ROVIN’ AND RAVIN’ WITH MIKE
Presented by Michael Segers, Brought to you by Peanut.org
Apologies for the break in R & R the past few weeks. But, we are back from vacation and entertaining visitors. I mean, this current visitor is entertaining us. The last time Chris Page visited, she titillated our tongues with delightful food to accompany delightful movies. This time, she challenges us with a new old tongue, Latin. Thanks, Chris. We need to settle down here with dry feet and hearts full of noble thoughts, and your cool paragraphs are just what we need to get through the rest of the summer. - Mike
Copyright © 1999 by Chris Page, All rights reserved
[The decline of the Roman Empire notwithstanding, the word "decline" refers, in this case, to the application of suffixes which streamline expression to a degree we English-speakers can only dream about. More on that later.]
Language is a mystery. Enigmatic enough is the fact that a particular group of people somewhere on earth came up with a particular sound to signify a particular thing; compounding the enigma is another group’s having come up with an entirely different sound to represent the very same thing. Take, for instance, "honey". What is it about that golden substance, or about the ancestors of English-speakers, or about the culture those ancestors inhabited, that caused them to find a different word for honey than did, say, the ancestors of the French (who know it as "miel"), or of the Chinese, or of the people of any other corner of the globe? The answer is as elusive as the call of a mythical bird, as tantalizing as a ghostly handprint on the wall of a long-abandoned cave.
Which brings us to spelunking. I’ve been online just long enough to have noticed that ’net surfing is less like surfing than like cave exploration. Chambers opening into chambers. Peepholes becoming panoramas. At any point along the enchanted corridor, one can duck into a broom closet and emerge at the Palace of Versailles (or the equivalent of your choice). Languages hold similar promise; they are keys to cultural history. If one is young, and enjoys the power and beauty of words, exploring the cavern entrance is interesting, fun, and certainly useful to an extent. Once past the theoretical midpoint of life, however, it’s sensible to ask oneself–in any endeavor–"Which trail will take me furthest? Which chamber will lead to a seeming infinity of chambers?"
The more I learn (and I’m a slow learner), the surer I feel that my linguistic cave of wonders is Latin. For more than a thousand years, Latin was–and in some ways remains–the universal language of the Western intellectual world. As the recollection of a single word–"water"–opened for Helen Keller the vastness of human learning from which her disabilities had isolated her, Latin can, like a wellspring from our half-remembered past, make an understanding of the present flower for us.
I took French in high school. One of the first things my fondly-remembered teacher, Mr. Psiahas, told us green twigs was that French–as well as Spanish, Italian, Portuguese, and Romanian–is derived from Latin (these linguistic siblings are called the "Romance Languages"). Therefore, he said, if one knows Latin, one conceivably can find one’s way around much of Europe without ever needing to consult a Tourist’s Guide to Handy Local Phrases.
"Hmm", I mused, "Maybe we’d all be better off in Mr. Day’s Latin class." But never being one to complicate my life–even in the interest of simplifying it–I stayed put. Mr. Psiahas would be surprised to know that I credit my present enthusiasm for linguistic spelunking to him. And in honor of his long-ago offhand comment to a roomful of freshmen, perhaps we should begin our whirlwind expedition in a chamber we’ll call The Office of Tourism ["office"–from the Latin "officium", meaning "duty, service"].
Travelers generally ["general"–from the Latin "generalis’, "genus"–kind, type, sort] rely ["religare"–to bind fast] on maps ["mappa mundi"–map of the world], which are made by cartographers ["charta, carta"–paper made from papyrus]. Cartographers’ notations ["notare"–to note]–such as the familiar ["familiaris"–domestic] and wonderfully evocative ["e-", out of, + "vocare", to call] ‘Terra Incognita’["unknown land"]–on early Western European ["Europa", for the Greek goddess Euro’pe’] maps were usually ["usus"–use] made in Latin. Thus fortified ["fortificare"–to make strong] with information ["in", in, + "formare", to fashion or form] one ["unus"–one] generally reaches one’s destination ["destinare"–to determine] via ["road, street, way"] car ["carrus, carrum"–a type of wagon], airplane ["aera", air, + "planus", flat], train [from "tragere"–to pull] or ocean liner ["oceanus", ocean + "linum", thread]. Okay, I’ll stop with the brackets. You probably have guessed by now that I consider English to be an honorary Romance Language.
Because Latin was for centuries the official language of diplomacy, law, scholarship, and Christianity in the West, it is impossible to travel in Europe without encountering aspects of culture in which Latin has played a role–and these aspects of culture followed European settlers to the New World. Until well beyond the time of the Founding Fathers, a top-notch education generally included the study of Latin–and many of our public buildings and institutions of higher learning, as well as many of the government buildings of the fifty States, boast venerable Latin mottoes. Two of my favorite State mottoes are Michigan’s inviting "Si quaeris peninsulam amoenam circumspice"–"If you seek a lovely peninsula, look about you"–and New Mexico’s laid-back "Crescit eundo"–"It grows as it goes."
As you leave the Office of Tourism and make your way to the Hall of Sciences, sturdy shoes are a plus–because when navigating the intricacies of, say, zoology, botany, medicine, or astronomy, you’ll stub your toe on Latin quite frequently. For one thing, the "scientific name" of every known organism is composed in Latin (thus, the busy Apis mellifera hovers noisily over the fragrant Lathyrus odoratus, and the purring felis domesticus delights in its Nepeta cataria toy).
