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What do Greeks think of Yusuf Islam?
A2A Hansolophontes. (Sorry, Khateeb, but you walked into that one.) (Ἁνσολοφόντης. Looks nice…)
I’ll say what I think they feel, but I’ll go a roundabout way about it.
What do Greeks of my upbringing and circumstances feel about ethnic Greek converts to Islam?
Well, if they were pre-population exchange, they’re not around any more, and folklore just called them Turks anyway; so Greeks are blissfully unaware that any ethnic Greek could be anything but Greek Orthodox. Greeks of my upbringing and circumstances are also taught that Muslims are the Other. Not sure whether all of them were also taught that they eat babies.
So, what do they make of Yusuf Islam?
Four sentiments.
- Who? Not sure he was ever big in Greece to begin with.
- Betrayal. I think this will be more pronounced among Greek Cypriots, since they have an ongoing cold war with Turkish Cypriots, and Yusuf embraced the religion of the enemy.
- Unease, and/or embarrassment. Embracing Islam is not Something that Greeks Do. I read the local Greek paper yesterday, and there was the big front cover article about John Podesta’s wikileak, which was an excuse for “did you know John Podesta’s mother is Greek?” I don’t think you’ll get as many of those about Cat Stevens, let alone Yusuf Islam.
- “Screw him, he’s a half-Greek diasporan anyway.” Well, actually, that’s just the same as “Unease, and/or embarrassment”. They don’t say that about John Podesta.
- Well, they do say that about John Podesta; but not as the first thing they say.
I’m not proud of this, Khateeb, but for my generation, I think the unease will be pretty common.
I went to a Muslim wedding once, and there was a Greek convert there, skullcap and all. He was delighted to find a Greek there to talk to; I’m sure that, given how conservative the diaspora is, he wouldn’t find that many. I remember that I chatted to him, but I did feel uneasy. Again, not proud that I did, but there’s a long history of being brought up to think of Muslims as the Other; and finding “one of your own” joining the Other is uncomfortable.
I’m sorry if this answer made you uncomfortable. But I suspect you understand all too well how people can feel that way about Othering…
Dimitris Almyrantis will have a better informed and more up to date answer.
In what languages does “everything is in order” stand for “everything is alright” (and sounds natural)?
Add Modern Greek, as a calque from German into Ancient Greek (Katharevousa):
όλα εν τάξει. Now spelled as a single word εντάξει, because that’s a fricking dative, and we don’t have datives any more.
What do you like about Athens, Greece?
Me?
Yes, Athens is crowded and outsize and horrid and smoggy. But.
The Sacred Rock:
The back streets of Plaka. A reminder that once, this used to be a chic 19th century town:
… with a lot of 21st century Greeks jammed in:
The peekaboo of antiquities against the cityspace. Like the Roman Forum:
The view from the Hotel Grande Bretagne rooftop bar:
And the bookstores that still survive. The remaining repositories of Greek lore.
What are the reasons why Apollo finally befriends Hermes?
People of Quora.
Before you read this my answer, read Amy Louisa’s answer.
And before you upvote my answer, upvote Amy Louisa’s answer.
It would be a bad thing if you upvote the linguist over the classicist. It would be an even worse thing if you upvoted the writing of a Greek screenwriter over the Homeric Hymns.
Remember: Vote 1 Amy Dakin.
Amy Dakin gave the right answer, as told in the Homeric Hymns.
I will give the answer as retold by Nikos Tsiforos. His Greek Mythology, which I’ve quoted here before, was a humorous serialised retelling of all of Greek Mythology in the ’60s (published posthumously in 1971). It’s not serious scholarship (although he injects half-digested nuggets of history of religion). Its humour is very much of its time, and Greece in the 1960s is not the Anglosphere of the 2010s. (You’ll note the resentment towards the Sixth Fleet towards the end.)
Translation mine.
Vote 1 Amy Dakin.
