in just two verses; and people wanted to keep listening to them over and over, like vain spells against time: it starts with “I want one thing, I do another, how can I make you understand”, anticipating defeat, and it ends in that conclusion full of bitterness and bewilderment: “The world is unbelievable, and so is our nature.”
That’s what Malamas did with it; this is what Karras does with it:
I love when a good, stern Laiko interpreter like Mitropanos turns Entechno into austere gold. I don’t think Karras can turn anything into austere gold, but it’s clearly not Malamas’ sensibility any more. It is a sensibility more in tune with the initial machismo, but it can’t do anything with the wonderment of the chorus.
Glykeria, on the other hand, turns everything to gold, though I think she too rattles the chorus off.
Peggy Zina does it a little more justice:
I don’t think Mitropanos ever did Pringipessa. I’ll come to what he did turn to gold in a future post.
I have consolidated my old Quora posts http://hellenisteukontos.opoudjis.net/2016-10-01-what-did-your-language-sound-like-1-000-years-ago/ and http://hellenisteukontos.opoudjis.net/2016-10-05-what-did-your-language-sound-like-500-years-ago/, and just had it published in Greek on Nikos Sarantakos’ blog: https://sarantakos.wordpress.com/2019/03/15/nikolaou-3
Albert’s dictionary is a Duden-style illustrated dictionary, where concepts are organised into thematic groups, and pictures of the concepts are accompanied by Latin glosses. In the (extensive) back of the dictionary, there are indexes of all Latin words used, and of their equivalents in German, French, English, Italian, and Spanish. The intriguing part of the dictionary is that the concepts are modern. (Or at least, modern-ish: the dictionary was written in the 90s, which means its stationery and technology section has dated badly: when was the last time anyone dealt with a typewriter ink ribbon?) So the Latin in the dictionary is substantially Neo-Latin.
The dictionary is not only of its time, but of its place. It was written by a German, for German students of Latin, and it shows: several of the concepts involved are heavily rooted in German culture, and a few of them need research for an unknowing outsider to make sense of. (Why is there a puck being used in curling? Oh, that’s Bavarian curling. And what precisely is a Konzern anyway?)
But both of these make it a fascinating undertaking, to see how Latin has been pummelled into place to cope with modern concepts. And the same holds for the dictionary in its Ancient Greek clothing. As Bedwere’s blurb puts it:
χαῖρε, ὦ φίλε ἀναγνῶστα. σύγε τούτῳ τῷ λεξικῷ χρώμενος, οὐ μόνον γράψεις τε καὶ λαλήσεις περὶ τὰ καθ’ ἡμέραν τῶν ἀρχαίων Ἑλλήνων ἀλλὰ καὶ περὶ τὰ τῶν νῦν ἀνθρώπων. αὕτη γάρ ἐστιν ἡ εἰς τὴν Ἑλληνκὴν γλῶσσαν μετάφρασις ἐκείνου τοῦ εἰκόνων Ῥωμαϊκοῦ λεξικοῦ
Halfway through Bedwere’s work, I got involved in the project, suggesting corrections and emendations to his translation, informed by my perspective as a Modern Greek speaker. As you can well imagine, the project had added fascination for me, not in terms of Ancient Greek, but in terms of Modern Greek. I made a point of seeking out any and all instances where Puristic Greek had already come up with its own Hellenic-based renderings, and minimising novel coinages as much as possible.
Which means that, for the purposes of this work, I embraced linguistic Purism, and did a lot of researching of older sources (including some quality time spent with the Iliou Encyclopaedia, Νεώτερον Εγκυκλοπαιδικόν Λεξικόν Ηλίου, 1945–1960). And I found it a lot of fun!
There were a lot of discoveries along the way:
- The occasional faux ami with Ancient Greek (this is still, after all, meant to be a picture dictionary of Ancient Greek, not Puristic Modern Greek.) For example, see my startled discovery that, whereas Modern Greek differentiates drying something of excess moisture (στεγνώνω: plates, hair, clothes) vs drying something up (ξεραίνω: fruit, rusks, mummies), Ancient Greek used ξηραίνω for both. As a result, I was adamant that a hair dryer had to be a στεγνωτήρ, and ξηρός with relation to hair only made sense as dry, flaky hair as opposed to dried, not wet hair. Not so: the semantics of Greek have in fact changed over the last two thousand years. (It took a couple of passages tucked away in Aristotle for me to work that out.)
