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Okay so this is my biggest problem with Hebrew, one that’s dogged me in for the entire 7 years since I began studying it (wow, that’s a lot of time to have accomplished remarkably little), and since I can’t get any paying work done today (I am recording books for a visually impaired student, my recorder is full, and I am waiting for my boss to track down the software that allows me to transfer the files from the machine onto my computer) I am going to tell you, dear Internet, all about it. What follows is a rant masquerading as an educational post.
In order to really understand Hebrew–not just muddle your way through, but to GET it, and to know WHY weird forms do what they do, and in order to predict any forms at all, you have to understand a good bit about sound rules in Hebrew.
Linguistic background ahoy: Every language has a set of “permitted” and “forbidden” sequences of sounds–that’s why the word “blurg” sounds like it could be a real word, even though Liz Lemon made it up, but “blgur” doesn’t–English doesn’t permit the sequence “blg”. English is super unusual actually in permitting ANY sequences of three consonants–the word “strike” is a word that just wouldn’t happen in, say, Japanese, which (I think I’m right here?) only allows Consonant-Vowel syllables. So when English words get adopted into Japanese, “filler” vowels get added between any two consecutive consonants, so that the loan word will follow Japanese sound rules. Cool stuff.
Sound rules in Hebrew, at least the ones that are relevant for students, are basically vowel rules. Some vowels can’t follow each other. Some vowels don’t like being with gutterals, some vowels don’t like being too far away from the stressed syllable, some vowels don’t like being in an open unstressed syllable (CV is open, CVC is closed). So you have your basic pattern, and then the vowels shift to different vowels when they get into a situation that’s uncomfortable for them. Example: You can’t have two shewas one after the other (the shewa is the short, neutral vowel you make when you say, “uh…”). So when you would, instead the first syllable goes to an “i” and the second drops out. le-nebi’im, “to prophets,” shifts to linbi’im (I’m using e for shewa because I can’t be bothered to figure out how to insert special characters).
The problem is, these vowel shifts and syllable structures and sound rules, etc. are both incredibly basic to the language–necessary for predicting ANY forms and for recognizing most–and really difficult to understand theoretically if you don’t already know something about linguistics. I still remember poor Dr. Perkins, maybe the smartest person I will ever meet, trying to explain the difference between an open and closed syllable to me while I stared at him blankly and nodded, thinking to myself, “Well, I don’t understand it, but how important can it be?” Ahahaha. To a native speaker, not important at all. It’s all intuitive; you KNOW what sounds right and what doesn’t and you don’t need to bother to reason it out. But to someone learning an ancient language, or at least Hebrew, where you run into sound changes all the time, it’s really important.
There are ways around it, of course–I took the route of trying to memorize every weird form instead of learning the patterns that made them all make sense, then just sticking with it long enough that it began to come intuitively. That’s fine, but here I am, seven years later, and I still feel like translating is like trying to shoot ducks in the dark. Maybe the best way would be to give everyone an introductory linguistics course before they started learning the language–but then Hebrew is a language that’s really important to a lot of non-specialists. A lot of the people who want to learn it just don’t care enough about the fundamental structure of the language to take the time, and why should they? I only learned about sound changes by accident, really–my introductory linguistics course was taken to fulfill the requirements for an English degree that would get me into a school of education in Virginia, because I thought I might want to teach English in public schools.
I guess what I’m getting at is that all the textbooks present these basic building-blocks of the language at the beginning of the textbook, usually in an introductory chapter, when it’s highly unlikely for them to sink in–students just don’t have the framework necessary. You have to understand the sound rules to read the language; but you have to have a basic sense of/experience with the language to understand the sound rules.
Good students probably go back and periodically review the sound rules throughout the time that they’re learning the grammar. I did end up doing this with Aramaic this past spring, and it paid off–I understand how Aramaic functions much better now. But I never did with Hebrew (because I’m lazy lazy lazy with languages) and only now am I beginning to realize just how big a mistake was. I may have said this before, but the main difference between what I’m doing now and what I did during high school and undergrad was that, back then, the languages were a hobby, sort of, just for fun (“fun” being a relative term, of course). They didn’t REALLY matter, because I was going to be an actor/writer/English teacher–they were just something on the side. The grades mattered, sort of, but everyone knows that you can still do pretty well without really knowing a language. Now that I have to ACTUALLY know them, inside and out, things are a little scarier.
