Category: Languages

A reader writes:

A few quick questions:

1)  Is the only difference between classical latin and ecclesiastical latin the pronunciation?

No. Ecclesiastical Latin also has vocabulary that classical Latin doesn’t (esp. biblical and theological terms). The grammar and syntax are also a little different. For example, ecclesiastical Latin has a tendency to use prepositions where classical Latin would rely on cases alone. This makes ecclesiastical Latin easier for English-speakers since we are used to using prepositions rather than cases.

2)  I know there are at least three different versions of the Vulgate floating around currently . . . is there a particular version/edition you recommend? I checked out a version of the Vatican’s edition of the ‘Nova Vulgata’ and it has absolutely no footnotes, introductions, etc., so I’m looking for something a bit different . . .

I’m afraid that I don’t have a special recommendation, here. I tend to use the Neo-Vulgate because it’s available for free, in electronic form, on the Vatican’s web site. (HERE.) I’ve seen a nice edition of the Vulgate NT with the Greek NT on the facing page, but with my preference for electronic formats (makes it easier when I’m writing), I haven’t bothered getting one. (And, unfortunately, I don’t have the name of it, though Googling should turn it up.)

3)  Similar question for the Septuagint . . . what edition should I pick up?

Same kind of answer as before. I don’t really have a recommendation. Almost any edition of the Septuagint will suffice for most purposes. Unless you’re doing someting of a scholarly nature, it really doesn’t matter which edition of the Vulgate or the Septuagint you use. Neither are original-language versions of the Bible, and if you’re just wanting them for language study or personal Bible study or for writing non-academic articles then any edition will work well.

Readers are welcome to share their favorite editions in the combox, though.

Down yonder some folks were asking about a Latin equivalent for "please" and someone wrote:

Doesn’t Latin have "amabo te"? That’s what I learned, anyhow…

Another person then wrote:

This subject was discussed before on JA.O, and I also asked about "amabo te." I think Jimmy said it wasn’t really used that much.

I don’t recall saying that "amabo te" isn’t used much, though that’s certainly true in prayers. One reason why may be that–I am given to understand–"amabo te" is considered distinctive of women’s speech, but most prayers in Church historically have been lead by and composed for men.

The fundamental thing, though, is that "amabo te" is not a particle, the way "please" is. "Amabo te" is an idiomatic phrase used to express entreaty, but not a particle of entreaty. Literally, "amabo te" means "I will love you."

Every language has ways of expressing entreaty, but in some languages (like English) we have a particle we do it with and in other languages (like Latin) they have a phrase (or other devices) they do it with.

Also, I don’t know that it’s a very Christian sentiment to use "amabo te" in prayers.

I for one would feel *even less polite* saying to God "I will love you if you do this for me" or "Do this for me and I will love you."

I want to love God whether he does it for me or not.

To a native Latin speaker "amabo te" might possibly have lost its literal resonance (the way "roll out the red carpet" has lost its literal resonance for most native English speakers), but I’m not a native Latin speaker, and putting "amabo te" in prayers I say in Latin would totally call attention to its literal meaning in my mind.

Translating it literally into English prayers would be even worse.

Actually, I’m not wild about either "truthiness" or "Cruisazy."

"Podcast," however, deserves recognition.

And "sudoku" is likely to have legs.

"Pope squatting" may also come back to haunt us some day.

WHAT AM I TALKING ABOUT?

(CHT to the reader who e-mailed.)

Michelle here.

Last week my brother-in-law found some time to install the DVD player he and my sister gave me last Christmas — which goes to show you that I’m no techno-geek, since it had to sit on my couch for nearly a year. Delighted to finally have DVD capability, I went out and bought three seasons worth of I Love Lucy (Seasons One, Four, and Five), my all-time favorite TV show.

When I put in Season One for my own personal I Love Lucy marathon, I was frustrated to find that most of the episodes were subtitled in Spanish. I was even more frustrated that Ricky Ricardo’s famous Spanish rages were not translated into English, but that’s another story. Since I couldn’t figure out how to turn off the subtitles, I assumed that they were standard to the set and decided to tolerate them.

Once I did, I started to notice something interesting.

