Tag: languages

Exploring Pronunciations and the Curious Naming of Lululemon | May 25 2025, 21:23

Today I discovered an interesting story about the name of the brand Lululemon (see below) and it turns out, not only is `ballet` pronounced in English as bal-AY (it seems everyone knows this), but also `cabriolet` as ka-bree-ow-ley, `valet` as val-AY, and even `parquet` as paar-kay. `buffet` is also pronounced as buh-FAY, but there is also the verb `to buffet` which is pronounced as BUH-fit. and `sorbet` is pronounced as sor-BAY. They are all borrowings from French.

It also turned out that aborigine is pronounced as a·buh·ri·juh·nee. `apostrophe` and `catastrophe` are pronounced as uh·po·struh·fee and kuh·ta·struh·fee respectively. `coyote` is pronounced as `kai·ow·tee`. The word `dilettante` (did you know there are two t’s together?) is pronounced as di·luh·tan·tee. Well, about recipe (reh·suh·pe) and fiance (fee-ahn-say) everyone probably knows.

I also read an interesting story about why Lululemon is called just that. Lululemon Athletica founder, Chip Wilson, shared: “The reason the Japanese liked Homeless (his former skateboard brand) was that the name had the letter “L. A Japanese marketing agency would never come up with a brand name containing “L because it isn’t in their alphabet. They find it hard to pronounce. So I thought: next time I have a company, I’ll invent a name with three “Ls and see if I can make three times the money. It’s amusing to watch them try to pronounce it.” (2004 interview with National Post Business Magazine)

Recent Russian Popular Science Book Recommendations | April 25 2025, 02:49

Recommend something worthwhile from popular science in Russian — probably something that has been released in the last year and a half.

I’m organizing additions to my bookshelf – this time from publishers in the Russian language.

Unraveling Danish Numerical Peculiarities | April 17 2025, 16:58

Today I learned something interesting about numbers. Turns out, the French are not the most convoluted when it comes to naming the tens up to a hundred. It seems the Danes hold that title.

In Danish, 92 is “tooghalvfems. It breaks down like this: “to” is two (2), “og” means and, and “halvfems” is 90. But why halvfems? halv means “half,” that much is clear. However, in this context, it’s not literally 0.5. When used with numbers ending in “-fems,” it signifies “minus half of the next multiple of twenty. Then comes fems: This is a shortened form of fem gange tyve, which means “five times twenty, thus, halvfems translates to “halfway into the fifth twenty”. The fifth twenty ranges from 80 to 100. Halfway equals 90 🙂

50 is “halvtreds” in Danish. Here “halv implies “halfway to the next multiple of twenty”. treds is the condensed form of tredje sinde tyve, which translates as “three times twenty, or 3 × 20 = 60. Thus, halvtreds can be understood as “halfway to sixty, that is: 60 – (0.5 × 20) = 60 – 10 = 50.

It’s clear that this is because of the vigesimal (base-20) numbering system.

I recalled the French because they too have 80 = quatre-vingts (four twenties), 90 = quatre-vingt-dix (four twenties and ten), 75 = soixante-quinze (sixty and fifteen).

P.S. Thanks to Timofey for the tip

Subtitle Struggles in Opera Streaming | April 13 2025, 01:00

I am currently listening to the opera “Samson and Delilah” on the paid Royal Ballet And Opera platform. The opera is in French with English subtitles. My first question — where are the French subtitles? So, if I’m a Francophone, I’m left with no options but to catch the meaning by listening alone? And there’s “Boris Godunov” which I haven’t listened to yet. I think I wouldn’t mind having subtitles there either.

Once again, I catch myself thinking that apparently, no one who translates librettos into English ever considers those who have to read them with one eye (the other must watch the stage).

By God, how can one immediately understand what “auspices” in “Let us consult the auspices // and pour the sacrificial wine for Dagon” mean if an ordinary person doesn’t normally come across the word “auspices” in English and won’t grasp its meaning on the fly? The original goes, “Du grand Dagon consultons les auspices // Versons pour lui le vin des sacrifices!”, but the original can be forgiven (although I am sure that modern young French speakers could also use subtitles).

