Auld lang syne, Mr. von Schlegel's turn of phrase!

I know it's been only three days since my last post, but I'll soon revert back to my one-post-per-week policy anyway. Take this as a warning that in the future it may not be worth the trouble checking back here more than twice a week, at the most. Unless you want to explore the archives and discover the less than glorious past of this blog. Actually you should, if you only like the paintings. There's much less of these boring ramblings of mine over last winter.

Down to business it is. As I mentioned in my previous post, in Munich I bought an old German translation of Shakespeare's King Henry IV Part 1 AND 2 (I noticed later that both were included). I was annoyed to find no mention of when the book was printed.

I could guess that it must be old, at least -ish, judging by the yellowish paper and the ribbon bookmark (those ribbons you only find in Bibles these days), let alone the very-old-and-Gothic-looking font of the German text. Strangely, the English text is in a more modern font.

The translator, August Wilhelm von Schlegel (1767-1845), a poet himself, is still considered one of the best German translators of Shakespeare, according to Wikipedia. Someone else apparently thinks that Schlegel's translation is remarkably different from the original, for example as regards the verse style. Shakespeare often wrote in blank verse, which in his case means he wrote with an unrhymed iambic pentametre. This writer says that Schlegel transformed the blank verse into "the iambic pentametre with either male or female cadence", i.e. 10 or 11 syllables on each line.

Now I'm not very well-versed in these technicalities of poetic composition, but is the iambic pentametre with male or female cadence really so strikingly different from the regular one, which has ten syllables on a line? Anyone care to explain this to me? But be that as it may, I can appreciate the various problems Schlegel must have had, considering how different English and German are when it comes to word order and syllabic structure.

(August Wilhelm von Schlegel)

As for my problem of dating the volume. Schlegel's Shakespeare translations span the years 1797-1810. König Heinrich der Vierte was published in 1800. Obviously there have been reprints, through the 19th century until around the time of WWII. The later reprints, however, all seem to be collections including several plays. But I'm not sure whether that means that they were still printed as individual volumes or as a single book.

Next I tried to find information on the publisher, Der Tempel Verlag. It was founded in 1909, so my book can't be more than almost a hundred years old – not much, eh? Apart from these tiny parsels of information, google really isn't almighty when it comes to finding bibliographical information. I don't mean just old books, but even more recent ones are surprisingly non-existent in the virtual world of search engines. Yet things, or even people, aren't supposed to be important if you can't google them. Fiddlesticks,* I say!

My final resort was the university library's online search engine(s). It's a real drag to go through all sorts of collections on god knows how many different portals, because for each search it takes so long to process. The end result still zilch. I'm slightly disheartened now with my less than resourceful detective skills.

Something good came out of all this though: I stumbled upon a website which has pictures and transcriptions of American diaries from late 19th to early 20th century: www.writtenbyhand.com. Perhaps not eligible for including in a corpus, but interesting nevertheless.

(Picture from Written by Hand Manuscript Americana)

Speaking of corpora, it occurred to me that there might be a possibility of compiling an Edward de Verean corpus for the purposes of comparing his language with Shakespeare's. I definitely need to look into it, since it would make for such an exhilarating research project. I know some websites with transcriptions of his personal letters, draft interrogatories (whatever those are) and memoranda, so all I need to do is find out if they're up for grabs or not.

I do know of one linguistic comparison between these authors, aided by a computer, using statistical methods: Was Oxford Shakespeare? A Computer-aided Analysis. Needless to say, these guys with all their knowledge of statistics still err somewhat in other methodological issues. They assume too much, take so much for granted, and any complexities that don't quite fit are pummeled flat. All in a day's work for anti- or pro-Shakespeareans alike!

*Another Shakespearean term, from no other than 1 Henry IV! Says Falstaff, "Heigh, heigh, the Deuill rides vpon a Fiddlesticke: what's the matter?" Of course, not quite in the same sense as in present-day use.

Hawt and bothered, with every fibre of my being

I'm finally experiencing my definition of a true summer: +30 and sunshine all day long! I wish I'd known earlier that all I had to do was come to Germany. I wouldn't mind at all having a summer house here. Perhaps if I married someone rich. A rich German to be more precise.