I am not especially well-versed in Spanish, having only taken three years in high school and nothing since, but I can read a bit of it unassisted and recognize some more if put side-by-side with English. What I found fascinating during my viewing of I Love Lucy was seeing how English was translated into Spanish. Being fluent in English (I hope) and knowing enough Spanish to recognize translations, I found that a lot was lost in translation.

Some examples:

• English colloquialisms apparently did not have exact translations. When the English-speaker would say "Easy!" while moving something, the translation into Spanish would be "Careful!" or "With caution." The meaning of the colloquialism was captured, but not a translation.
• A whole range of English versions of "okay" would have one Spanish translation: "Bien."
• The subtleties of language, which were sometimes used to humorous effect, were lost. Comical alliterations like "tubby trio" and "flabby foursome" could not be recaptured once they were translated.

All of this made up for the annoyance of subtitles that were not needed. Eventually, after fiddling around with the DVD remote, I finally figured out how to turn off the subtitles. But the translational game was so much fun I may turn them on again in the future to see if I can catch more translational glitches.

They had a visting priest at Mass this weekend, and he preached a really good homily (for the most part). His celebration of the liturgy of the Eucharist was also generally good, but he had a few quirks in how he said thing.

Most notably, he used the wrong mood when in greeting the congregation.

When the priest does this, he is supposed to say "The Lord be with you."

This gentleman, unfortunately, said "The Lord is with you."

He may not know enough grammar to understand the shift in meaning and simply thought that the latter is a more contemporary, vivid way of saying the same thing as the former.

It’s not.

The "be" in "The Lord be with you" is an example of the subjunctive mood, while the "is" in "The Lord is with you" is the indicative mood, and there is a marked difference in meaning between the two moods.

In English (and in many other languages) the indicative mood is used to make statements about the way world is. In other words, to state facts. (It also is used to ask questions about the way the world is, but the above isn’t a question.)

The subjunctive mood, however, is more tentative than the indicative. It doesn’t claim to state the way the world is, but the way it might be. Thus it gets used in hypothetical clauses ("If I were a rich man . . . "). It also is used to expres wishes. That’s what it’s doing in "The Lord be with you." The priest is expressing a wish that God be with the people, not stating for a fact that he is.

English has been losing it’s subjunctive mood and its functions have begun to be taken over by auxiliary verbs like "may," "let," and "should." Sometimes an auxiliary appears in the same sentence as a subjunctive verb, calling attention to it. Thus "May the Lord be with you" conveys the same meaning as "The Lord be with you."

Unfortunately, as the subjunctive has weakened in English, many people don’t recognize it if one of the auxiliaries isn’t present. That may be what happened with this priest. In the absence of "may" or "let" in front of "The Lord be with you," he may have thought that the latter is just a stuffy, old fashioned way of saying that "The Lord is with you."

But it’s not. While the Lord is omnipresent and thus present with all people everywhere in that sense, he is also "present with" certain people in additional senses. He may be "present with" people in blessing, approval, etc.

That’s what’s happening here. To say "The Lord be with you" means something like "May the Lord bless you, approve of your moral conduct, comfort you with his presence" or something along these lines. In any event, it’s the expression of a wish that God do something good for the people.

It’s therefore presumptuous for the priest to shift the mood to the indicative and simply up and declare that God will do this good thing (whatever it is understood to be) with respect to the people.

MORE ON THE SUBJUNCTIVE.

A reader writes:

Is there a difference between using Blessed (Bless-Ed), or Blessed (Bles-t) outside of a grammatical preference or usage?

If I understand you correctly, the answer is that the adjective "blessed" originally had a single meaning  but that it has come to be pronounced differently in different situations. It also has related noun and verb forms. There isn’t much of a difference in meaning much of the time (besides the obvious shifts caused by using the word as a verb or a noun), but there are rules on how it is pronounced.

We say /bless-ed/ when:

1. We use it as a title (not an adjective), as in "Blessed John of Wherever."
2. We are using it as an adjective in front of a noun, as in "What a
   blessed fool you are!"
3. It comes immediately
   before the verb, as in "Blessed be the beasts and the children" or "Blessed are the peacemakers."

On the other hand, we say /blest/ when:

1. We use it as a past tense
   verb ("The pope blessed the people"), and
2. We use it
   as an adjective following the verb ("He felt very blessed").