Or take “Grant that my wiles may lead to Samson’s capture tomorrow.” Wiles? The word “wiles” in English is literary, archaic, or high style. It denotes tricks, cunning, deceitful strategies, especially in the context of enticement or manipulation. In the original French it’s “Fais que, vaincu par mon adresse, Samson soit enchaîné demain!” — well, couldn’t it have been translated as “Make it so that, defeated by my cunning, Samson shall be chained tomorrow!”

I found a translation by Frederic Lister from 1893. Those two lines are poetically and not super accurately translated there, but, damn, they are a million times clearer: “And reign supreme within his heart, // Binding him fast in my control.”

And there’s a lot of that good stuff. Okay, archaic words, but the sentences are also composed in a poetic style, which, to some extent, is fine because the spirit of the original must be conveyed. However, this does not make it any more accessible for the audience because again.. how can you understand what this “prostrate” is, while “Lying prostrate in the dust // we lifted up our voices to him” in half a second? Yes, lying prostrate means lying face down, but who generally knows that?

Damn, it would have been better to have French subtitles, that would have been more understandable.

Plus-tard, le front dans la poussiere,

Vers lui nous élevions la voix.

(meaning, “Later, with our foreheads in the dust, We lifted our voices to him.”)

Again, in Lister’s translation, although not close to the text, it is at least clearer – but then again, this translation is at least 130 years old.

I’m not pleased with the Royal Ballet And Opera. To read their subtitles, you need to specifically prepare.

And then, another interesting thing arises. It’s quite difficult to find the libretto of this opera. I will leave a link to the scans in the comments — try to find a good version of the text somewhere in the libretto. That is, the subtitles are skewed, and you can’t even find the original. One might ask, what prevented them from making a video player that would have French subtitles, poetic English translations, and modern English translations? They are charging money for it, and the work on preparing the subtitles is essentially a week of work for an Internet-connected specialist. I don’t know about the rights, but if they are showing the opera, they could definitely have put the original subtitles, and translations.. Well, I am sure that getting a proper translation commissioned or licensing an existing one wouldn’t be a problem.

Exploring Surprising Etymological Connections | April 10 2025, 20:20

The sixth day of etymological curiosities, #RaufLikesEtymology. My script is still running, which parses dictionaries and finds unexpected pairs and groups of words with a common origin but different destinies. Today features an entire series of such etymological doublets and even triplets.

Canvas (canvas), cannabis (cannabis), and hemp (industrial cannabis) are relatives. All three stem from the ancient word κάνναβις (kánnabis) — “cannabis,” possibly of Scythian or Thracian origin. Cannabis came directly from Latin, denoting the plant. Canvas came through French canevas — it’s a fabric, initially made from hemp fibers. Hemp came through Germanic languages (Old English henep), all with the same root (henep<-hanapiz<-cannabis).

Cannibal, Caribbean, and Carib — another intriguing triplet.

The word cannibal is a corrupted form of Cariba, as Columbus and his crew called the local tribes. They were thought to be cannibals. Caribbean — a geographical name of the same root. Carib — an ethnonym, the self-name of the people. Thus, “cannibal, “Caribbean, and “Caribs are words from one etymological family, just with different reputations.

Deutsch and Dutch (as the Japanese call Germany) are etymological twins, all stemming from one Proto-Germanic root þeudō — “people.” Deutsch is “German” in German, literally “people’s language.” Dutch formerly referred to any Germanic people, now strictly the Dutch.

Doitsu — a Japanese loanword from German, introduced through exchange in the 19th century. But in general, each neighboring country calls Germany differently in their languages because Germany as a single state appeared relatively recently (in 1871), and before that, it was a mosaic of separate principalities, duchies, free cities, and other political entities. Hence, different names have become entrenched in various languages — most often not for all of Germany, but for a particular tribe, region, or ethnic group. The French call it Allemagne — from Alemanni, Italians — Germania, but in casual conversation might also say tedesco (German), from the same root as Deutsch, Latvians — Vācija, from an ancient Baltic word meaning “foreign or “foreigner, Finns and Estonians — Saksa and Saksamaa, from the Saxons — one of the Germanic tribes, Poles — Niemcy, from the Slavic němьcь, meaning “mute — those who don’t speak “our way,” are unintelligible. The same root is also in Old Slavic.