I'd love to stay the whole week, to see what the workshops are like, but unfortunately I didn't expect to enjoy myself this much here. I like this a lot better than my usual visits to foreign countries, which almost always are package holidays.

It's nice to combine business and pleasure, or rather, educating the mind as well as your soul. What I don't like about package holidays is that the schedules for excursions are so rigid and you have to wake up very early. Here I am actually fully awake and appreciative of everything because I'm not sleep deprived.

It was a complete surprise to me to see so many BIG names on the programme. I had no idea ICEHL was one of the very few and precious conferences on English historical linguistics, or even historical linguistics in general! Someone said to me that it was very ballsy of me to come here and give my very first presentation in such a prominent conference, without having even started on my dissertation yet. It's funny because I didn't think of it like that at all. I was just trying my luck without knowing anything about this event beforehand. I'm glad I did.

What's also funny is that this nice man came to talk to me the first day, probably because I looked a little lost, and we had a nice chat. His name sounded familiar. Yesterday he gave a plenary talk, and it turns out he's the chief etymologist of the Oxford English Dictionary! The lecture was useful in the sense that suddenly I realized, seeing this actual person discussing his work, how there are real people behind dictionaries. In the end it's their personal opinions and analyses that are often taken at face value.

I bought King Henry the IV Part 1 in English with a German translation. Only 5€ (it's ancient), and I thought I could start learning German by reading one of my favourites. Just for the laugh, really.

Crushed by a cartwheel

I'm getting nervous about the presentation. One week away. I finished writing the powerpoint slides at around 1 am last night. Now I need to write notes or something to flesh it out.

I know that many presenters read straight from a paper in front of them. It won't make for a memorable presentation, but suffices to get your point across. People won't shoot you down for doing that. I wish I could do it like that, it would be so much easier, though perhaps a little dull for the listeners.

The problem is, I find it very hard to read when I'm giving a presentation. I may see the words on the paper, but what my eyes register are some weird scriblings on a white surface. Their meaning never reaches their destination.

There's really no other option for me but to know my subject so well that I can improvise, and hope that I remember to say everything important and in a logical order. What a great way to go about it, seeing that there are millions of other things causing me to be nervous in that situation.

According to my calculations, I've given about five presentations in my whole life. None were longer than 10 minutes. Now I have to go on for 30 minutes! I wake up around 5 am every morning in cold sweat because I've been imagining in my sleep how horrible it could be. Not only am I dreading being in front of an audience (with luck though, most will leave when it's my turn), but I'm very insecure about my topic.

Whatever happened to my self-confidence in my research? Only a year ago, I was so sure I knew what I was talking about. Now I question every single statement I write down. What if there's some elementary error in my thinking? What if there's an asshole in the audience to point that out?

I still don't trust people to be civil about it. I still expect them to mock me in every possible way they can think of. I'd probably crumble even if someone simply asked me to speak louder or more clearly, though perfectly understandable requests as such and nothing to fret about.

I hate it how in such situations I seem to regress back to a 15-year-old with a crushed self-esteem. I simply can't help myself, it's a gut reaction and I wonder if it'll ever completely go away. In my opinion, it's long due for me to move on from that. I wish I knew how.

All things equal though, I do look forward to seeing Münich, learning more about historical linguistics, and with any luck getting feedback for my topic.

When I come back, a cousin of mine will pay me a visit because she still hasn't found an apartment in Tampere. Will be nice, I see her so rarely. She's starting studies again, even though she just graduated as MA in the spring. She sure does enjoy the student life.

All this means that I probably won't update in about a week or so.

No expression

They roll off my tongue so easily. I don't mind. I don't care. All the same to me. Fine and dandy by me. Whatever you say.

It's true. See this face? There is a reason why there is no kind of expression whatsoever. All things equal, I really, truly don't care. I could give it all up just like that. I believe it's all temporary. Not because of the obvious, but because the obvious will arrive sooner than you think.

Or it won't. Surprises around every corner. You never know, I just might be fit after all. What do I think of that? Let me think. I don't know.

The flames of doubt again. Do I or don't I? Should I stick around or not? Is it worth it? Should it be worth it? Can it be worth it? It is all too much to handle. So no expression. Leave me alone, I'm just building a ruin.