The very first thing Hermes did, when he was still a babe in the cradle, was steal. He’d barely opened his eyes, the first day the rascal was born: he got up and escaped his cradle. He went out, looked around, saw some oxen way off on the mountains of Pieria, and was much pleased.
“I’m just in the mood for some BBQ.”
So he decided he’d steal himself some oxen. But because it was daytime, he couldn’t do it: he’d be seen. So he sat and waited for sundown. And as he waited, a turtle went past him.
The bastard grabs the turtle, kills it, takes off its shell, gets some cane, chops it into seven strips of different lengths, fixed them onto the shell, found an ox hide as well, and made himself a lovely lyre.
As soon as he made the lyre, he started playing. He made up a song that went something like “Daddy shtupped Mommy, and out came Me.” Luckily there were no song festivals back then so he could get an award, but he did sing his lungs out. His mother inside was switching between laughing and screaming at him:
— Shut up, damn you, you’re making me a laughing stock.
Night fell.
The baby ran into its cradle and pretended to get under the blanket and sleep.
—Well, said Maia. He’s been going berserk all day long. He’s pooped. Let him get some rest.
But the youth slept not. He escaped cunningly, “like unto an autumn breeze”, ran straight to Pieria, found the herd, singled out some fifty well-fed oxen of Apollo’s, and took them down to Pylos. He walked them backwards, to cover their trail.
On his way, he met an old man.
—Hey, Old man? Hermes said. You never saw me, and you never saw any oxen either, if you know what’s good for you.
—Are you involved in organised crime?
—No. I’m a God. Same thing, really.
Right. He got to Pylos, he penned the oxen up in a cave, he slaughtered a couple and dined on their smell, as gods did. He got rid of all traces of the fire, and then he tiptoed back to his cradle, lied down, and noone was any the wiser.
In the morning, he said to his mom:
—You thought I was sleeping.
—Why, what were you doing?
—You’re my mom, how can you be that dumb? I’ve pilfered Apollo’s oxen. I stole fifty last night.
Maia, a beautiful woman with long hair, started screaming.
—What are you saying, you little dirtbag!
—And you know what, mom? I’m going to steal the Oracle of Delphi off him next.
Just as she was throwing her slipper at him, the door opened, and Apollo copped the slipper on the head as he walked in. Bump on the head notwithstanding, he grabbed li’l Hermes by the ear.
—Come here, you little thief. Where’s my oxen?
—Who, me? No idea.
—Bring ’em here.
—I never took ’em.
—Never took ’em my ass. I run the augury racket; you think I can’t tell? You’ve nicked them, and you’re going to cough them up now, or the devil will take your father.
“No”, says Hermes, so Apollo lifts him up, throws him over his shoulder, and takes him up to Zeus, who was judging some misdemeanours.
—Dad, he stole my oxen.
—What, this infant?
—Yeah, and he ate them.
Zeus started laughing.
—You little shit. You’ve barely been hatched, and you’re already stealing? What will we do with you when you grow up?
—I’m going to be a merchant.
Zeus scratched his head.
—Well, that makes sense. What else would you become? Either a merchant, or a builder. Maybe a banker.
He clipped him around the ears.
—Go on. Give your brother his herd back.
The two brothers headed off to the herd, and Zeus started guffawing so hard, he almost had an ulcer.
Poseidon was bewildered.
—You’re laughing because he’s ended up a thief?
—That kid, mark my words, will go far. Being a thief makes you a success in society.
—Yeah, but he stole from his own brother.
—A good thief starts with his own brother. Oh, go to hell, talking to me about theft. I’m your bloody guardian. Are you going to teach me how to suck eggs now?
Meanwhile the brothers got to Pylos, Apollo collected his oxen, and calmed down. But two were missing.
—What did you do with the two?
—I ate ’em.
—I should smack you upside the head. Who do you think you are, eating two oxen? A contractor on commission?
Li’l Hermes saw he wasn’t getting out of this, so he presented his lyre.
—Here! Take this!
—What is it?
—An instrument.