However, the Japanese say Doitsu — an adaptation of German Deutsch through Dutch intermediation, as the first Europeans to actively trade with Japan were indeed the Dutch.

Species and spice — both from the Latin speciēs, meaning “appearance, form. Species retained its scientific meaning — “species. Spice came through Old French espice, initially meaning “rare goods, and then narrowed down to “spices.” So spices are also “forms, just aromatic ones.

Corpus, corpse, corps — all from the Latin corpus (“body). But “Corpse” — a dead body, came through Old French cors, and “Corps” — an army corps, pronounced as “core, stuck with the French pronunciation, and “Corpus” — a legal or scientific “assembly of bodies, used in the academy.

Map and mop — etymological twins. Both originate from Latin mappa — “cloth, napkin. Simply, one through Old French became “map (because maps were drawn on fabric), and the other — “mop (by the direct use of the fabric).

Read more such goodness by clicking here —> #RaufLikesEtymology

Exploring the Roots: A Daily Dive into Etymology | April 09 2025, 19:25

Day four of fascinating etymology! Here I am, scripting away at processing an etymological dictionary, discovering all sorts of curiosities, and sharing them daily.

The surname Biden likely originates from the verb bide, meaning “to endure, to wait. From the Old English bīdan and Germanic root. However, etymological dictionaries also mention Biden as a phonetic doublet of the root bouter (through the variant beat, “to hit”). Choose whichever you like more.

Interestingly, the word кретин (cretin) in Russian comes from the German word “Kretin” (simpleton). In turn, this word entered the German language from the French “crétin.” The French borrowed it from Latin, where it designated a Christian (Christiānus). By the way, Christ (Χριστός) literally means “the anointed one.”

The words sovereign (ruler, monarch) and soprano (soprano) originate from the same Latin root super — “above, beyond,” but entered the English language through different languages and cultural contexts, acquiring different meanings.

Everyone knows that the word “шедевр” (masterpiece) is French, from chef-d’œuvre — literally “chief work.” Chef comes from the Latin caput — head; hence la capitale (capital), captain, and capitol, which I wrote about a few days ago. And immediately it’s clear why in French chapitre is a chapter in a book, and capiteux means intoxicating, heady. Thus, Œuvre is work, labor. Interestingly, this word traces back to the Latin opera (in nominative case opus). Modus operandi — method of operation. Our operation is of the same lineage. From the same root also come the words ouvrier (worker) and les jours ouvrables (working days). Thus, opera is labor, as is opus. Right now, I’m listening to “Samson and Delilah,” quite fitting.

And this morning, I went to return some Amazon purchases to the Kohl store. They accept them there. So, not sure what else they accept, but Kohl is the same as alcohol. Both words derive from the Arabic root — الكحل (al-kuḥl). Initially, it meant “stibnite — a powdery mineral (usually antimony), used as a cosmetic for the eyes. Later, the meaning expanded in alchemy. First, it referred to any fine powder, then to a concentrated substance obtained by distillation, and finally to alcohol, as a product of distilling wine. In English, Kohl remained associated with cosmetics. But the Kohl’s store, of course, comes from the surname Kohl, German, Maxwell Kohl, and his surname in German means “cabbage.”

The word bedlam (meaning “chaos,” “mayhem”) originates from the name of the London hospital “St. Mary of Bethlehem,” which, since the 1400s, was designated for treating the mentally ill. Over time, the pronunciation of “Bethlehem” shifted to bedlam, and this term came to denote any situation where chaos and confusion reign.

Also, flask (“flask”) and fiasco (“fiasco”) share a common origin — the Proto-Germanic *flaskǭ — “bottle, container, encased container.” In Italian, a fiasco is a bottle. The expression fare fiasco — “to make a bottle” → “to mess up on stage” (in theatrical slang). Metaphorically: failure = “like a broken bottle” or “the loser pays for the bottle.” It entered English with this meaning through French.

It turns out Alice and Adelaide originate from the same Old High German name Adalheidis (adal — “noble,” heid / heit — “nature, essence, condition”).

Array and ready are etymological relatives, originating from the same Proto-Germanic root *raidaz, meaning “ready, organized, prepared.”