Ruins are what I'm feeding off. Somebody else's blood and sweat. I won't make my own. I doubt I will, but I hope I will. I'll have to see about it. I still have hope, apparently. Another sign of no true logic.

Warning: ranting ahead

I got a job. A small one.

I won't get paid for it. That's just how stupid I am.

Well, no. As the Joker would say, it's not about the money. Not only will I get valuable experience in translating, but also something to add to my CV. My CV's a big fat joke; it's mostly just a slew of assignments for the department. I don't think of them as "real" jobs, because they're so closely related to my studies and research.

I've done a little bit of proofreading and checking some data for my professor. It helps to improve my own English when I correct somebody else's. I get useful references to interesting works, and sometimes even gain some theoretical insights. What's also comforting is to notice that his English isn't infallible, either. Maybe I can cut some slack for myself.

Once I got paid for gathering texts that I found and wanted to use for my thesis, something I would have done anyway. It led to me landing another corpus-related job where I categorized a corpus of historical texts according to genres. I'm not sure I was terribly successful, after all how could you possibly have texts from say the 16th century under the same genre as texts from early 20th century! For the most part, there's obviously not much overlap in that respect.

In any case, naturally it was helpful in thinking about methodology in corpus linguistics, because categorizing and the makeup of corpora are at the heart of it, in my humble opinion. Being forced to take into account so many issues in corpus creation, it often made me wonder about how little it's talked about in courses and seminars.

Based on that kind of job experience, however, I wouldn't hire me. Thankfully some people are easy to fool.

As for the job, it's creating English subtitles for a Finnish documentary. I'm lousy at translating from English to Finnish, but the other way around I'm actually quite comfortable with. I know that even professional translators shy away from translating into a foreign language, for good reasons, but I'm not too worried about it. I've received some pretty good feedback for my English translations. Should be fun anyway.

What's terrifying about translating though is the fact that it's so public. Translators are fair game for anyone to bash. They're flamed for the slightest slip or error. Of course it can be fatal sometimes, but often it doesn't really affect your understanding of what's happening.

Take for instance the new Batman film, Dark Knight. I only spotted one translation error. Fair turned to fear (in Finnish), but it didn't really matter for that scene. Only if you're a die hard fan of the Batmanverse and want to know exactly what's being said, how each and every word might tell something more about a particular character.

People don't often realize just how many things you have to take into account in audiovisual translation. The space and time available for each line place major restrictions on translational possibilities. Often you don't get a transcript but have only your hearing to rely on.

Sometimes you don't even have a whole day to work on it, let alone several. What's even worse, since anyone can call themselves a translator, those who've actually gone through an academic training and rarely make errors may nonetheless get the "credit" for poorly done work by amateurs.

I don't think I've ever seen any translator get praise for a good job on a tv show or film. Prose translators, on the other hand, are occasionally lucky enough to get acknowledgement or praise for their good work. So they should, because we need translators and translations. Nobody can learn every language, and even those foreign languages that you know well (or think you do) you'll never know as well as your mother tongue.

You may come close and you may not need translations most of the time, but I'm not convinced it can ever be the same experience as it would be in your mother tongue.

Thus spake Elina, eternally annoyed by overblown criticism of translators and their undervalued but necessary work. (Thus spake Zarathustra is a good book by the way.)

The thing about chaos - fear?

I know this is not enough. Everything is unfinished. Nothing has come out of anything, yet. What's even worse, I don't even clean the seeds from the floor. I spill soup on the floor and I leave it be. I shouldn't, right? Because it makes me something you're scared of. One of the worst things that could happen to your dear sweet pea. So I may not be tired. I have to keep up the charade.

Doing it for you is enough sometimes, don't worry. But sometimes it isn't. You are so dependent on me that it scares the shit out of me. I don't like the way our roles got switched. I hate to see you vulnerable. I hate to see you so human.

Like your own mother. The tears that burst out when you realized she was really going to leave you. Even though I never heard a good thing about her, you needed her there. Whatever she was like, better she was there than not at all. The same way you want me here, there and everywhere. Be, no matter what. Keep on being. To be or not to be is not the question, ever. Don't even go there.

