And interesting example of statistical approach to linguistic information

It is not an easy feat to open a bank account in Scotland. You have to provide the perpetually unsatisfied bank employee with all sorts of documents that are supposed to, at least in theory, prove that you are you and that you keep your dirty underwear where you say you do. By definition, you are bound to come back at least three times, as they will always come up with something new everytime you think you have everything they wanted. Anyone who dealt with beaurocracy knows that it's one of the main laws at work here...

Today, happy as a bird, literally singing on the street as I was approaching the university offices, I was expecting to receive a document, printed on pretty official university paper, proving that I was a student. I went inside, got the piece of paper in question and noticed with amusement that the term adress and home adress are the same and they are both in Poland. And, on top of that, it wasn't exactly a Polish adress: it was a hybrid between my family's adress in Poland and my adress in Amsterdam, where I was living before moving to the UK. Most of it was Polish with the exception of the post code which was Dutch. It was, apparently, a somewhat misguided attempt at computing a mean of my two confusing foreign adresses. Since I was of Polish nationality and lived in the Netherlands only for a few years, this new hybrid adress reflected correctly my geographical sense of belonging, giving most of the space for the Polish and living only a bit for the Dutch. In an uncanny statistical way, it reflected my place in this world of pain and suffering.
Since I was waiting for that gem of the document for 3 weeks, I decided to swallow the little mistakes it contained and, still in a good mood, headed towards the branch of the Royal Bank of Scotland. There I met the same unnervingly calm and cheerful employee, under the name of Laura, who proceeded to explain to me why this time, to her enormous regret, my account couldn't be opened either because of this and that document missing. I felt blood rushing to my cheeks as I got more and more irritated and made some sarcastic comments about bringing the X-ray of my chest next time, just in case. As I was getting all worked up she was getting calmer and calmer, making me think of these psychological training of how to deal with difficult people that the stewardesses have to go through. Then, as I was deflating somewhat because of her lack of cooperation in getting angry, she had a moment to (oh bad luck) scrutinize the documents once more and noticed the hybrid adresses in the university letter. She couldn't of course tell they were hybrid (that spicy little detail I kept for myself) but she did notice that it appeared also as my UK adress... Oh bother..

Tasting an instant

Wislawa Szymborska, Nobel prize 1996


Photograph from September 11


They jumped from the burning floors—
one, two, a few more,
higher, lower.

The photograph halted them in life,
and now keeps them
above the earth toward the earth.

Each is still complete,
with a particular face
and blood well hidden.

There’s enough time
for hair to come loose,
for keys and coins
to fall from pockets.

They’re still within the air’s reach,
within the compass of places
that have just now opened.

I can do only two things for them—
describe this flight
and not add a last line.

________________

I looked for that poem because of the 9/11. When I found a website with her poems I couldn't stop reading them all, in all posible translations. A lot of them seem to have been inspired by a photograph, by a fleeting idea, by a momentary impression. They capture an instant in a marvellous way, letting you feel the emotions, letting you taste that moment, however sad it might have been. Here's a couple of the poems I've selected:
________________

Cat in an empty apartment


Dying - you wouldn't do that to a cat.
For what is a cat to do
in an empty apartment?
Climb up the walls?
Brush up against the furniture?
Nothing here seems changed,
and yet something has changed.
Nothing has been moved,
and yet there's more room.
And in the evenings the lamp is not on.

One hears footsteps on the stairs,
but they're not the same.
Neither is the hand
that puts a fish on the plate.

Something here isn't starting
at its usual time.
Something here isn't happening
as it should.
Somebody has been here and has been,
and then has suddenly disappeared
and now is stubbornly absent.

All the closets have been scanned
and all the shelves run through.
Slipping under the carpet and checking came to nothing.
The rule has even been broken and all the papers scattered.
What else is there to do?
Sleep and wait.

Just let him come back,
let him show up.
Then he'll find out
that you don't do that to a cat.
Going toward him
faking reluctance,
slowly,
on very offended paws.
And no jumping, purring at first.

Translated by
Joanna Trzeciak



Terroriste, il regarde

La bombe sautera dans le bar à treize heures vingt.
Il n'est pas maintenant que treize heures seize.
Certains auront le temps de sortir.
Et d'autres d'entrer.



Le terroriste, lui, est déjà del'autre côté de la rue.
Cette distance le préserve du mal,
Et puis quelle vue ! Comme au cinéma.



La femme en blouson jaune, elle entre.
L'homme en lunettes noires, il sort.
Les gars en jeans, ils causent.
Treize heures diz-sept et quatre secondes.
Le plus petit, le veinard, il enfourche son scooter,
Et le plus grand, il entre.



Treize heures dix-sept et quarante secondes.
La fille, elle arrive, un ruban vert dans les cheveux.
Seulement il y a un bus qui passe, et on ne la voit plus.


Treize heures dix-huit.
Plus de fille
Est-elle entrée, l'idiote, ou bien non,
On verra quand ils auront sorti les corps.



Treize heures diz-neuf.
Plus personne n'entre.
Il y a juste un gros chauve qui sort.
Mais on dirait qu'il fouille encore dans ses poches et
à treizes heure vingt moins dix secondes
il revient chercher ses misérables gants.



Il est treize heures vingt.
Le temps, qu'est ce qu'il traîne.
Ca doit être maintenant.
Oui, maintenant.
La bombe, elle saute.



Il giorno 16 maggio dell'anno 1973



Una di queste numerose date
che non mi dicono più niente.

Dove in questo giorno sono andata,
cosa ho fatto — non lo so.

