together /  by Anthony Gibbins

Writing the English translation for today’s page, I noticed that it included the word ‘together’ twice, yet each time representing a very different Latin usage. I thought this worthy of comment, especially as it involves two of my favourite Latin words.

The first use was in the third sentence, ‘they speak together’. The Verb ‘they speak’ is loquuntur. It is a Deponent Verb (it looks Passive but has an Active meaning) and it is beautiful to say aloud. Try it. Make sure the second and third u’s are pronounced more like put than cup. lo-kwuntur. Roll the r, if you are able.

The prefix col- can be added to loquuntur to make colloquuntur. The col- prefix is a form of the preposition cum, meaning with. Indeed, the word even has an alternate spelling, conloquuntur. It means ‘they speak together’. One excellent use of the con/col- prefix is found in conspirare, ‘to blow or breathe together, to agree, to harmonise, to conspire, to form a plot’. English has borrowed the co- prefix, even attaching it where it is already found; for example, co-conspirator.

The other word translated as ‘together’ is una. una is an Adverb formed from the number one; unus, una, unum (to give the Masculine, Feminine and Neuter forms). una has the properties of a grammatical construction known as the Ablative of Manner. So, to do something una is literally to do it ‘as though you are one’. How cool is that? And what makes it even better; this is the standard Latin way to say ‘together’.

Now Claudia is sitting in the seat. Alan is carefully cutting her hair. They speak together happily.  Soon they are laughing together about the verse of the sailor. In truth (re vera), it was delightful (iucundus). 

divergence /  by Anthony Gibbins

Here is the final part of tonsor, from the Cambridge Latin Course.

‘furcifer! furcifer!’ clamat Pantagathus. senex est perteritus. tonsor barbam non tondet. tonsor senem secat. multus sanguis fluit.

Caecilius surgit et e taberna exit.

As you can see, the Legonium story diverges a little from the Cambridge. I admire the latter for how much it does with so few words. And I did consider including the immortal multus sanguis fluit, with a few red studs trailing as the old man walked from the tonsorina. But for various reasons, I decided to cut the blood and to expand a little on what was happening.

Alan is commotus, a Latin word meaning ‘moved’, that just like the English can indicate physical or emotion relocation. In this state, he does not cut the beard. immo is an adverb that means ‘on the contrary’, ‘no indeed’, ‘yes indeed’, or ‘by all means’. Or, to put it another way, ‘it contradicts or essentially qualifies what precedes’. incaute is another adverb that describes how the tonsor works in his worked-up state. Incautiously, heedlessly, improvidently, inconsiderately. The ipsum, ‘himself’, stresses the difference between cutting the old man’s beard and cutting HIM. Lastly, instead of having Caecilius/Claudia rise and exit, it is the old man, iratissimus, who leaves.

And just in case you thought that Latin was a foreign language, here is the opening of the Wikipedia entry for divergence;

In vector calculus, divergence is a vector operator that produces a signed scalar field giving the quantity of a vector field's source at each point. More technically, the divergence represents the volume density of the outward flux of a vector field from an infinitesimal volume around a given point.

The old man DOES look angry.

The old man is terrified. Why? Alan, worked-up, does not trim the beard. On the contrary, he incautiously cuts the old man himself. The old man, very angry, rises and exits from the barber store.

non poeta sed nauta scurrilis /  by Anthony Gibbins

Once again, here is the original Latin of the Cambridge Latin Course.

poeta tabernam intrat. poeta in taberna stat et versum recitat. versus est scurrilis. Caecilius ridet. sed tonsor non ridet. tonsor est iratus.

The Cambridge Latin Course translates scurrilis as ‘rude’ but the full story is far more interesting. (By the way, when pronouncing scurrilis, put the stress on the ri – scurrilis.)

The mighty Oxford Latin Dictionary declines to translate, instead saying that something scurrilis (such as a joke or abuse) is ‘characteristic of a scurra’. And what is a scurra? Again, according to the OLD, a scurra is ‘a fashionable city idler, a man about town’. How quaint; that doesn’t seem so bad, does it? But the quality of a scurra, what makes a scurra a scurra, is their scurrilitas (again, stress the ‘ri’). And that quality? Untimely or offensive humour. There is an adverb too, which allows something to be done scurriliter, or with untimely jests. We’ve all been there. And there is even a cute little diminutive, scurrula, which the OLD defines as ‘a joker' or 'a wag’.

But I have left the best till last. Horace gives us the verb scurror, scurrari, scurratus sum (Ep I.17.19), which basically means ‘to use your reputation for telling untimely and offensive jokes to get yourself invited regularly to dinner parties’. Awesome.

The sailor enters the barber shop. The sailor stands in the barber shop and recites a verse. Claudia laughs. But Alan does not laugh. The verse is the kind of rude joke that one might tell to get themselves invited to a dinner party.

plagiarism? /  by Anthony Gibbins

I prefer allusion. Or sampling. Maybe referencing? Intertextuality? A shout out?

Anyway, here is the original text from the Cambridge Latin Course, Book 1. As you can see, only the names have been changed (to protect the guilty).

tonsor est occupatus. senex in sella sedet. Pantagathus novaculam tenet et barbam tondet. senex novaculam intente spectat.

And, by the way, how great is the interior of the barber store! It was the first Lego kit to come with an actual mirror. And I LOVE Alan's moustache. His head came in a small kit, and originally belonged to a robber escaping a policeman on an inflated tire. I bought the hair piece from a guy at a comic book convention. The razor came with a Peter Pan minifigure. I wasn't too fussed by the Disney range, but I bought a few, just to check them out.