I know I should let you go first. The only decent thing to do. But I find it so hard to wait that long. How can it be so easy for you? How can you still be going so strong when I still haven't, once? When you've seen ten times worse of life than I have so far?

Or is that the reason? It's been too easy for me? I don't have enough respect for my being here? It's a distinct possibility. To give more shame.

Sometimes I wonder about all this drama.

Only sometimes? All the world's a stage you know. I'm one of the players who will probably get pushed off the edge.

Where does that settled state of mind come from? Can I buy one? At my corner grocery shop? It's open everyday until 11 pm. I'd like to have some peace of mind, please. Oh and can I have some confidence, too? Would you have something to back up that confidence, like skills and brain perhaps? Ten euros fifty thank you. Here, have some water to wash that down.

I wonder about the survival of the fittest. How would you define fit? I read that intelligence is a big part of it. I thought I had it, some of it, but it's not doing me any favours. It plays tricks on me. It heightens everything.

All thoughts, feelings, become long spindly thorns I try not to touch. They prick me anyway. I bleed and I bleed but I won't bleed out. Endless reserves of agony. Thank you sweet Lord for my ability to think. Shame is what is keeping me here. Killing me softly.

Analytical, yes. Logical, no. Logic can become a vicious circle. You lose sight of your starting point, and before soon the end justifies the beginning. I don't know how to cut it off.

Obviously I'm one of the least fit. Too bad mum and dad. Don't they say that everything good leaps over a generation?

Streched across my shame

Some people feel no shame. Lucky bastards.

Think about it. They are content. Happy, even. Confident. They've found peace. They do what they do, and they'll keep doing it, never questioning.

No doubts means no shame. What a blissful state it must be. The unattainable.

Time heals all. Right? Right? I wish. So much. In the meantime, what am I supposed to do? Burn? I don't believe in purgatory after death, but there is definitely one in this life.

It's licking the flesh off my bones. The gentle flames. Such humble thoughts, so much praised, but demeaning and cruel. They expose and undermine everything I've built on. They lay me bare in front of everyone, yet nobody appears to notice. How do I fend them off? They keep coming, stinging. I'm tired of fighting them.

So tired. Am I allowed to be tired yet? May I? Mother please? I didn't turn out the way you wanted, but could I please let go anyway? I promise I'll... I don't know what I could promise you. I have nothing to offer.

I want to see the starlight again

I am possessed by the thought. Typical of me. I don't care what it is, as long as I can obsess over it.

I look out the window. Trees. Birches, to be exact. Their long, skeletal branches loll to and fro slowly in the night. Between their black spidery fingers I can see a light. My neighbour is... I don't know what it is he is doing. His hand reaches forward.

He turns off the light and I am in the dark again. Traitor.

I turn away. My apartment is unsightly as ever. I should get cleaning, but with the birch seeds storming in all day long, I don't see the point.

It's the point that's missing. The infamous point that is on everybody's lips when they talk about meaning. The point, the king of meaning. Or the emperor, even? Empress.

I decide that the seeds dotting my floor more and more are actually welcome. A living presence, in a way. Organic. But is organic the same as living?

I let trees sow their seed on my floor, yet I let my cactus slowly wither away from lack of moisture and new dirt. I turn away from car windows because I can't see the people behind them. Empty cars I like. Empty houses and empty buildings. Empty yards are nice.

Anything abandoned and cold. Dark, I like too. Darkness is like a warm blanket protecting me from all eyes. The ones I can't see throught the windshields.

Come a person and I jump. I hurry away. At home I look out the window to see another one.

If only I could see the starlight from here.

Don't you go all postmodern on me

I've always wanted to say that to someone. Because it would be such an annoying thing to say.

Let's up the postmodern in this blog a little.

Since many people associate postmodernism with randomness, here's a random quote for ya.

To regard the imagination as metaphysics is to think of it as part of life, and to think of it as part of life is to realize the extent of artifice. We live in the mind.

Wallace Stevens

Actually it isn't random in the sense that I believe in this and that's the reason I chose it.

Mr. Stevens was a modernist. How many people in the end have moved on from modernism? How many even know about postmodernism on a global level? Can you even employ the postmodern as an era? Are eras ever truly global?