At least that’s how it sounds to my English-speaking American Catholic ear.

Your mileage may vary.

And it may vary in particular if you are a member of a different religious community. The above are the way Catholics do it, I’ve heard converts who haven’t absorbed these usages yet do it differently.

A reader writes:

how is it determined in texts when to capitalize letters and when not to, particularly in languages that have no distinction between capital and lower-case, and also when the writer does not use a captial (for example, I have seen Aquinas write the latin equivalent to "Catholic" with a little "c")?

There’s not a universal rule on this, but I can tell you what the general practice is.

First, though, lemme clarify for folks who may not be familiar with the issue: English and other languages that use the Latin alphabet (and variants on it) have both UPPER CASE and lower case letters. This ain’t the way it was originally, though.

The first alphabets did not have a distinction between upper case ("majuscule") and lower case ("minuscule") letters. They were written entirely in upper case letters. This applied to (among other languages) Hebrew, Aramaic, Greek, and Latin.

This means that the Bible–all of it–was originally written in capital letters. The lower case letters you see in a modern Greek Bible came later and were subbed in by scribes and printers. The original manuscripts were all majuscules.

Over time (around the A.D. 600s), Greek developed a lower case alphabet. So did Latin. Other languages (Hebrew, Aramaic, Arabic) did not and still use only one kind of letter, traditionally referred to as "upper case" or "capital" letters, though this term is anachronistic as there is no alternative to this kind of letter in these languages.

Folks using Greek and Latin-derived alphabets got in the habit of mixing upper and lower case letters, typically using upper case letters (since they’re bigger) for the more important words. The habit of capitalizing certain words fell out from this.

Now. . . . If you’re translating a text that was originally written in all capital letters then there is only one thing to do when rendering it for folks used to reading lower case texts with an occasional capitalized words: Follow the rules of the receptor language. In other words, if you’re translating, say, a Hebrew text into English, you follow English rules about capitalization. That means that you capitalize the first words of sentences, proper nouns, acronyms, and possibly a few additional words (mostly or religious origin), depending on the rules that the publisher goes by.

The reason that this is the only thing to do is that the original text doesn’t contain any capitalization information that you could go by. It’s all upper case letters, with no words capitalized distinctly. The only alternative would be to render EVERY LETTER OF YOUR TRANSLATION IN CAPITAL LETTERS, WHICH IS HARD ON THE EYES AFTER A WHILE AND WHICH IN SOME CONTEXTS IS TAKEN TO INDICATE SHOUTING.

But what if your source text is one that contains a mix of lower and upper case letters, with some words capitalized. What do you do then?

If the languages are close enough in the rules they follow then you might make the decision to capitalize a word wherever the source text does. You might get away with that, for example, translating an Italian text into English.

But this strategy gets problematic if the rules the other language uses for capitalization are too different from English. For instance, German (I am given to understand) capitalizes basically every noun in a sentence. That will really annoy Your typical English Speaker after a While, don’t You think? I mean, Nobody wants to see that many capital Letters in a single Sentence. It gets irritating to have to switch Your Mind back and forth between upper Case and lower Case Emphasis when You aren’t used to doing It.

So the rule defaults back to obeying the conventions of the language that you’re translating into (English in this case).

What those rules are can be complex in and of itself. For one thing, the rules change over time. A hundred years ago English speakers capitalized many more words than they do now (for example, pronouns that have God as their referent). Today, most publishers don’t do that, though there is still a mix of conventions that different publishers will follow.

This affects other languages, too. I’ve seen some Latin documents that had words like "Catholic" in lower-case, but other, later documents that had it upper case.

But that’s the thing about languge: It’s always changing.

A reader writes:

I was wondering if you would have any insight into the contradictory translations of Isaiah 63:9 in the RSV-CE and the NAB.

While taking a class on the theology of the Holy Spirit, I came across the fact that this verse is rendered differently in the two Catholic translations:

Isaiah 63:9 (RSV-CE)

In all their affliction he was afflicted, and the angel of his presence saved them; in his love and in his pity he redeemed them; he lifted them up and carried them all the days of old.

Isaiah 63:9 (NAB)

in their every affliction.