And he started playing and singing, “Daddy shtupped Mommy…” Apollo loved it.
—See what the little rascal came up with! Wait, I’m the music guy, how come you get to have a lyre?
—It’s my gift to you.
So Apollo ended up with a lyre. And because he liked the looks of the youngster, he patted him on the head.
—What gift would you like from me, champ?
—How about augury?
—Now don’t be greedy. I need augury as a source of income.
He thought about it.
—OK, you can have augury by games of chance. You can take care of dice, cards, roulette wheels, three-card Monte: anything involving gambling is yours.
—What about pinball?
—When the Americans invent it, you can have that too.
Hermes wasn’t too impressed.
—Would the Americans ever let you get your share? Come off it. Those guys give your the crumbs they’re about to throw out, call it aid, and ask for your firstborn in return.
—Well, you trick them. Get the better of them.
Hermes thought about it, but what Greek god has ever dared get the better of Americans and sent them home humiliated? No-one.
So after all that, the two brothers became friends. Apollo gave him the golden rod of abundance and happiness, and he let him have the oxen after all.
Hermes was touched.
—You’re a great guy, and I’m never stealing anything else from you.
—OK, said Apollo, but I don’t want to see you even walk past my place again.
—Scout’s honour.
And ever since the two brothers became the closest of all gods.
Now, where did this myth come from? We have to admit that this isn’t a Greek myth: we got it straight from the Indian Vedas. The cow herd of Indra, the Indian Apollo, are clouds. All day long the Sun God guards them. At night Sarama [Wikipedia], or the wind spirits Panis, grow strong, being the wind, blow, and drive out the clouds, “stealing” them. At morning, Indra looks for them, and since he sees all from up high he forces Sarama to give them back. We transferred the myth to Pylos “Gate”, as the “Gate of Heaven”. The wind steals the clouds; so he goes about like an “autumn breeze”.
Is the English “because noun” an instance of grammaticalization?
If only.
No, it’s a novel elliptic construction (drop the copula and subject, by default, including an expletive subject: because reasons = because there are reasons). The form Wellington Mendes reports, because wow, is a straightforward analogy.
But the function, meaning, and phonetic content of because has not changed: it’s still a conjunction. Its scope has changed, from a clause to a small clause (cf. paint it black, kill you dead—I don’t believe it is a preposition here). But that’s the only change characteristic of a grammaticalisation, and it’s not enough in my book to do it.
If the Byzantine Empire hadn’t fallen, and instead became the first colonisers of the New World, what would their colonies have been called?
I am not herewith contradicting Dimitris Almyrantis’ answer. For Dimitris Almyrantis is awesome and stuff. I think I’m saying the same as him.
I don’t think much would have been different, except that there’d be Greek names instead of English and Spanish; the naming principles, I suspect, would have been the same.
Byzantine town-naming procedure was usually to name places for emperors and the like; there are a lot of Justinianopoles and Irenopoles and Leontocomes and Theodosias. Cf. Mary-land, James-town, Philip-innes, Georg-ia.
A lot of places were left with their indigenous names, just as the New World was in our timeline. Mexico would likely have remained Mexico, although it would have likelier been transliterated as Metzikon or Mesikon [meʃiko].
In Modern Greece, there is an inordinate number of St X and St Y towns, often as jerryrigged replacements for local Slavonic or Aromanian or Arvanite placenames. The Spanish didn’t stint on such town names; I don’t know that the Byzantines ever did that, but it’s possible that would have happened in the New World. No San Francisco, for example: he’s not an Orthodox saint. But as Russian America (Alaska) shows, you’d get places like New Archangel[sk] = Sitka, St Paul, St Dionysius = Fort Stikine.
There are also a profusion of New X and New Y places, founded by refugees. I think New Smyrna would have been perfectly feasible in the Americas, for instance. (After all, there’s not only a New Smyrna in our timeline in Athens; there’s a New Smyrna Beach, Florida—an ill thought out colony of Greek settlers.)