When you weary of flora and fauna (and if those sturdy shoes will fit inside a spacesuit), you might enjoy the view from the lunar Mare Imbrium or Mare Sereniatis–or, further afield, from Mars’ towering Olympus Mons. Back on earth once more, you can gaze at the stars and imagine what lies beyond Cygnus, Cepheus, or Canis Major–marveling, as you do, at the efficiency of your lens, retina, and fovea centralis (which you can say hello to as you look in the mirror). Latin, it seems, has planted its flag on the nearest and farthest shores of human inquiry and endeavor.
Telescopes stowed, we make our way now to the Great Library (quiet, please–people are reading). Here reside many of the seminal works of Western literature and thought. A cursory look at the shelves marked "Classical Rome" yields the writings of Cato, Catullus, Virgil, Horace, Cicero, Ovid, and Livy–for a start. The "Patristic" and "Medieval" sections feature manuscripts on a wealth of subjects, laboriously transcribed by monks whose efforts preserved vast stores of knowledge during a period when life was a struggle for most folks, and literacy not enjoyed by many. Alongside these are Jerome’s landmark fourth century translation of the Bible into the Latin Vulgate (then the "language of the people"), the breathtakingly illuminated Book of Kells and Lindisfarne Gospels, and the writings of Augustine and the later Thomas Aquinas.
The "Renaissance" shelves reveal that such disparate learned souls as Dante Arrighieri, Martin Luther, Desiderius Erasmus, Isaac Newton, Rene Descartes, and Francis Bacon wrote in Latin–some exclusively, others intermittently. As you browse, keep your eyes peeled for young Will Shakespeare, whose solid Elizabethan education included Latin, and who is sometimes found dreaming over a book well after closing time.
Eyestrain compels us to bypass the Law Library, which is accessible just beyond several large stalagmites resembling bewigged barristers. Rest assured, however, that you may return at any time to explore the history and application of such terms as "habeas corpus", "amicus curiae", and "coram nobis"–all very much relevant to today’s legal proceedings.
We’re running late, but I want quickly to stop at a place along our route that’s very personal to me: the secluded corner of the Art Gallery that shelters a small oil-on-wood portrait known as "Girl in a Red Hat". It’s the work of the great 17th Century Dutch painter Jan Vermeer–and the penetrating gaze of its subject is mesmerizing. What can this possibly have to do with Latin? Well, perhaps it has more to do with the most compelling reason to delve into any language one doesn’t need for daily communication: the ability of words to inspire the imagination.
Because so little is known of him outside of the few paintings he left behind, Jan Vermeer is nicknamed "The Sphinx of Delft". The modest signature he placed unobtrusively a little way from the upper edge of "Girl in a Red Hat" consists of the initials "J M" placed one above the other. Vermeer also was known to sign his works "J Meer" or even simply, "Meer"—and for years I wondered why these signatures had such resonance for me. It finally occurred to me that perhaps they echoed French phrases that expressed something of my feelings about Vermeer’s work: "J’admire." "Je mire." (I admire. I focus upon. I gaze upon with admiration.) That took care of "J" and "Meer", but what about "Ver"? Easy: it surely must come from "verite’ ", from the Latin "veritas", meaning Truth. The woman in the portrait looks out at the viewer with a gaze that seems to brim with unfathomable Truth. And we all want to believe that Truth is eternal.
Which brings us to the logical place to conclude our tour: The Cathedral. Whatever one’s faith, and whether or not one understands Latin, one can’t but be moved to contemplation by the spare and sonorous cadences of Gregorian Chant–a living legacy of Christianity’s embrace of Latin in the preservation of Scripture, praise, and teaching throughout turbulent centuries of transition and challenge. And while we’re talking music, I’ll venture to say that in its elegance and flexibility, Latin itself is actually something like jazz: suffixes take the place of cumbersome pronouns and prepositions, and words in a sentence can be arranged in a variety of ways. Thus, "I see" can be expressed as a single word, "video". "I see you" can either be "Te video" or "Video te". And so on. This is a language that lends itself not only to the preservation of the eternal, but to the inspiration of the moment.
And as we part–having barely skimmed the edges of Latin’s contribution to contemporary culture–I can’t resist leaving you with the word that’s currently on everyone’s mind, and lips (three guesses as to which language it’s from). Best wishes, friends, for the MILLENNIUM!
Links:
http://209.1.224.11/ stilicho/rome.html
This magnificent site has it covered: life in ancient Rome, notable works of literature in Latin, a tour of Roman ruins, a gallery of stunning Roman portraiture, a dictionary of mythology, Latin given names, Latin legalese, a Strange Fact of the Week–and much, much more.
http://campus.fortunecity.com/athena/300/index.html
A terrific site for beginners in Latin. Online courses of study, dictionaries, grammar charts, discussion groups–you name it.
http://www.bbrook.k12.nj.us/latin/latweb.htm
Driven crazy by those enigmatic Latin phrases you encounter in everyday life? This page translates them for you–plus challenges you to a game of "Latin Jeopardy".
http://www.cs.cmu.edu/ mjw/recipes/ethnic/historical/ant-rom-coll.html
Celebrate your new-found fluency in Latin (even if you’re not sure the folks in 1st Century Italy would get your drift) by throwing an elegantly authentic toga party with these recipes from ancient Rome.
http://www.english.swt.edu/ESkerpan_2310/Art/18thCentArt.html
Click on the title Girl in a Red Hat–and prepare to meet a lady who could say to the Mona Lisa, "This gallery isn’t big enough for the both of us." Jan Vermeer, this one’s for you.