Being interested in linguistics is a funny thing. The more I learn about it, the more I get the sense that most people’s conceptions of how languages work and what they do is totally different from linguists’ conceptions of these things. Take the split infinitive, for example (or indeed any other finicky grammatical rule that either bugs you when people get uptight about getting it right or bugs you when people get it wrong). The “rule” is that one shouldn’t separate the “to” from the verb itself (“to go boldly”, not “to boldly go”). The reasoning behind it is that, in Latin and Greek (the languages of knowledge, culture and status for centuries), the infinitive is expressed in a single word (dicere, currere, amare). In other words, because it’s impossible to split an infinitive in Latin, 18th-and 19th-century grammarians (my history is a little fuzzy) decided that it wasn’t “correct” to split it in English, even though separating the “to” from the “go” creates absolutely no conflict in terms of meaning. And yet, most people still assume that keeping the parts of the infinitive together is the right way to use English. Whether they get irritated at people who don’t follow the rule (I have to count myself in this group) or whether they get irritated at people correcting them, there’s still, I feel, a general cultural sense that the rule itself is a valid one.
(If any of my former students read this, they are going to call me a hypocrite; I was pretty hardcore about using standard English grammar in papers. I tried to justify it by arguing that, whether or not the rules have a valid basis, they are still the standard set by the people who hold power in this country; and one of the best ways to get some of that power and make a success of yourself is to write according to the standards by which they’ll judge you. Really, though, it’s just that it BOTHERS me when people make grammatical mistakes. Cognitive dissonance or straightforward hypocrisy? You decide.)
Another linguistic question comes up a lot when Hebrew is discussed. I imagine it’s mostly because Hebrew’s a non-Indo-European language, so its structure is totally different from either English or most of the languages people take in high school; also, it’s a sacred language, so a whole lot of people are pretty invested in texts translated from Hebrew, while relatively few can actually read the original. Well, as close to the original as we can get, which isn’t actually all that close. But that’s another story. The point is that, several times over the past few months, I’ve been in conversations with people who asked me whether and to what extent the structure and vocabulary of Hebrew influences the types and patterns of thought that we find in the Hebrew Bible. That is, does the way that Hebrew grammar works have to do with the way that the “Old Testament mind” works? Let me make one thing very very clear: this is not a dumb question. When I first started learning Hebrew, I was struck with, and enchanted by, its utter alienness of structure and idiom. In the case of poetry especially, it became clear to me that even the best English poetry is a poor substitute for the original; the form of Hebrew Bible poetry (based on parallelism of meaning rather than rhyme or meter) seemed to me ideally suited to the patterns and rhythms of the language. I’m told that this question was a matter of scholarly debate for some time, and like I said, it’s not a dumb hypothesis.
(Also? Before I go any farther, I’d like to point out that I don’t have much of a linguistics background and I can’t really be said to know what I’m talking about by people who actually know about these things. So, grain of salt. Right. Onward.)
Now, though, I get the sense that it’s not really the case, that every “natural” language has the capacity to express whatever thoughts its thinkers damn well please. We can see this in modern Hebrew, which has essentially the same grammatical structure (somewhat simplified) as Biblical Hebrew, and much of the same vocabulary. Admittedly, my exposure to modern Hebrew is limited to six weeks of floundering over “where are the toilets?” and one long-drawn-out struggle with a great article by Mordechai Cogan. But in the latter instance, especially having the English translation of the article to work from as well, it became abundantly clear that Hebrew is just as well suited to expressing ideas drawn from a firmly Western European scholarly tradition as it is to discussing the God of the Hebrew Bible.