I don’t have OP’s command of detail (https://www.quora.com/If-the-Byz… ). From Theme (Byzantine district), I am guessing Notiōn (“of the south”) or Notiakōn for Australia, by analogy with Anatolic Theme.
Why does the Chinese government actively support Esperanto?
User has mentioned in comment to question the magazine El Popola Ĉinio (“From the People’s China”), and I remember its impeccable glossiness and low-key propaganda.
Argh! I did read about this at a bookstore the other day, in a collection of essays about the posterity of Mao’s Little Red Book. But no, I didn’t buy the book.
The way the book put it, the Communist Party in the ’50s was sympathetic to the aims of Esperanto, and saw it as a suitable, non-colonialist vehicle for getting their message out. I think the book subtly hinted that they were a bit naive about the propaganda efficacy of Esperanto. But in the ’50s and ‘60s, I suspect it was not that absurd a vehicle: most English-language vehicles would likely have been closed.
(Who was that American journalist who’d interviewed Mao in the ’30s, and Mao did an interview with to help prepare for Nixon’s visit? Not all English-language vehicles were closed; but the audience was certainly not as reflexively sceptical.)
Which poem or song best represents Greece in your opinion?
I’m going with the Birds of the Netherworld. stixoi.info: Του κάτω κόσμου τα πουλιά
It’s got a lot of what makes Modern Greek culture so rich:
- Cryptic, magical dread. The lyricist based it on a nightmare he had; but the song was released in 1974, during the death-throes of the Greek dictatorship—so people assumed what they would about it.
- A firmly entrenched notion of the Netherworld, continuing from pagan times, as opposed to Christian Heaven and Hell
- Casual mentions of antiquity and the landscape; not as obeisance, but simply as inheritance
- And the dark sorrows of the land, that the tourists miss, beneath those gleaming beaches
- And all against the stern modal 9/4 thud of the verse, and lament of the chorus.
You can have your Dylans; I’ve always thought the Greek art-bouzouki scene did a far greater job of true poetry in its lyrics, even when it wasn’t subording actual Nobel prize winners like Odysseas Elytis. The fact that Greece continues to keep singers, songwriters, and lyricists separate really helps there.
The translations at http://stixoi.info are horrid. Here’s mine.
Time, envenomed, lingers
in the alleys of the Netherworld to find you.
And out of work for thirteen centuries, he seeks
your ark—and to drink your blood.
Flagellators and the Clashing Rocks await you.
A maiden keeps watch amidst the gold.
The Cyclades are hanging from her ears.
And her bed is the Killer’s den.
Hidden are the secret words in the seashell.
Hidden is the magic of the sea in the North Wind.
One day the oil lamp will go out in the house,
and then you will find neither door nor lock.
The birds and peacocks of the Netherworld
are making you a dress of light and night.
Men gnash and grind their teeth:
They leap, they run, and seize you half-way.
What languages use the word “ox” as a common insult?
Not a surprise: Greek βό(ι)δι vo(i)ði is used to refer primarily to someone unmannered or dull.
Per the Triantafyllidis dictionary:
2. (μτφ.) μειωτικός ή υβριστικός χαρακτηρισμός για άνθρωπο: α. αργόστροφο· βλάκας: Είναι ~, δεν καταλαβαίνει τίποτα. ΦΡ σαν το ~ στο παχνί*. β. άξεστο, αγροίκο, αναίσθητο· ζώο: Mε πάτησε κι ούτε συγγνώμη δεν είπε, το ~. γ. παχύσαρκο: Έγινε (σαν) ~ από το πάχος.
(metaphor) a contemptuous or insulting description of a person who is (a) slow, stupid: “He’s an ox, he understands nothing; like an ox at the trough”; (b) uncouth, insensitive: “He stepped on me and didn’t even apologise; what an ox”; (c) obese: “he so obese, he’s like an ox”.
What are the rules for accenting words ending with -ic in English?
