Latin for all

One evening, going home from the Institute, I picked up an old copy of Omnibus, magazine for teachers and students of Latin and Greek, to read after dinner. Omnibus is a curious word: being the dative plural of Latin omnis, all, everyone, literally it means 'for all'. By the way, the English bus derives, via French, from omnibus.

My acquaintance with the word comes not only from Latin lessons, but from a funny Latvian song about omnibuss that destroys kitchen gardens with all the vegetables -- I like the song but have no idea about its deep meaning. (The final double s in omnibuss is not a typo: in Latvian, all masculine nouns have to end on s, even if they are foreign borrowings that already have one s. In this case, you just add another s. For example, James Bond becomes Dzeimss Bonds.)

In my copy of Omnibus, a tiny article caught my attention. It contained excerpts from a Latin glossary, allegedly composed by Vatican authorities to help Latin speakers to cope with essential modern phenomena. I cannot help but reproduce some of its entries here. Lambrusco: acre vinum Aemilianum. Merlot: vinum rubrum Burdigalense. Sangria: potio mixta Hispanica. Scotch: vischium Scoticum. Vodka: valida potio Slavica. It made me smile, and think how an ordinary wine list becomes, by a mere fact of being translated into a different language, a source of laughter.

Peu ou prou

Last Saturday, I went to the French Institute to listen to Philippe Thureau-Dangin, editor of Courrier international. I have been reading Courrier international for years: I like the concept, I like the broad international coverage, the way it presents different points of view, and even its use of advertisements. I really like the rubric Le livre, which introduces new authors and new books, often from places far away from obvious.

And I admire its use of French. The translations -- most of its articles are translated from articles in journals and magazines around the world -- are not only flawless and idiomatic, but often improve on the original in terms of clarity, logic, and conciseness, which are, in my opinion, the essential characteristics of a good writing. Once I compared several of its translations with English originals (all taken from reputable sources like the Guardian and the Independent) and could not but admit the superior skill of the CI journalists.

In real talk, the editor-in-chief did not disappont, and I who is always looking for new expressions, wrote down several. Peu ou prou was one of these. It means a little or a lot, more or less. Its unusual part prou originates, via old French, I learned, from the late Latin prode, meaning profitable. It is curious that the same Latin word resulted, again via old French, in proud in English. If Anglo-Saxon pride is something that makes you tick (not me), you can read about its carnival of the etymologies here.

Aller aux asperges

Of all the expressions Alicia de Galicia sent me two days ago, I particularly liked irse freír espárragos. I like asparagus, and am intrigued how such a innocent activity performed upon a delicious vegetable that we see only for a few brief months in a year has evolved to have a negative meaning. You can read a discussion of the expression and its English equivalents, some of which mention frying, here, but I found no explanation of its origin.

I decided to investigate asparagus-related expressions in other languages. It is the asparagus season, after all, and the foodbloggueuses du mondre entier (to borrow an expression from Sigrid) are busy cooking asparagus and posting recipes.

I did not find anything in English, but asparagus is a foreign vegetable in the UK. It surprised me that I could not find anything in Italian. Ancient Romans ate asparagus, and, according to Suetonius, the Emperor Augustus liked to use the phrase celerius quam asparagi cocuntur, it was sooner done than asparagus is cooked.

But it is in French where the asparagus, due to its shape, has found a fertile ground. Aller aux asperges is used pour désigner la prise de fonctions d'une péripatéticienne, or to quote a reputable dictionary, chercher fortune sur le trottoir. My main discovery was a French site called Echolalistes, listing various lists, including La Liste des Asperges, listing a plethora of asparagine expressions. It also directs you, if you prefer, to the lists of other vegetables, but for the time being, I will stick with asparagus.

HR Latin

Penelope Trunk of the Brazen Careerist posted recently about the use and abuse of jargon at the workplace.

Penelope's blog is great. Is is full of good advice. Much of it is common sense, which is also good. It is useful to be reminded about basic values in difficult times.

There seems to be one category of people who often disagree with her, judging by comments. This category is the HR. (This is another reason I am so fond of Penelope. The HR have never been my best friends.) If the purpose of jargon is to obscure the meaning, the HR master this technique to perfection. They seem to be incapable of writing a job description so that potential candidates can understand what the role is about.

Recently, I have noticed a new development: the HR have embraced Latin. 'The position requires acumen or gravitas.' 'The onus is on a candidate to provide the right details.' 'An excellent salary & package is on offer here, including the kudos of joining a growing upstart business that is garnering quite a reputation.'

The words come straight from a Latin dictionary: you can check in Lewis and Short, one of the best available on-line. I surely remember reading them in Horace when I was at the university. However, I have never ever heard these words from any manager, middle or senior.