Maybe we think that there’s this connection between Hebrew language and “Hebraic” thought because the Bible is essentially our entire corpus of ancient Hebrew. True, we’ve had the Dead Sea Scrolls for the past 60 years or so, but that’s a blip in theological terms. And the mindsets of the writers of the Bible–even such vastly different writers as, say, the Deuteronomist and the author of Ecclesiastes–are still much more similar to each other than they are to ours. So I guess it makes sense to posit that the weltanschauung and the linguistic structure are inherently related, even though I’m increasingly thinking that this isn’t actually the case.
A related-but-different phenomenon is the old saying of “Eskimos have 300 different words for snow but no word for __.” The idea behind this, I think, is that, without the lexical category for a thing or concept, recognition or understanding of the thing or concept is impossible. If you’ve read 1984, Orwell uses the same idea for Newspeak–the government systematically erases the language necessary to express rebellious ideas, and so the capacity to have rebellious ideas disappears from the people’s minds. Only I’m pretty sure language doesn’t work that way. This post from the Language Log several years ago is both deliciously snarky and expresses why, exactly, it doesn’t. It’s also the reason I wrote this behemoth of an entry in the first case. Lastly, I wish to have it on record that I thought Orwell was wrong about the way language and thought are related when I read this my senior year of high school–I distinctly remember having a heated discussion with Mr. Wood and the entire rest of the class about it–and now science proves that I’m right. (Okay, Luke, fine, not science. Science-ish. Science-y things. We need a word for fields that aren’t science but are closer to it than, say, art history.)
I’m so happy to be a grad student, y’all. I just got a package from Amazon, my reading for the next month or so–Lyle Campbell’s introduction to historical linguistics and James Kugel’s How to Read the Bible. I’m REALLY EXCITED. And the best part is, I don’t have to downplay the excitement. I’m supposed to be dorky about this. It’s my job.
I feel as though I never knew just how much of a nerd I was until my natural proclivities were given free rein.
We’re just starting Qohelet (otherwise known as Ecclesiastes), which is one of my favorite books in the Hebrew Bible. It’s both deceptively simple and tricky to translate–the vocabulary repeats itself constantly, but there’s lots of interesting syntactical stuff going on, which is always fun in Hebrew. (I think of Greek and Latin as type-A languages–they’re always very clear on what they mean, and if you don’t remember what the 2nd person plural aorist subjunctive passive looks like, it’s your own damn fault. Whereas Hebrew is more of a type-B language–it’s like, “mmm, I don’t FEEL LIKE having more than two main tenses, so I’ll just use word order and vocabulary if I want to say anything complicated and you can just sort of feel your way to a translation. Also, for extra fun, sometimes the tenses will switch places! It’ll be awesome!”) (If anyone who ever taught me Hebrew is reading this, please forgive me. A real linguist would have a conniption at what I just said.)
ANYWAY, it’s fun to read, but I mostly like it for what it says. Qohelet appealed to me a lot as a teenager, because it was bleak and existentialist and addressed the underlying futility of existence. Its speaker, Qohelet, calls himself a king of Jerusalem. He starts off by saying, “Vapour, vapour, everything is vapour.” Yes, I know most versions say “vanity,” but that’s no longer a good English gloss–the word “vanity” used to mean simply “futility, emptiness, uselessness” when the King James Version people were doing their thing, but since then it’s come to take on the primary meaning of “personal pride,” which is not in the Hebrew at all, not even a little bit.
Qohelet presents himself as an eminently successful man: wise, good, rich, successful, with many sons and daughters, a ruler of people and a giver of advice, who has vineyards and pleasure-gardens (the word for which, incidentally, pardes, shares a common source with the root of the word “paradise”), the luxuries that only a few in that society could even dream of. And he discovers that all of it is useless–hevel, literally a puff of steam. All of his riches, and all of the works that he has labored over, will be given to another man when he dies–and who knows whether this man will be wise or foolish?
What I like about this is that it’s the total opposite of the prevailing value system of the Hebrew Bible. By and large in the Tanakh, people get what they deserve. So having wealth, wisdom, vineyards, children, isn’t an accident; it means that you are a good and virtuous person and God has rewarded you for all that. You have, of course, to separate out the greedy and selfish wealthy people that the prophets like to yell at. But the prophets were telling all those greedy and selfish people that God was going to squash them like bugs any day now, so they’d better shape up STAT. The same basic value system, I think, holds: material success corresponds to moral success. Either justice has prevailed, or the Bible’s authors are trying to reassure us that justice will prevail.