Going back to our cretins. I didn’t mention details earlier because it would have disrupted the “flow.” The word “cretin” appeared in Switzerland. More precisely, among the French-speaking people living in the Alps (this area is called Romandy). It’s particularly in mountainous areas where they often encounter endemic cretinism. The disease develops due to insufficient iodine in the mother’s diet during pregnancy.

In the 18th century, in Romandy, patients with cretinism were called “poor Christians” (pauvre chrétien). But they didn’t say chrétien, but crétin due to regional language characteristics. Other regions picked up this distorted word and started using it to describe people suffering from this disease. Hence the medical term “cretinism (when the thyroid gland releases insufficient hormones due to iodine deficiency, leading to serious mental and physical development disorders).

Originally, “cretin” meant “unfortunate Christian” (foolish, blessed). At the end of the 18th century, the term “cretinism” spread through European languages. But it entered the Russian language in the early 19th century via German!

Read more great stuff by clicking here –> #RaufLikesEtymology

Exploring the Intriguing Origins of Words | April 09 2025, 03:51

Well, shall we continue with the fascinating etymology? I’ve been writing scripts for processing an etymological dictionary, and I’m finding all sorts of interesting stuff.

It turns out that the word “ciao” comes from the word “slave”. It derives from the Venetian expression s-ciào vostro or s-ciào su, which literally means “(I am) your slave”. The Venetian word for “slave” — s-ciào [ˈstʃao] or s-ciàvo — comes from the medieval Latin sclavus, which, in turn, was borrowed from medieval Greek Σκλάβος (“sklavos”), itself related to the ethnonym “Slavs”, as most of the slaves during that time came from the Balkans.

Also, it was a revelation to me that the words Kubernetes, governor, and cybernetics are etymologically related. They all derive from κυβερνήτης (kubernḗtēs) — “helmsman, one who steers a ship”. Consequently, governor came through Latin and Romance languages, cybernetics as a scientific loan through French, and Kubernetes as a direct calque from Ancient Greek, via Latin transliteration.

The words fuel and focus originate from the same Latin word focus (“hearth”). Focus was actually coined by Johannes Kepler, who used it as a geometric term for ellipses: “the point where rays converge”.

The words Madeira, mata, mater, matrix, matter, and mother are related and all trace back to the same Proto-Indo-European root *méh₂tēr — “mother”.

The words madam and madonna come from the Latin mea domina — “my lady”.

It’s hard to imagine, but the words merry (cheerful) and brief (short) originate from the same Proto-Indo-European root *mréǵʰus, which means “short”.

The words lobby and leaf also have a common origin — both stem from the ancient Germanic *laubą or its derivatives, related to foliage, leafy shelters, and coverings. In old buildings, laubia/lobby was a covered gallery or arbor, literally a shelter made of leaves. Thus, “lobby originally meant “leafy shelter” or “leafy arbor”.

Common origins or roots also link names like Yuri and George, Étienne and Stephen/Steven, William and Guillermo, Zeus and Jupiter, Zhenya and Yana, Joel and Elijah, Hansel and John, as well as Agnes, Nancy, and Inez, Diego and Jacob, Dorothy and Theodore, and Isabel, Elizabeth, and Lisa, Iskander and Alexander, Patroclus and Cleopatra. Many of these essentially denote the same thing, just modified differently across cultures.

Read more of such good stuff by clicking here –> #RaufLikesEtymology

Exploring Linguistic Connections with #RaufLikesEtymology | April 08 2025, 16:22

I continue with etymological curiosities. This is my third consecutive post, #RaufLikesEtymology. It all started when I stumbled upon an etymological dictionary and began processing it programmatically, extracting all sorts of things.

It turns out that the words “жёлтый” (“yellow”), “зелёный” (“green”), and “золото” (“gold”) share a common Indo-European root related to brightness and luster — *gьltъ, which in English, for instance, became the basis for both gold and yellow. In German, “gelb” (yellow) comes from there too. In Russia, “желтый” has been known since the 13th century as a nickname, and as an adjective in written sources only since the 14th century.

It turned out that “известь” (“lime”) and “асбест” (“asbestos”) come from the same word, the Greek ἄσβεστος.