Maybe the irony of postmodernity is that we're living in postpostmodernity now. Nobody outside the academia noticed.

I've been really exhausted lately. I can't get no sleep. I've tried running longer and faster and more often to help me sleep at night, but all it does is kill my leg muscles.

I blame my lack of sleep for my recent penchant for reading whatever seems to confuse the hell out of me.

Being groggy after a bad night's sleep blurs the distinction between reality and thoughts even more than usual. Somehow though, it helps me focus better on reading.

I rediscovered some interesting books I'd forgotten I owned. One of my old favourites is Theodor Adorno's Aesthetic Theory.

It's a somewhat ancient book as is its author, but my 2004 reprint volume by Continuum is simply beautiful:



I've found a couple of interesting points there that just might be useful in nailing down the aesthetics of urban exploration. Even though Adorno apparently tries to defend modernism. He didn't know of anything better.

This book is surprisingly readable, unlike some of his other works. Like the one on englightenment reverting to myth. The gist of the idea is easy enough to fathom out, but boy can he write ridiculously long sentences.

I know his writing style is supposedly part of his overarching argument, but I can't help but wonder if he couldn't have written with the same effect a little more lucidly.

Aesthetic theory is another matter. It's mostly transcriptions of his speech, written down by his wife. It's a posthumous work, so his chaoslike writing style is in a way still present in the disorderly disposition of the chapters.

Beyond that however, it's almost a pleasure to read. The font is so beautiful too. And don't you just love to say "Adorno"? I think it's a really cool name.

Things you should know

I've run into all kinds of interesting tidbits of information when reading that book on 19th century Finnish families.

The author quoted some source that defined the ideal qualities in a wife. Among other things, a wife should have "good, big nipples".

I wonder what it is that makes nipples "good". And as if the size of them mattered in breastfeeding, or in other kinds of activities for that matter. Well, maybe it does. I'm not an expert on nipples and their various functions.

But what's truly puzzling about that quote is, how on earth did men know about the goodness and the size of women's nipples before marrying them?

I mean, did men ask women to flash them? Did women wear see-through clothing? Wet t-shirts, perhaps?

Hmmmmmmm.

Wake up and smell the...fruit?

I had a dream last night.

I came up with the perfect name for a baby girl: Bananina!

Ah, the creative potential of dreams.

Enough of it already

I've been thinking about something a certain nice Serbian girl asked me at the Helsinki conference.

She asked what linguistics mailing lists I'm on.

Erm, listS?!

I'm only subscribing Linguist List so far and I already feel bogged down by all the mail that I get.

It's mostly redundant. I find myself clicking delete delete delete oh that sounds interesting delete delete deletism to my heart's content* and then even more deletage!

It's annoying too, all these calls for papers to conferences I probably won't be able to visit. I need to figure out my financing before I start running all around the world. I need to dig too much out of my own pocket for the upcoming trip, even with my professor's kind assistance with getting a grant. Thankfully I know how to live hand to mouth.

Besides, the travelling aspect makes me uneasy. I hate it. Please someone develop a teleport right now!

In any case, I think I could aim for ICAME 29 next year. I found about it too late to send a paper this year. Of course they'll accept my draft next time, it's a given. Based on my hefty experience with conferences, they'll take anything they can get. (Hint: sarcasm in the air.)

By the way, ICAME 28 in 2007 took place in Stratford-upon-Avon! That would've been wonderful. The home town of the lowly actor who dared (or durst, since we're talking about ancient people here) to claim the works of the mighty Shakespeare as his own. Some nerve, huh!

Anyhow. I started looking for more interesting mailing lists. There's one about corpora that should be useful. Lately I've been thinking a lot about all these methodological issues related to them and it's very unnerving.

There seems to be no rhyme nor reason** to any of it among more experienced linguists, so I'm not too worried about it. You can always make up some ad hoc arguments for your choice of corpora if it comes to that. If your ethics so allow. But I don't mean to sound disillusioned or anything.

One list focuses on medieval texts. I'd like to find one specified in historical linguistics, but not that historical. Early modern English is as far as I'm willing to go.

* Originally used in Henry VI and The Merchant of Venice.

** As you like it.