I’m OP, and the question isn’t mine. The question in details is my third cousin’s, Manny Sfendourakis’. Let me explain his question, and then go to the more general answer.
The Nicene Creed refers to the Christian Church as “one holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church”. Catholic back then meant just Universal. Of course, you call the Church Universal only when people start disputing that it is Universal: the phrase was added in the First Council of Constantinople, in 381, as part of the pushback against Arianism. Its association with the Catholic Church is much later.
Church cantors in Greek Orthodox churches in Australia have been reciting the Creed in English for some years now. As you can well imagine, Catholic sticks in their craw. In Greek, there’s not much they can do about it: Εἰς μίαν, ἁγίαν, καθολικὴν καὶ ἀποστολικὴν Ἐκκλησίαν.
They could have done something about it in the 17th century, when the Roman Catholics were called katólikos (from Italian catolico). But it’s more important now that Greeks use ancient-looking words, even if that does mean that Greeks end up calling the Catholics the Universal Church. So kaθolikós it is, for both meanings.
In Australia, though, some cantors have decided they can do something about it. When they read the Creed out in English, they call it One Holy Cathólic and Apostólic Church. And they defend this as the true pronunciation.
Manny has a third cousin who’s a linguist, so he thought he’d ask…
Both Latin and Greek have adjectives ending in –icus / –ikos. Adjectives ending in –ikos in Greek came into English via Latin; so the accent of katholikós in Greek is irrelevant. Besides, the accent of katholikós is on a syllable that isnʼt even there in English: catholic[os].
So what matters is what the accent is in Latin. And the accent in Latin is on the antepenult (third last syllable): geográphicus, mathemáticus, comédicus. The accent in words English took from Latin, during the great influx of the Renaissance, followed suit: geográphic, mathemátics, comédic.
So… cathólic, right?
No.
The Renaissance was not the only time that Latin adjectives ending in –icus came into English. A few such adjectives came into English rather earlier, in Middle English. And when they did, they came via French.
Now, Middle French was not the Pepe le Pew language it is now. Not as many nasals, not as many silent vowels, not as many, I dunno, French things about it.
But it did already have one Pepe le Pew characteristic. All its words were already accented on the final syllable.
C’est magnifíque, non?
Alors, on étude la rhetorIque, et l’arismetIque, et on n’est pas un heretIque, que serait une chose lunatIque, comme si on boit du arsenIque. Mais non, on est un bon catholIque.
And like all French words in Middle English, those French words were originally accented Pepe le Pew style, on their final syllable, with a secondary (weaker) accent on the antepenult.
Rhètoríke, àrsmetíke, hèretíke, lùnatíke, àrseníke, càtholíke.
But English didn’t particularly like sounding all Pepe le Pew. So eventually, the secondary accent became the primary accent:
Rhétorick, ársmetick, héretick, lúnatick, ársenick, cátholick.
Arsmetick? Oh yeah. Once the Renaissance happened, they realised they were missing a -th- in the word. So aríthmetic. But the word was still accented the un-French way, rather than being updated to be accented like Latin.
So, if a word ending in -ic is accented on the antepenult, then it came in during Middle English, via French. If it is accented on the penult, it came in during Early Modern English, straight from Latin.
In fact, you can have the one word split up two ways. Arithmetic is accented like it came from French. An arithmétic mean, on the other hand, is accented like it came straight from Latin. The adjectival meaning of arithmétic is a more recent coinage. And of course, it is subject to analogy with other adjectives, such as geométric or logaríthmic mean.
So, if England in the Renaissance was full of people that “one holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church” stuck in their craw, it could have happened that the old un-French accent would have been retained (fittingly) for the Roman Catholic church, and the new Latin accent Cathólic would be fit to the more learnèd meaning of Universal.
But that didn’t happen. Because, well, because random, and because precedent. The only people I know of that say Cathólic are Greek cantors. It hasn’t happened, and there isn’t the precedent for it now, and there’s not enough Greek cantors in the English-speaking world to establish precedent.