It turns out that the words шифр (“cipher”), цифра (“digit”), and zero all come from the same word — the Arabic صِفْر (ṣifr, “nothing, zero”), which itself is a calque from Sanskrit शून्य (śūnya, “emptiness, nothing”).

Pushkin wrote in “Poltava”: “In the night’s darkness they, like thieves… // Craft the ciphers of universals…” “Universals” in the Ukrainian language of those days were called Hetman’s edicts, and “цифр” back then meant what we now call a cipher — “secret writing”.

Interestingly, the word “кантон” (Switzerland consists of 26 cantons) – originates from Chinese, from Guangdong.

It turned out that grotto and crypt — come from the same word, Latin grupta/crypta. Well, about Saturday and sabbath everyone knows (that they are one word by origin).

The Russian word “колесо (wheel) and the Indian “чакра (chakra) are linked by origin — both come from the same ancient root in Proto-Indo-European — *kʷékʷlos — “circle”, “wheel”, “rotating”. “Колесо came through the Slavic branch, while “чакра — through the Indian (Vedic-Sanskrit) branch.

The words cloak (“cloak”) and clock (“clock”) derive from medieval Latin clocca — “bell”, but entered English differently. Cloak arrived in the 13th century through French cloque, which meant both “cloak” and “bell” — due to the shape of the garment. Clock appeared later through Dutch clocke, denoting a church bell that marks the time; subsequently, it came to mean “clock”. The word bell (“bell”) already existed in English as a designation for a metallic ringing object, so there was no need to introduce another word for this.

The apricot has had a very interesting journey. Here, look at the attached picture. Borrowed in the early 18th century from Dutch, which itself had borrowed from Romance languages (for example, French abricot). It’s interesting to trace this word further: it turns out that in French, it came from Arabic, and in Arabic from Latin. Latin praecox meant “early-ripening”. Thus, praecox became abricot.

My little script churned out about 2 thousand examples from wiktionary. I pick the most interesting ones, but I think there’s enough material for about five more posts like this 🙂 Plus, I have more ideas on how to process to uncover even more interesting things.

Read more good stuff by clicking here –> #RaufLikesEtymology

Unveiling Surprising Connections in English Etymology | April 07 2025, 21:09

In the previous post, I wrote about the little program I developed that searches for words far apart but sharing common etymology. It keeps bringing me new discoveries. Sharing them!

The words chaos and gas are essentially the same. The chemist Jan Baptista van Helmont introduced ‘gas’ as he deciphered ‘chaos’ in his Dutch interpretation, from the Greek χάος. The letter g in Dutch conveys a sound remotely echoing the modern Greek ch. “In the absence of a name,” he wrote, “I called this vapor ‘gas’, as it stems closely from the ancient concept of chaos.” Meanwhile, the word gasoline has no relation to gas. It derives from Cazeline (possibly influenced by Gazeline—a name from an Irish imitation), a trademark for petroleum-based lamp oil, originating from the surname of the man who first started selling it in 1862—John Cassell—and the suffix -eline. The name Cassell itself comes from the Anglo-Norman castel (related to the English castle), which, in turn, traces back to the Old French castel.

Cattle, capital, and chattel are etymological twins of each other, also linked to capital—all through the root caput (“head”), reflecting the ancient practice of counting wealth in terms of cattle heads. By the way, caput also gives rise to chief and captain.

The same goes for the twins bank and bench. “Bank” originally meant “bench,” where a money changer sat, or the “counter” of a money exchanger. Compare typologically with the Russian word “лавка”—both “bench” and “store” (in old times—these were the same), “counter”—the place where trading happens, i.e., “by the bench.” The breaking of a bench—banca rotta—has also given us the word bankrupt (“bankrupt”), literally “broken bench.”

Separately interesting are Chicago/skunk. Chicago comes from the French Chécagou, a transcription of the word from the Miami people’s language šikaakwa—”wild onion” (or ramps, Allium tricoccum) and also “striped skunk.” Skunk means, in the same language, roughly “urinates badly” and indeed designates the skunk itself.

Hospital and hotel/hostel are also etymological twins. They trace back to hospes (“host, guest”).

Discussing that dress and director share a common root would take a lot, a supporting image is attached for help

Read more such good stuff by clicking here –> #RaufLikesEtymology

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