- Old dictionaries of Greek (pre-1850), which have become widely available thanks to Google Books, are very valuable for working out how Greek used to deal with Modern concepts before the influx of French, and indeed even before the influx of Puristic coinages. Theocharopoulos (1834), for example, or Daviers (1844). And I continue to have a lot of time for Hepites (1912). (I have even more time for Dehèque (1825), because it captures a lot of early vernacular Greek, and I found it very useful in my time at the TLG; but Dehèque did not turn out to be as useful for this particular exercise.)
- I was taken aback by how modern some of the concepts in the dictionary really were. There were equivalents of buttons in antiquity, for example, but the clear distinction between buttons, pins, and brooches is quite recent, and one that even 19th century vernacular dictionaries struggled with (θηλυκωτήριον: “something you insert into a plug [“female”]). The notion of nightclothes was meaningless in Ancient Greece, which is why the closest terms available are pretty much just blankets. And so on.
- Purism ran out of steam in Greek, and French loans, took over, by the early 20th century: certainly by the 1930s. The early Puristic rendering of zipper in the 1910s as τορμοσυνάπτης “peg-linker” for example was likely coined too late to prevail against French φερμουάρ, and it is quite forgotten now. I could find no trace of a Puristic rendering of “fashion model”, a concept which would have been popularised in Greece by the 1930s: only the French μανεκέν and the Italian μοντέλο. And indeed, even “roulette” had no rendering but the French ρουλέτα and the Italian ρολίνα as early as the 1860s.
- There is nonetheless a large body of Puristic coinages that have stuck from before the 1930s, and there is a smaller number of Puristic coinages that are succeeding and taking root to this day; γενόσημος for “generic”, for example, or λογισμικό for “software”. This of course varies by domain—sometimes seemingly randomly: there is a full Puristic terminology for soccer (although some English words have persisted in usual usage), but the terminology for tennis is substantially English. (That is not *that* random: tennis has a long history in Greece, but it was not mainstream until fairly recently, let alone reported on in the press; so the pressure for Greek-based vocabulary was simply not there, the way it was for soccer. There has never been a Hellenic term for “tennis racket”, for example: it has always been ρακέτα.)
- And of course, there is more purism in official usage than in colloquial usage, to this day. This becomes really obvious with automotive terminology: the local garage and the Ministry of Transport have completely different vocabularies: e.g. πεντάλι vs ποδομοχλός/ποδόπληκτρον for “pedal”.
- Whenever the Glorious Ancient Ancestors are discussed, there is an immediate and unsurprising recoiling from modern loanwords. For example a hairdresser’s cape is always a μπέρτα < French berthe; but the discussion for schools of an ancient sculpture depicting a hairdresser could not use anything but the ancient-looking περιώμιον.
- There are ebbs and flows in fashion in language, and there has been some movement back towards more archaic usage in Greek in the past decade or so, as a reaction to the “victory” of Demotic in the 70s and 80s. I have had a waiter offer me an ἀπόσταγμα for “spirits”; I don’t think that would have been possible twenty years ago.
- The parallel legal texts translated for the European Union have been a rich source of Puristic coinages (prominently figuring in online search engines like linguee.gr and el.glosbe.com.)
- Online shopping catalogues are a boon for purism as well: the individual items on sale often use loanwords in their descriptions, but the categories of items in the sidebar (which are, after all, formal ontologies devised by boffins) tend to use Puristic terms, or at least more abstract terms. That was particularly noticeable on Skroutz.gr (“Scrooge”, i.e. “Thrifty”). This is not a great example (I couldn’t find the one that made me sit up and take note), but to give a poor example: the category is Διανομείς Καρτών “Card Distributors” (which the site feels obligated to translate in English (!) as Card Shufflers, but the individual items are ανακατευτήρας “shuffler”, σαμπό < French chabot, μοιραστής “sharer”.
- A somewhat unexpected source of purisms has been the description of stock photos online. The usual term for “hair roller” for example is μπικουτί < French bigoudi; but the Puristic βοστρυχωτής shows up instead in photo search engines like www.fotosearch.gr. Again, I strongly suspect the tag words for these sites are coming from formal ontologies translated by boffins, rather than colloquial live translation.