It was not a messenger or an angel,

but he himself who saved them.

Because of his love and pity

he redeemed them himself,

Lifting them and carrying them

all the days of old.

In the RSV it was the angel that saved them; in the NAB is was not an angel.

A book used heavily in the class was The Holy Spirit: Growth of a Biblical Tradition by Fr. George T. Montague.   Fr. Montague makes a passing reference (on page 54) to the verse:

"…depending on how the identical Hebrew letters are pointed, one can derive the [opposite] translation…"

I was wondering how Hebrew works, such that you can get an opposite translation from the same characters, differently "pointed."

Sure, no problem. First, take a look at this Hebrew word:

This is the word B’reshit, which is the Hebrew equivalent of "Genesis." It’s pronounced something like "bray-SHEET."

It’s the first word in the book of Genesis, and it’s customarily translated into English as "In the beginning."

Now, the thing about the Hebrew writing system is that it developed over time, and originally it didn’t have any vowels, just consonants.

In modern Hebrew script, the consonants are written in the large, black blocky letters that you see here. Originally, b’reshit would have simply been written B-R-SH-T (only in Hebrew letters). If you were an ancient Hebrew, you would have relied on your knowledge of Hebrew vocabulary and context to figure out what words you were looking at in the text from just the consonants.

KND F TH WY Y CN WTH THS TXT.

Only they didn’t have spaces between written words then, either, so it all would have run together.

Over time, the Hebrews noted something about writing their text this way with only consonants.

It sucked.

So they started coming up with different ways to indicate what vowels ought to go into words. One of the first attempts was to impress certain consonants into doing double duty, so sometimes they represented consonants and sometimes they represented vowel sounds. Kind of like our letter Y, which can be either a consonant or a vowel.

That happens in Hebrew, too. In b’reshit the next to last letter (starting from the right) is a yod, which can be either a Y or an I sound. Here, it’s an I, though it sounds like a long-E (as in "sheet’).

These double-duty consonants made it much easier to figure out how to read texts, and so they became known as "the mothers of reading" (Latin: matres lectionis). 

Unfortunately, there were only four maters, and they didn’t help enough, so the scribes set about coming up with real vowels.

Instead of coming up new blocky letters to put in the middle of words, they decided to rely on little dots, like the ones you see under several of the letters in b’reshit. (Arabic and Aramaic use similar systems of little marks above and below their consonants, too.)

For example, under the second letter (counting from the right) of b’reshit has a couple of dots under it that look like a colon laying on its side. That’s the mark for a long-A vowel sound. (The A-sound in "bray-SHEET.")

Over time, they also came up with spaces between words (as you’d see in a modern Hebrew Bible) and other marks to help the reader out. For example, in the first letter of b’reshit there is a dot right in the middle of the letter. This is because the letter can be pronounced either B or V, but the dot tells you to pronounce it B.

Similarly, there is a dot over the right hand side of the fourth letter, which looks kind of like a stylized W. This letter can be pronounced either S or SH. If you put a dot over its left side, it’s S, but if you put the dot over its right side (as here) then it’s SH.

The guys who came up with these marks were known as the Masoretes, and they didn’t finish their work until the Renaissance, giving us the fully-marked or Hebrew Bible called the "Masoretic Text." Since the marks are (mostly) dots, the process of adding to a Hebrew text is called "pointing" it.

Pointed texts are much easier to read, but they are harder to write, and so today in Israel newspapers, street signs, and books are commonly written in unpointed form. Texts where getting the exact reading correct–like the Bible–are written in pointed form to eliminate ambiguity.

As you can imagine, there can be considerable ambiguity without the vowels, spaces, and other marks. Sometimes the meaning of a sentence can change dramatically or even reverse itself without these to help us along.

Unfortunately, the Masoretes were not (despite some claims otherwise) divinely inspired in their readings, and so it is possible for them to have gotten things wrong, and a translator who doesn’t simply accept the reading they gave a word will have to make a choice about how it should be understood.

That’s what’s happening in the case of Isaiah 63:9.

As you can see, there is a disagreement with the RSV translators and the NAB translators. I haven’t looked it up, but my guess is that the RSV is going with the Masoretic reading and the NAB is going with an alternate reading.