Se nei paraggi avessero commesso un delitto
— non avrei alibi.

Il sole ha brillato e si è spento
fuori dalla mia attenzione.

La Terra ha ruotato
senza menzione nel taccuino.

Mi sarebbe più lieve pensare
di essere morta per breve tempo,
piuttosto che pensare di non ricordare niente,
anche se ho vissuto senza interruzione.

Non ero infatti uno spirito,
respiravo, mangiavo,
facevo passi
che si sentivano,
mentre le impronte delle mie dita
dovevano rimanere sulle maniglie.

Mi riflettevo nello specchio.
Indossavo qualcosa di qualche colore.
Sicuramente alcune persone mi hanno vista.

Forse in questo giorno
ho trovato un oggetto perduto prima.
Forse ho perduto uno trovato in seguito.

Mi ricolmavano sentimenti e impressioni.
Ora tutto questo
Come puntini tra parentesi.

Dove mi sono rincantucciata,
dove mi sono nascosta —
è anzi un'arte niente male
togliersi dalla vista a sé stessa in questo modo.

Scruto la memoria —
forse qualcosa nei suoi rami
addormentato da anni
si alzerà repentinamente battendo le ali.
No.
Indubbiamente pretendo troppo,
esigendo perfino un secondo.


Noticias del hospital



Echamos suertes quién debía ir a verlo.
Me tocó a mí. Me levanté de la mesa.
Se acercaban ya las horas de visita al hospital.

No respondió nada a mi saludo.
Quería cogerle de la mano, la apretó
como un perro ambriento que no suelta su hueso.

Parecía como si le diera verguenza morir.
No sé de qué se habla con alguien como él.
Nuestras miradas se evitaban como en un fotometraje.

No dijo ni quédate, ni vete.
No preguntó por nadie de los de nuestra mesa.
Ni por tí, Juancho, ni por tí, moncho, ni por tí Pancho.

Empezó a dolerme la cabeza. ¿Quién se le muere a quién?
Exalté la medicina y las tres lilas del vaso.
Hablé del sol y fuí apagándome.

Qué bien que haya peldaños para salir corriendo.
Qué bien que haya una puerta para poder abrirla.
Qué bien que me esperáis en esa mesa.

El olor a hospital me provoca náuseas.



Bufo



Passará primeiro o nosso amor,
depois cem e duzentos anos,
depois estaremos de novo juntos:

um actor e uma acritz,
os predilectos do público,
fazem de nós no teatro.

Pequena farsa em verso,
dança – um pouco, muito riso,
traço certeiro de costumes
e aplausos.

Estarás irresistivelmente cómico
nesse palco, com esse ciúme,
essa gravata.

Eu de cabeça perdida,
e o coração e a coroa,
coração a rebentar,
a coroa sempre a cair.

Lá nos vamos separar,
rejuntar, a sala a rir,
sete montes, sete mares
entre nós imaginar.

E como se fossem poucos
os fracassos e a dor,
com palavras nos batemos.

Faremos a reverência
e a farsa terá seu fim.
Vão dormir os espectadores
contentes até às lágrimas.

Viverão muito felizes,
domesticam o amor,
um tigre vir-lhes-á comer às mãos.

E nós eternamente lá iremos indom
nós de barretes com guisos,
em seu fino retinir
de um jeito bárbarro ouvidos.



Tradução de Júlio Sousa Gomes

Przy winie



Spojrzał, dodał mi urody,
a ja wzięłam ją jak swoją.
Szczęśliwa, połknęłam gwiazdę.

Pozwoliłam się wymyślić
na podobieństwo odbicia
w jego oczach. Tańczę, tańczę
w zatrzęsieniu nagłych skrzydeł.

Stół jest stołem, wino winem
w kieliszku, co jest kieliszkiem
i stoi stojąc na stole.
A ja jestem urojona,
urojona nie do wiary,
urojona aż do krwi.

Mówię mu, co chce : o mrówkach
umierających z miłości
pod gwiazdozbiorem dmuchawca.
Przysięgam, że biała róża,
pokropiona winem, śpiewa.

Śmieję się, przechylam głowę
ostrożnie, jakbym sprawdzała
wynalazek. Tańczę, tańczę
w zdumionej skórze, w objęciu,
które mnie stwarza.
Ewa z żebra, Venus z piany,
Minerwa z głowy Jowisza
były bardziej rzeczywiste.

Kiedy on nie patrzy na mnie,
szukam swojego odbicia
na ścianie. I widzę tylko
gwóźdż, z którego zdjęto obraz.

Constructing a language

I want to recommend a great book to you guys, it’s ‘Constructing a language’ by Michael Tomasello. It’s a fascinating story of how exactly kids learn their first language, how do they figure it out.

Tomasello is a psycholinguist and is one of the stars of the Usage-based approach to language acquisition that claims that the Universal Grammar concept of Chomsky is nonsense (ie humans are not born with a innate set of grammatical rules) and that language acquisition is achieved by using the general cognitive abilities such as pattern recognition. There is evidence for it too: it turns out the infants only a few months old (before they are saying their first words, ~at the age of 1 year) can do pattern recognition in strings of pseudolanguage such as this one:

bidakupadotigolabubidakutupiropadoti

[notice that as you read this you can recognize ‘words’ quite easily]

Babies that are 8-moths old specifically react if they are presented with ‘words’ from that string afterwards, such as ‘tupiro’ for example.

They can even make generalizations and create abstract categories of words. If you give them a lot of pseudowords such as these: wididi, delili (syllabic structure ABB) they would be more sensitive to similarily constructed words in the future. Isn’t that amazing?