- A lot of Puristic coinages were of course awkward calques from French; and in the context of trying to use Modern Ancient Greek, some of them are just too awkward to be palatable. So κόμμα for “political party” is just a calque of partie, and “fraction” really would not make immediate sense to someone who didn’t know the etymology of partie. The Classical phratry “sub-tribe” would at least make more sense as a social sub-grouping (although its modern use to mean “faction” is itself anachronistic.)
- Similarly, some attempts to reimport Ancient Greek terms into Puristic would be just too loose to work: καταιονάω has been used for “to shower”, but its original meaning in Hippocrates is “to foment, i.e. to bathe with warm lotions”.
- Liddell-Scott consciously purged itself of Mediaeval words with each successive edition, where they were obvious (attested in Christian theologians). Where they were less obvious, or more relevant to Classics (in scholiasts and mediaeval dictionaries), they were kept: user beware. That applies for example, notoriously, to στοίχημα in the modern sense of “wager”; it also applies to late-attested derivations like ἀποχαιρετίζω “to farewell”; ἀλφάδιον “carpenter’s square; modern: water level” (so called because they were A-shaped) is also clearly mediaeval; and the meaning “divorce” for διαζύγιον is no earlier than Arethas in the 9th century.
- There has been a little bit of work on Modern coinages in Ancient Greek done outside the context of Puristic and Modern Greek: the Akropolis World News, for example, or the Ancient Greek Wikipedia. These attempts are welcome, but not infallible: ἀσθεν-ούχ-ημα instead of ἀσθεν-όχ-ημα for “ambulance”, for instance, is incorrect. I am biased towards coinages by Greeks, but those coinages are mostly morphologically reliable.
- … Not always though! I put my foot in it when I introduced myself to the θαμῶνες “regulars” of Textkit: that is a modern derivation from θαμά “often”—and an obvious calque of French habitué; but it is also a derivation impossible in Ancient Greek. ἐλατήριον for “spring” is another such modern error: in Ancient Greek it is a purgative (“that which drives out”), and the modern sense “spring” has been affected by the etymologically related ἐλατός “ductile”.
- The Centre of Research into Technical Terms and Neologisms of the Academy of Athens (unsurprisingly) was a last bastion of Purism, and they were still suggesting Hellenic coinages for technical terms until the late 2000s. I got a lot of value out of their Athens Olympics volume of sporting terms. (As should be clear, they had a lot of coining work to do with tennis, and not much with soccer. In fact, with some tennis terminology, they just balked: there is no Hellenic neologism proposed to counter σερβίς “service” or ρακέτα “racket”.) The academy’s French- and Icelandic-style work on puristic coinages has attracted derision (see this this newspaper review of the Olympics volume), and the centre has given up on proposing Puristic alternatives in the past few years, now that they are under new management: they simply can’t keep up with the influx of terminology, and they aren’t being taken seriously as an authority for terminology, so they have now switched to descriptive rather than prescriptive work.
- By the way (as you may have guessed): unlike the people who actually live in Greece, I find these Puristic coinages charming and enjoyable, and I am saddened at Greek giving up and borrowing English words wholesale. But its their language, they get to make it impure and parasitic. (And of course, it’s not like this kind of thing hasn’t happened before. Like, say, with French a century ago. Or Turkish a century before that.)
- There are a few nice anecdotes to be had. Greek has stuck with referring to bronze medals as copper medals (χάλκινα), because they were copper in the Athens Olympics of 1896, and damned if they were going to pay any attention to the switch to bronze in 1900. On the development of Greek conventions for telling time with minutes, I will post in a future article…
- I knew this, but others may not: The Perseus copy of LSJ has systematically mis-stressed words when it filled in the prefixes of lemmata. (The LSJ source text would give forms derived from a headword by just their suffix, e.g. λῐθολογ-έω “build with unworked stones”… -ος “one who picks out stones for building”.) Perseus often got the completions wrong (e.g. λιθόλογος, not the correct λιθολόγος), and unfortunately sometimes, like in that instance, you need to know the meaning of the word to know where the accent should go. (Other times, the accentuation they came up with is impossible.) The TLG copy of the LSJ spent a lot of time correcting these; unfortunately I’ve lost access to it, but the rest of you have not.