Alan is busy. An old man (senex) is sitting in the chair. Alan is holding a razor (novaculam) and trimming [his] beard (barbam). The old man is watching the razor intently.

et tu, Brute? /  by Anthony Gibbins

One of Shakespeare’s most oft quotes lines, et tu, Brute? are the final words spoken by Julius Caesar in the play of that name. It means something like ‘You too, Brutus?’ or ‘Even you, Brutus?’. Even during the shock of assassination, there was room for further disbelief at Brutus’ involvement.

According to one ancient biographer, Plutarch, no such utterance was made. His account; ‘Some say that he fought and resisted all the rest, shifting his body to avoid the blows, and calling out for help, but that when he saw Brutus' sword drawn, he covered his face with his robe and submitted, letting himself fall.’ Another, Suetonius, has him exclaim ‘You too, young man?’ instead. But not in Latin. In Greek; καὶ σὺ, τέκνον;

But why Brute and not Brutus? The answer is this; some Latin Nouns have a special form used for addressing someone (or something) directly. The form is called the Vocative. Mostly, the vocative looks and sounds exactly like the Nominative. But for some nouns (Second Declension Masculine Nouns in the Singular to be exact) the Vocative looks and sounds a little different.

So, Brutus might be Brutus, but to greet Brutus you would say salve, Brute! To greet Marcus, salve, Marce! To greet Antonius and Gaius, salvete Antoni et Gai. To greet ‘my’ dear son (meus filius carus), salve, mi fili care! To greet Alan the barber and Claudia, salvete, Alane tonsor et Claudia. (Neither tonsor nor Claudia are Second Declension Masculine Nouns).

Today Alan is working in the barber shop. Claudia enters. ‘Salve, Alan,’ Claudia says. ‘Salve Claudia’, Alan responds.

the hairy Lupercus /  by Anthony Gibbins

I am going to type out the entire first paragraph of Victoria Rimells’s Martial’s Rome. I’m a slow typer, but I think you’ll find it worth the effort.

Think back. It’s the mid-nineties. We are on the brink of a new century, and are living and breathing the ‘New Age’ people have been preaching about since the eighties. Thanks to more efficient communication, and the regularising machine of empire, the world seems to have got smaller, and more and more provincials are gravitating towards the sprawling, crowded metropolis, all manically networking to win the same jobs (they all want to be ‘socialites’ or ‘artists’). Many of us are richer and more mobile than ever, but arguably have less freedom. Modern life is a struggle, it seems – it’s dog eat dog in the urban jungle, and those who can’t keep up the pace become victims (actually, being a ‘victim’ is the in thing). ‘Reality’ is the hottest show in town: we’re done with drama and fantasy, as amateur theatrics and seeing people actually suffer is such a blast (as well as being a really ‘ironic’ creative experiment). This is a culture that has long realised Warhol’s prophecy, where everyone wants their bite of the fame cherry, but where fame itself is a dirty shadow of what it used to be. The young recall nothing but peace, yet fierce wars still bristle at the world’s edges, and even as the concrete keeps rising, a smog of instability and malaise lingers. A cynical, middle-class sketch of 1990’s Manhattan or London, or a summary of Martial’s Rome at the peak of his career under Domitian?

And here is one of Martial’s short poems, chosen for containing a tonsor;

Eutrapelus tonsor dum circuit ora Luperci

expingitque genas, altera barba subit.

While (dum) Eutrapelus the barber (Eutrapelus tonsor) goes around (circuit) the mouth of Lupercus (ora Luperci) and (-que) paints (expingit) his cheeks (genas), another (altera) beard (barba) springs up (subit).

I see in this a fairly funny joke about the hairiness of Lupercus. After all, lupus is the Latin word for wolf. But this anonymous translator from 1695 provides a different interpretation;

Eutrapelus, the barber, works so slow,

That while he shaves, the beard anew does grow.

Perhaps you are asking what a tonsor is. A tonsor is a man or woman who clips (tondet) hair (literally, hairs) and beards. The shop where a tonsor works is called a tonstrina.

multus sanguis fluit /  by Anthony Gibbins

Ask someone who studied Latin from the Cambridge Course (long enough ago that they have forgotten most of what they knew) what they remember. I’ve tried this on numerous occasions and the first response has always been one of the following. Metella est in atrio. flocci non facio. multus sanguis fluit. Metella is in the atrium. I don’t give a damn. Much blood flows.

In the pages that follow you will read a retelling of the Cambridge story that ends with much blood flowing. I taught myself Latin from the Cambridge course, and I have a hell of a lot of respect for its methods. It’s not perfect – no text is – and it only got me so far. But it revolutionised how Latin was being taught at the time of its publication. It’s the reason that I read Latin, rather than translate it. And there are some really great stories. versus scurrilis est.

At this moment Claudia is walking to the tonstrina to visit the tonsor. The tonsor, named Alan, is her friend.

(not) Walking with Virgil /  by Anthony Gibbins

Just for something different, I thought that today I would pick a couple of verses from Virgil that contain any form of the verb ambulare and translate them for you. I imagined I would be spoilt for choice, and able to pick four or five favorites from the Aeneid.

I have just the book for this sort of thing, too; an 1822 edition of Virgil’s complete works that I picked up in a second hand bookstore in Armidale, rural New South Wales. Among some other wonderful features, it has an index of EVERY word in EVERY work; index vocabulorum omnium quae in Eclogis, Georgicis, et Aeneide Virgilii leguntur.

But here’s the rub. The word ambulare does not appear anywhere in any work of Virgil. It appears in Ovid, and Seneca, and Plautus, and Cato, and Martial, and Terrence, and Cicero, and Quintilian, but not in Virgil. Anywhere. Weird.

Meanwhile, a woman who is already (iam) known to you, named Claudia, is walking in the street. Do you wish to know to-where (quo) our Claudia is walking?