Qoheleth acknowledges this basic framework, and then completely undermines it. Everything that the Bible holds out as a carrot for good behavior–everything that it’s just assumed we will think is good in itself–Qohelet says, “nope, that’s pointless too.” He’s undermining the very foundations of Israelite society and religion, questioning everything we’re supposed to think matters.
Interestingly enough, a couple of passages (I’m thinking of the beginning of chapter 8 especially) are so drastically different from the rest of the book–saying basically the opposite (you SHOULD trust the way society works, God WILL ensure that justice happens)–that some scholars believe they are later interpolations by nervous editors who weren’t comfortable with something so scary and bleak.
But I think it’s awesome–not necessarily the sentiment in itself, more the fact of its being in the Hebrew Bible at all. How badass is a canon that says, “well, mostly we’re going to talk about God’s justice, but we’re also going to include a book that calls the whole rest of the Bible into question, and call that sacred too.” How cool is it that self-questioning is an integral part of what the Bible’s trying to do. It’s not saying, “this is the way the world works, period.” It’s saying, “you HAVE to take this other perspective into account. You can conclude that it’s wrong, or outdated, or that it’s saying something other than the surface meaning, or whatever. But it’s there. It’s Scripture. You can’t ignore it because it makes you uncomfortable. You HAVE to deal with it.”
I finally finished translating Esther. SPOILER ALERT: the Jews win.
This has been one of my favorite bits of the Bible to read thus far. Maybe it’s just because I spent the last year reading everything with an eye to subtext (desperately trying to keep ahead of the 10th-graders), but I found it incredibly well-written. The structure is interesting–one commentator has noted that the whole thing is structured as a chiasmus (ABCBA, with each letter standing for an event). So we start with King Ahashverosh’s two feasts, and we end with two days of feasting for the Jews. After that we get Haman (the bad guy) raised to a position of power, and right before the Jews’ feast we get Mordecai (the good guy) raised to power.
There are tons of interesting parallels, too–one of the ones I haven’t seen anyone talk about yet (though I’m sure someone has) is the role of Haman’s wife paralleling that of Esther, Mordecai’s ward–Esther is obviously the more important character, but right after the scene where she agrees to plead for the lives of the Jews and takes on a position of real authority in doing so, Haman’s wife urges him to build a scaffold and hang Mordecai on it. Interesting gender/power dynamics there–as the commentator I’ve been reading notes, this is the only book of the Bible explicitly interested in sexual politics. Altogether a satisfying read, with the exception of the two words I just couldn’t find in the lexicon and am hoping I don’t get stuck translating. AND we’re spending most of the actual class time talking about the characteristics of late Biblical Hebrew, and getting into how scholars actually date texts–the nitty-gritty of the thing, rather than the vague “Oh, we know that this is from the third century at the latest” stuff you find in annotated Bibles and undergraduate textbooks.
Also, puppy!
Clementine likes to sleep in my stuff.
She’s taken to chewing on the corners of the woodwork, which is obviously very bad. So I got some of that no-chew-spray, which works okay, but not great. I found that a spray bottle of vinegar works just as well (thanks to Kat in my apartment complex!), and it’s really funny to watch her react to it–she kind of wants to play with it, but it obviously bothers her, so she jumps all around barking at it. This weekend my good friend Scottie and her good friend and roommate Jonathan have VERY kindly agreed to watch her and take her to the Blessing of the Animals service! Yay! I am a little worried that she’ll miss me a lot, or that she’ll destroy something valuable, or that I will miss HER a lot, but I am also kind of excited about being able to sleep in on Saturday morning.
Am off to make oatmeal scones. I make this recipe a lot, and would definitely recommend it. I never put the cream of tartar in, since I a) don’t have any and b) am not even sure what it does. I also don’t put raisins in, because I dislike them. Sometimes I do chocolate chips instead. If you’re looking for a way to make them lower-fat (the recipe does call for a stick of melted butter) there are lots of ideas in the comments. I just go with the butter.