Our work concluded in January, and you can see the results:
- In the Textkit discussion thread, where I posted all my emendations and suggestions (they start a fair way down the thread);
- In the GitHub repository for Λεξικὸν Ἑλληνικόν, where the dictionary source is available in TeX.
- As a paperback from Bedwere’s lulu.com shop.
The dictionary does not include an English–Greek glossary, or the images (although the Textkit forum thread includes most of them); that work could be done by someone else, but there will be some difficulties using the dictionary without them. To get the most value of the dictionary for now, you should obtain a copy of Albert’s Latin original, and use them in parallel.
I recommend the linguistically curious go through my discussion on Textkit: it’s somewhat dry in that it follows the dictionary page by page, but there are some pleasant surprises to be had in there.
Akis Alkaios was one of the great Greek lyricists of the past fifty years, in a culture which valued and cultivated the great lyricist. In his biggest hits, With a Canoe and Rosa, he was darkly allusive, yet still successfully universal and moving—like his great contemporary Manos Eleftheriou. (Alkaios had to insist against the record company on “the land of the Visigoths” being mentioned in a zeimbekiko pop song.) I’ve hyperlinked the translations by “Ross”, which are remarkably good by the standards of stixoi.info, the Greek lyrics database.
Those lyrics date from the endpoints of Alkaios’ mature period, 1982 and 1996. As Wikipedia notes, his youthful period was marked by leftist protest songs:
With his record Embargo (1982) the lyricist immediately marked out an identity apart from his politically engaged contemporaries, in that he also wrote as a citizen of the world, expressing the desire for world freedom with a theoretical Marxist grounding.
And in that period, it goes on to say, he was liberally influenced by Mayakovsky, Brecht, and Wolf Biermann.
As I was perusing stixoi.info to find decent translations (like those by “Ross”), I happened upon a poem by Alkaios from his protest period: it was published in his 1983 collection of poems also titled Embargo.
I am culturally Greek. I am culturally Anglo. I am not both at any given instant in time. Which is why I did a double take, when I saw a poem about Gloriana, as seen through the lens of Greek left populism. Elizabeth; or, Epithalamium, 1600 AD. This link is more stable than that on stixoi.info.
Οι ρεβεράντζες οι αυλικές πολύ μ’ αρέσουν
Το βιργινάλι η ιερακοτροφία
Κι οι μενεστρέλλοι σαν στα πόδια μου θα πέσουν
Μα πιο πολύ αγαπάω την Αγγλία
Το νιτερέσα-μου φυλάνε οι φτωχοί
Σα να ‘τανε δικά- τους νιτερέσα
Μοιάζει η Αγγλία με ολόγιομο πουγγί
Μα πιο πολύ αγαπάω το που ‘χει μέσα
Language play is one of the things that gets sacrificed in translation; and language play—specifically, register play—is one of the things Alkaios excelled at. The final verse of With a Canoe is wrenching, with is comparison of the singer’s lovelorn body with “a cheap shooting range, / where foreign conscripts train, cursing”. It is all the more wrenching because the previous line speaks of Attica as a “pallid quarry”, violently juxtaposing an ancient Greek and a Turkish word (φαιό νταμάρι).
That gets lost here: the sneer of the low (Italian) word for “interests”, νιτερέσα, the awkward folksiness of the syntax in the final line and its bathetic rhyme, “what it contains” (το που ‘χει μέσα). What gets lost even more irreparably is how the Elizabethan cultural references sound in Greek. Curtsies, virginals, minstrels: these are familiar in English to generations bred on Shakespeare. In Greek, ρεβεράντζες, βιργινάλι, μενεστρέλλοι are utterly exotic and alien; he might as well be writing about the marvels of the Safavid court. That, you can’t communicate in English.
I’ll translate it anyway:
I love the curtsies of my court,
and hawking, and the virginal,
and minstrels playing for my sport.
And I love England best of all.
The paupers hold my interests close,
close as their own, each passing minute.
England is like a purse of groats;
And more than it, I love what’s in it.
I have expanded my old Quora post http://hellenisteukontos.opoudjis.net/2016-08-28-what-should-i-know-but-dont-about-the-culture-and-history-of-the-cyclades-in-general-and-syros-in-particular/, and just had it published in Greek on Nikos Sarantakos’ blog: https://sarantakos.wordpress.com/2019/02/13/nikolaou-2/